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

[March Hare]

GAHHHrnet

PrettymucheverythingRiverssaidbecauseIcannotwordskthnxbai

[Akahana]

I tried to edit my post and did it wrong sorry please ignore this

Edited January 7, 2015 by Akahana

[Garnet]

ickydog2006 - Awesome, I'm so glad you liked him regardless! He's kind of a dick in the movies (which I love regardless) but much nicer in the books.

RiversD - Oh my GOSH I LOVE YOUR WHOLE COMMENT aaagh you are so nice! Thank you thank you! I totally cracked up at "screams and flies into the sun" because that's been me writing this whole stupid thing. I really appreciate your taking the time to dissect, I read it several times.

And hnngh I agree with you on the concept of super-powerful beings. I feel like that's something I (and probably Bard) find about elves. They're so busy being buttoned up and snooty that it's easy to forget they're so very, very old and strong, beyond just being functionally immortal. It's a weird concept to try and wrap your head around, although one that I attempted to play with in this next part a bit.

Akahana - BREATHING IS FOR SQUARES. I am proud of myself, actually, haha. Thank you for the read!

Masking - Bahaha, he's definitely getting there. I think anything Thranduil does that seems weirdly "human" to him would be enough to catch his interest.

AngelEyes - Thank you so much! I appreciate the read (and the comment)

Sitrunna - I was wholly intending to, but then my brain just kept spewing of its own accord. Oh well!

scw - And now I am too. Thank you so much! I love that description. Occasionally I worry if my stuff is too light on sneezing and heavy on description, but I just go with what I personally enjoy and it seems to be working out so far!

BlackScatter - GOOD GOOD I'm so glad! And ugh, right? This ship just surfaced out of nowhere and hit me like a train. There's not much to go on except their individual stories, so hopefully I'm still keeping them in character when interacting with one another.

TaurielRiver - SHRIEK, oh man that is so flattering! I'm now going to tell myself that Thranduil's nose totally converted you into joining the forum Thank you so much for highlighting your favorite parts, I always like to read them and see what worked for people (and what didn't). I super appreciate your comment, and I'm really glad you joined the forum! Also: AW YOUR ICON.

Maru-chan - Haha, I like it when you cannot words, though As always, thank you so much for reading!

Okay, and with that done, here's the last bit! It's a little light on the sneezing and heavy on the dialogue, but you know. Whatever. This is set several years in the future, obviously, with as close to an actual relationship as these two are likely to get. This is definitely the most "speculative" thing I've written that is not supported by a canon, so I'm not sure how on point the characterization for either is. Definitely channeling more book!Thranduil than movie version, but hopefully it still works for people.

Thanks for sticking with me!

Kings Alike: Part III

The novelty of visits to the Woodland Realm has still not worn off. Even once Thranduil makes it clear that any time Bard can tear himself away from Dale, he is welcome, that his children are welcome, it feels like he is tentatively setting foot inside the forest stronghold for the first time. Usually it's business that turns to pleasure. Once in a great while it's pleasure that turns to business. They can rarely compartmentalize their relationship into spaces of one or the other, and don't try to.

Today, it has been a little of both. As the afternoon draws on, and the cold he's been trying to catch since stepping foot off the boat starts to gain a foothold, Bard is willing to let out some slack on trade routes and foreign policy. Instead, he is lingering in the Elvenking's own quarters, and trying not to come apart at the seams. He feels poorly, and feels poorly for it. It's a compounded kind of misery that is scraping raw his throat, inflaming his sinuses, making each swallow and sniff an effort to scratch an inner-ear and behind-the-eyes itch that he can't reach.

He'd like to already be in bed, preferably his own, but Tilda has accompanied him this time, and she is still having her delighted glut of the Silvan elves. Which is not to say she is not concerned.

"You sound terrible, Da."

"I'm alright, sweetness," he says tiredly, in an effort to dissuade both her and Thranduil's attentions. They don't need to be inconvenienced with his maladies.

"You're coming down with something."

She is fourteen now and considers herself much too old to sit in laps, even Bard's. She is completely smitten with the elf king, however, and likes to lounge against his side, under the loose tuck of his arm, while his fingers sift through her hair.

"Yes, he is, and one day he will learn that such things cannot be helped," Thranduil agrees, his voice a low and lazy drawl of amusement. Bard narrows his eyes at both of them, clearly in league with one another.

"Must you turn my own daughter against me?"

"I must."

"Can I do yours?" Tilda inquires, after admiring a pretty twist Thranduil's fingertips have absent-mindedly given her hair.

In response, Thranduil carefully removes the knotted circlet from his brow, and sets it aside. His hands settle passively in his lap as Tilda sits up straight and busies herself gathering the seemingly endless sweep of his hair into hand. Bard knows it firsthand to be as fine as cornsilk, cool and satin-sleek to the touch.

He is forever bewildered by the magnitude of Thranduil's indulgence with his children. It's only slightly less surprising than his indulgence with Bard. Humans and elves... even if theirs is not a love of the ages, if it is just the most intimate kind of friendship Bard has known, it still seems surreal how their paths have aligned.

Maybe that's a fever on the rise, too.

"HFFSSCH-ue!" He quivers into the fold of his handkerchief, eyes watering.

"Bless you, Da," Tilda hums without looking back. She has opted for a simple braid with Thranduil's hair, and has just finished fixing it into a long, neat plait trailing over his shoulder. "There."

"Lovely," Thranduil approves.

Tilda returns to smooth out a few errant hairs, places she's missed, or else it's just an excuse to keep playing. Neither seems to mind until, with her lower lip pinched hesitantly between her teeth, Tilda brushes an experimental thumb over the tapered elven tip of Thranduil's ear.

He flinches immediately, with surprise, and Tilda with embarrassed apology.

"Oh! I'm sorry," she spills out quickly, clearly assuming she has committed some grave cultural offense. "Was that rude? I shouldn't have--..."

Thranduil has already relaxed and takes her by the wrist she has curled reflexively close to her chest. "Av-'osto, it is not you, but a bias on that side," he assures, as he redirects her hand to his opposite ear, and positions it encouragingly over its point. "An old wound that still prickles from time to time."

Tilda's flush subsides, as she strokes the favored ear with appreciation. Bard also knows firsthand how sensitive they are, but Thranduil holds patiently still. The bowman's mouth quirks to one side, fond.

His daughter's curiosity has been sated in one matter, but whetted in another, for as she sits back, she is now examining the other side of Thranduil's face dubiously. "What wound? I see no scarring."

"You would not sit so close, if you could," Thranduil agrees, which just ensnares him deeper in her sights. Bard almost pities him, but doesn't quite. He brought this upon himself.

"Yes I would! Are you concealing it? I want to see."

Bard has been fighting the thorned beginnings of a sneeze throughout this exchange, unwilling to shatter the playful charm of it, but at last he can hold out no longer and tucks into his hands. "-HRFSH! ah-HFSSCH!"

"No galu govad gen," Thranduil offers, then pecks a single, indulgent kiss to Tilda's crown. "Another time, perhaps. Leave us now, child."

Tilda wrinkles her nose in dismay, but she is obedient of both kings and fathers, even when they are not her own. She hops down, and executes a neat little bow. "Guren níniatha n'i lû n'i a-govenitham."

Bard has no idea what she says, with careful and laborious pronunciation, but it makes Thranduil break with a laugh and Tilda smirk triumphantly as she turns and whisks from the room.

"What was that?" He prompts, with amusement, when his daughter has gone.

"A very formal and dramatic farewell," Thranduil says, as he beckons him to the bed with a flick of one hand. Bard does not mean to rise, does not want to, but he does all the same, as if in a thrall. "My heart shall weep until I see you again."

Bard huffs. "I don't think I can lay blame on you for teaching her that one."

"No. She studies on her own?"

"She will barter a phrase from any elf she meets," Bard grunts softly as he settles to the edge of the bed beside Thranduil, and ducks forward appreciatively, eyes heavy, as the king rests a cool hand on the nape of his neck. "She is insatiable. Dwarves, too, although I think they teach her far less savory things." He almost says flowery, but catches himself at the last moment.

"A useful skill to have, nonetheless. You might follow her example, King of Dale," Thranduil says wryly.

"Hmn." His shoulders slump like a weight is either dragging them down or has been lifted, as the edges of Thranduil's nails feather into his hair and trail across his scalp. It is better than any medicine, makes him feel calm and deep. "I am old and set in my ways."

"Truly, an ancient," says the elf, who has outlived him by millenia. As Bard finally sags into his shoulder, tired and sick, he noses thoughtfully into the lakeman's hair. "Perhaps there is more silver here than a few years ago," he admits, tugging a strand lightly for emphasis.

"Keep an eye on it, it will all be grey through soon enough."

The comment seems to quiet Thranduil entirely, in both body and voice. His hand still lingers a while in Bard's hair, but he can feel the elf's mind beginning to draw into itself, and intuitively taps a finger at his knee.

"Not that soon," he amends, apologetic. Thranduil isn't very forthcoming with his feelings on the matter, but Bard suspects he has not distanced himself from the concept of his friend's mortality as much as he once intended.

The elf sighs against him, his breath cool on Bard's warm skin. Almost certainly a fever coming on. He wishes the symptoms had cropped up before he left Dale, he would have postponed this visit by a week or two.

"How do you fare, truly?"

"Truly?" Bard chuckles, though it verges into a guilty cough he turns to smother into his own shoulder. It pulses for a few ticklish seconds, already beginning to stir up something hot in his chest, before abating. "Wretched. I'm sorry for this, it came on so suddenly."

"You apologize for something you can't control."

"I'm apologizing for my poor company," Bard corrects. His voice has gone a bit raspy, and two or three graveled throatclears don't make any headway, so he gives up. "I cannot imagine you want me near you like this."

"And yet I do," Thranduil observes.

Bard means to respond to this, but clearly this cold wants to run the full gamut of its symptoms now that he is in close proximity to his friend. Of course. He holds up a stalling finger as the sting in his throat migrates suddenly north, and invokes the compulsion to sneeze it out.

"ah--! ...HFSSZCH!" He takes a shaking breath, and presses the well-timed fold of the handkerchief tighter in place, gathered to buffet the next, "--HFSSCH'ue!"

He feels as though he is dragging himself back to awareness after those. No quick and sniffling recovery, now. His colds always tend to sap him slowly over the course of several days, like a slow-acting poison that drains all his energy.

"Your favor is a mystery, then. I am disgusting." He emphasizes it with a curdling sniffle, perhaps to test the limits of the elf's patience and fortitude.

"A mystery?" Thranduil's tone is shaded somewhere between bewildered and slightly offended. "I am not squeamish of disease, for all that it does not affect my people. Even if I were..." He pauses, hits the wall of a concept that he is obviously reluctant to address. The Elvenking sighs. "I would not waste any time I am given with you."

There it is. Bard is still surprised at how his own throat cramps with the admission. He has known the loss of his own soulmate, as has Thranduil, but Bard has also tried to empathize with how it must feel to know inherently that he would outlive any other mortal friend. It's a difficult concept for him to grasp, when the closest thing he can relate to is mourning a pet dog he'd owned for eight years. He is very sure that Thranduil doesn't think of him as a pet.

"Do you think about that often?"

"No," Thranduil concedes. "It is in the back of my mind that one day you will die, but I don't daily fear the sorrow of your parting. Occasionally I forget altogether, but your affliction reminds me."

"It's only a cold," Bard reminds him. "Even if no elven healing yet has managed to cure one, it will pass in a few days."

"As you say," Thranduil agrees, still with some measure of caution in his voice. "What may I do to ease your discomfort, in the meantime?"

Bard realizes with foggy surprise that the king of the Woodland Realm wants to care for him, and is a little moved. He is no stranger to illness in his own household, of course. His wife passed when Tilda and Bain were still very young, and he grew quickly accustomed to managing the gauntlet of three children that always came down with horrible, croupy coughs or searing fevers when the weather in Lake-town was at its coldest and wettest. Every so often he would catch it himself, and Sigrid would nursemaid with a clenched jaw and fiercely affectionate eyes for days, refusing to hear any argument against it.

He has never been treated by an elf, and suspects that Thranduil knows more of battle wounds than headcolds. Perhaps he lingered by Legolas's bedside, once upon a time, to soothe a bad dream, but not to calm a bout of pneumonia.

"There is little to be done," he says, a low, gruff sound. "Tea and bedrest."

"Then, rest," Thranduil agrees, sliding himself from the mattress, but catching Bard with a hand to his shoulder when he tries to follow suit. He lies down slowly, warily, to the encouraging pressure.

"This is your bed."

"Very astute, Dragonslayer, I can see why they crowned you king."

Bard hooks the corner of his mouth into a smirk, and takes Thranduil's dry sarcasm for a sign of affection.

"You have guest quarters," he says in weak protest, though the bed he lays upon is vast and soft. He feels like he could sink down into it and be lost forever. His eyes are already starting to weigh heavy. Is Thranduil actually removing his boots?

"I prefer you under closer watch," Thranduil dismisses. "You strike me as the type of man who will not grant himself leave on his own."

"Guilty," Bard confesses. Even outside his own domain, he would have found something to keep him up well into the evening. He gives up the fight here easily, however, letting Thranduil arrange him to his liking. "My lord is too kind."

Thranduil makes a vague sound in his throat that might be amusement. "It's been some time since you've bothered with formalities. Truly you are unwell."

Bard manages a weak chuckle, but as the king withdraws in preparation to leave, he is compelled to raise a pair of forefingers in a beseeching gesture. "Wait..."

Thranduil pauses, half-turned from the bed. "Mm?"

"Forgive me, for earlier. For questioning your favor. I did not mean it, I know that you..." He doesn't want to say love, because he doesn't think that's it, but it's something very like it that feels safer, and warms the same spot in Bard's chest.

"There is nothing to forgive," Thranduil says, but he steps back in, and dips gracefully to touch his lips to Bard's brow. He assumes that it's an affectionate gesture, but after a lingering moment, the elf straightens with a frown transgressing across his ethereal features. "You're much too warm."

Perhaps Thranduil is more accustomed to minding a sick bed than Bard thought. "It will pass, I only need sleep," he says, touching a knuckle uncertainly to the twitching shape of his nose. The brush of the Elvenking's hair against it as he rose has set up a queer ticklish, sneezy feeling. This, too, passes with a sigh. "You needn't stay."

Though he might long for the privacy of his own bed, where he can curl up on himself and cough and cough this through, here in Mirkwood's cool, dark halls, there is a certain comfort as well. At the very least, he knows he will be left to himself, if he requests it, unharassed by well-meaning children or matters of the state.

Thranduil touches his wrist lightly, and takes his leave.

Bard has no concept of how long he sleeps, but when he comes awake, it's with an ugly, soaking sneeze, and he is only too glad that Thranduil is nowhere in sight.

"Ah--! HFFSSZCH'ue!"

He fumbles groggily for his handkerchief, nose streaming and breath still catching erratically. "Ah... IFSSCH! IFFSSCH!"

That one seems to finish off the pent-up irritation, although it claws at his throat the whole way out and leaves it throbbing in the aftermath. The handkerchief that was so crisp and new this morning is unceremoniously retired with a long, relieving blow.

He notices the polished tea set beside the bed only as he is lying back down, deeming everything far too horrible to bother being awake for. There is a tray of assorted fixings, too, and a small stack of clean, folded handkerchiefs. Was that there, before? The pot is still warm, nearly hot to the touch, so probably not. He hopes that either Tilda or the Elvenking brought it, not for any sentimental reasons, but because the idea of anyone else seeing him so red-nosed and out of sorts disturbs him.

Even before his wife passed, Bard was a man who preferred to be left alone when ill. It's never been a reality, of course, in their tiny home, and with the children hovering as they are wont, but the quiet and stillness of this room is reassuring.

One of the enameled teacups has been doled a small pool of honey, a little puddle of shining amber in its bottom. It dissolves in a slow pour of the tea, still steaming in the open air. The taste is strong and bitter, but the honey lends some sweetness and smooths the harsh landscape of his throat.

There may be something else in the brew, too, because as soon as he has drained the cup, it is practically rolling from his fingers. Bard barely gets it to the table before slipping back into a deep and dreamless sleep.

He awakens again to a sneeze, but this time not his own.

"-TSSSHH!"

Bard slivers a groggy eye open, feeling like he may well have slept through the entire Third Age. At some point, Thranduil has not only returned, but joined him on the bed, though he is sitting upright with a book spilled open across his lap. Still clothed, like Bard, but dressed down considerably. Also with a hand tucked under his wrinkled nose. He breathes in, brows colliding.

"--ah'tsschhh!"

It may be the most suppressed sneeze he's ever seen the elf manage, not that he has seen altogether that many over the course of their friendship. The mattress still trembles with the contained force. Bard swallows thickly, and tries to fight his way out from the sludge of nap hangover.

"Blessings."

Thranduil flashes him a wet-eyed look, sniffs crisply, and straightens himself. "Thank you. I apologize, if I woke you."

"S'fine," Bard groans as he gets himself upright and his wits slowly about him. "How long was I...?"

"Five hours. How do you feel?"

That's more sleep than he gets on a good night. He gives his head a bleary shake, blinks, blinks again, and is satisfied to determine that past the haze of sleepiness, he might feel marginally less awful. He's prepared to amend that, as Thranduil sniffs again, far more neatly than Bard's sick snuffling.

"Somewhat improved. I believe the fever has quieted." A pause. "I realize the impossibility of it, but humor me and say that I have not gotten you sick."

"Hardly," Thranduil says, sitting back. "Your youngest has discovered the archives, and all of the dust of ages cataloged along with the texts."

That puts Bard's next question to rest. She will likely be there until morning, or one of the elves drags her out by force. He hopes she remembers to eat.

"She is a bright girl," the elf remarks thoughtfully.

"You can't have her," Bard warns with the curl of a tired smile.

"You have two others, surely you can spare one."

"Not even one."

"Pity."

Mention of Tilda reminds Bard of their earlier conversation. As Thranduil returns his attention to the book, he regards the left side of his face thoughtfully. The smooth skin is unbroken, the shadows of evening lanterns chasing the lines of high cheekbones and a long jaw as though the elf were carved from marble or polished soapstone. Beautiful, but he can't see any evidence of crushed bone or knotted scar tissue, has never felt the roughness against his fingers while running them across...

"You're staring," Thranduil observes without looking up.

'You're pleasant to stare at," Bard counters lightly. The appeal to the elf's vanity tightens the corners of his eyes with an amusement that he is trying very hard not to show. This is nice, Bard thinks idly. They have only shared a bed once or twice. Thranduil does not appear to sleep like humans do, and even after knowing one another most intimately, he doesn't linger long between the sheets. The ease of this is both reassuring and a bit painful in its familiarity. It's in the domestic moments he finds himself missing her the most.

"I see all that dragon thistle in the tea has gone to your head."

So that's what it was. Bard stretches until his limbs tremble and crack, then shifts himself closer to his companion. "I certainly feel as though I've slept like a dragon," he agrees, then grazes the edge of his palm against the elf's cheek. Thranduil's heavy, dark lashes flicker once, before he turns him a slow look from beneath their fan. Were Bard feeling even a little more energetic, that expression would kindle a fire straight to his core.

In the meantime, the warmth is a more affectionate one, burning low and steady. He tries not to foul the moment by sniffling too much.

"Would you show me?"

Thranduil's gaze stills as though frozen in place, caught up on something in the middle distance just past or straight through Bard. "Remove your hand."

Bard does not hesitate. Apology begins to sketch over his features, but it dissolves just as quickly. So does Thranduil's flesh, with an expression that is hovering in some uncertain territory that looks at once erotic, and painful, and a little like he might be expecting a sneeze. For a few agonizing seconds Bard can only watch, lips parted, as the left side of the elf's face flickers and recedes before a wound that grows like parchment going to ash. It is terrible, even healed for what Bard assumes has been centuries, all strung with tendon and pain. Pieces of him are missing or melted. Bard has seen hideous things, in war, men with faces turned to pulp and legs still twitching, boys bleeding out, gasping, from a red smile that stretches ear to ear. This still makes him cringe.

"Dragonfire."

"Indeed." It's disturbing to watch Thranduil speak, and the effect the motions have on the scar. It pulls and draws strangely.

"You keep me on your blind side," Bard adds, after a long, quiet moment where he just absorbs the entirety of it. The Elvenking's eye on that side is milked over a dull and glassy blue.

This time Thranduil hesitates, his good eye finding Bard while the other shifts, automatic but unseeing in its socket. "I put my trust in you, Dragonslayer."

It's a weighty claim, from an elf to a man.

Thranduil stiffens first in shock, then in slow, grieving relief as the King of Dale leans forward to touch a press a single, fearless kiss to the ruined topography. It evens under his lips, until when Bard sits back, Thranduil appears as he always does: regal, lofty, untouchable by death. Immortal.

"Hannon le," Bard pronounces, very carefully. He manages this bit of grace before the prickling feather of irritation he's been staving off finally verges. He cuts into the crook of an arm with and ill-timed, "-HIFSSCH'ue!"

"You are welcome," Thranduil says, his gaze gone calm. "And still quite ill."

"A lingering tickle," Bard dismisses, but he lays himself back down before Thranduil can tell him to outright. "I will be fine by morning, and no longer darken your bed with this disease." It's more than he can say for his companion's scar.

Thranduil makes a noise like a snort of dismissal, however, and turns his book closed with the flick of one hand before resigning it to one side. "Must we have this conversation again?" He says, with a cast of irritation, but it does not keep him from stretching out against Bard to his full, sinuous length and tucking his head to the man's shoulder.

"Perhaps," Bard admits with a smile, gazing down on the spill of white-gold across his breast. "I am stubborn." They will be in a bad way if he has to sneeze again, when he has to sneeze again, but if Thranduil wishes to capitalize on what time they have together, he is consenting. A man's life is the blink of an eye to him, a sickness must be no more than a notion barely formed.

"So very, very stubborn. Go to sleep."

"You cannot order me, I am no elf," Bard teases, with a warm huff of laughter that disturbs those pale strands and makes a pointed ear twitch lightly. He resists the urge to stroke it, but just barely. It would be a fast way to ensure there are soon very few clothes between them at all.

"And a poor one you would make. Too sentimental, and rough around the edges."

Bard chuckles. Both of those things are reasons Thranduil has confessed to enjoying his company. He takes them as compliments, and leans back into the pillows with an arm coming up to drape the elf's broad, powerful shoulders. The strangeness of such an ancient creature draped against him like a contented cat will never fully abate, but Bard takes it for what it is. Like so many things in his life.

He closes his eyes, and sleeps.

Edited January 8, 2015 by Garnet

[Sitruuna]

Okay at this point I have to join the "lets quote the favourite parts" -group.

I don't have much to say, though, sorry. All this is just so perfect and when a story has these kind of elements in it I don't give a rat's ass whether or not it has anything this forum related in it. So...

"Can I do yours?" Tilda inquires, after admiring a pretty twist Thranduil's fingertips have absent-mindedly given her hair.

In response, Thranduil carefully removes the knotted circlet from his brow, and sets it aside. His hands settle passively in his lap as Tilda sits up straight and busies herself gathering the seemingly endless sweep of his hair into hand. Bard knows it firsthand to be as fine as cornsilk, cool and satin-sleek to the touch.

o_o

Yes please

Since this about Thranduil this is bordering hair pron right here.

Tilda brushes an experimental thumb over the tapered elven tip of Thranduil's ear.

He flinches immediately, with surprise, and Tilda with embarrassed apology.

I CAN'T EVEN TELL YOU HOW MUCH I WANT TO TOUCH THOSE EARS EVERYTIME I SEE THEM

I really, really like the idea of them being sensitive. It's not like I'm here obsessing over elves for their ears and thinking how it would be great if they were... well, sensitive and then you write this @_@

Bard also knows firsthand how sensitive they are, but Thranduil holds patiently still.

"You cannot order me, I am no elf," Bard teases, with a warm huff of laughter that disturbs those pale strands and makes a pointed ear twitch lightly. He resists the urge to stroke it, but just barely. It would be a fast way to ensure there are soon very few clothes between them at all.

...I like this idea very, very much. He could have touched it, I wouldn't have minded. Very few clothes between them sounds very good. Especially with ear-touching.

I would definitely read it if someone wrote a story solely centering on Thranduil's ears ok.

...Sorry, obviously I did enjoy all the rest of this, too. Bard's cold is very delicious. But that hair and those ears...x_x

I will shut up now.

Thank you for this story.

[Akahana]

Ok can I just cry a little? The scar scene really got to me, I have always thought that the Elvenking is semi-blind, but you made into a bittersweet and sentimental detail of trust and love. You tackled so much of the things I love about this relationship and you've done so perfectly. Their sassy banter is funny, and their relationship tender with a melancholy undertone. I love this more than any other Barduil fic I have ever read.

Thank you for this, it's beautiful.

[TaurielRiver]

I'm now going to tell myself that Thranduil's nose totally converted you into joining the forum

Hahaha oh my goodness… it totally did!!

And now I honestly have to say, I could not adore this story more if I tried!!

I love how you have kept this very realistic to how their relationship would actually have to play out – infrequent visits, stirred memories of past love, and a certain amount of calm restraint on the part of the immortal Elf.

I again have to compliment you on so many details- I am really holding back though, I could literally compliment every sentence!!

• The whole interaction between Tilda and Thranduil was just beautiful- I am so into the idea of Thranduil’s fatherly patience and softness towards children- being so powerful and yet so gentle towards such a more fragile being is just so touching! I was totally mesmerized as Thranduil allowed himself to be adoringly groomed, and his reaction to Tilda's innocent curiosity was just so kind… I also couldn’t help giggling when Thranduil translated her grand farewell!!
  

• Thranduil’s eventual admission that he would not waste the time he has with Bard. So lightly handled, this just works so well – he has the wisdom not to dwell/mourn on the inevitable, and yet it exists and, at times, he acknowledges it with feeling. Agh, straight to my heart!
  

• Eeeeeeek, how could I not mention Thranduil’s intensely withheld sneezing in amongst his lovely caretaking! The fact of his companionship even while Bard sleeps is meaningful enough, but then he manages to (sort of!) withhold his sneezes in one hand (under a wrinkled nose!), apologize, sniffle AND make the most eloquent comment about the dust of ages catalogued along with the text… too much perfect right here!!
  

• Bard undertaking a thoughtful observation of the Elvenking’s face, followed by “You’re staring”- this comment totally cracked me up! And I absolutely love how Bard can see amusement in the corners of Thranduil’s eyes- such a slow, delicate moment, it was just wonderful to watch unfold!
  

• When Bard kisses the left side of Thranduil’s face… such a beautiful gesture, and your description of “slow, grieving relief” just adds so much weight to everything unsaid here.
  

• The ending…. Thranduil's head resting on Bard’s shoulder, his hair on Bard’s chest, and Bard’s last reflections that are so incredibly fitting… the perfect end to this masterpiece! (And it really was!)
  

I love where you took this story, thank you again for the amazing journey!

[Subtly Clashing Wishes]

Mmmm...dessert. Your writing is so sensual. When I read these stories I feel immersed in them. Thank you for this lovely trilogy. I will be reading this over and over for a while.

[AngelEyes]

I am utterly at a loss for words. Or at least coherent ones. I've been meaning to comment for 2 days but can't find the praise to rightly justify this magnificence!

[March Hare]

As the afternoon draws on, and the cold he's been trying to catch since stepping foot off the boat starts to gain a foothold

BAHAHAHA you and your casual inbetweenbracketsed side-mentionings oh so wicked

Bard knows it firsthand to be as fine as cornsilk, cool and satin-sleek to the touch.

OF COURSE HE WOULD. Ahahaha, hair play. I am slightly melting.

"You apologize for something you can't control."

"I'm apologizing for my poor company," Bard corrects. His voice has gone a bit raspy, and two or three graveled throatclears don't make any headway, so he gives up. "I cannot imagine you want me near you like this."

"And yet I do," Thranduil observes.

Not so slightly melting now. *blub*

He feels as though he is dragging himself back to awareness after those.

GROAN

"This is your bed."

"Very astute, Dragonslayer, I can see why they crowned you king."

red-nosed and out of sorts

One of the hottest possible ways to describe it. I don't know why, but it is. GODS.

He awakens again to a sneeze, but this time not his own.

"-TSSSHH!"

SHIIIIT YEEEESSS

Garnet you're wonderful this is wonderful I love it you make me so happy every damn time.

[RiversD]

Please feel free to blame all formatting aberrations on the quote limit.

Whee! okay, so:

He feels poorly, and feels poorly for it. It's a compounded kind of misery that is scraping raw his throat, inflaming his sinuses, making each swallow and sniff an effort to scratch an inner-ear and behind-the-eyes itch that he can't reach.

Oh, I know that feeling. Poor boy.

"Yes, he is, and one day he will learn that such things cannot be helped," Thranduil agrees, his voice a low and lazy drawl of amusement. Bard narrows his eyes at both of them, clearly in league with one another.

"Must you turn my own daughter against me?"

"I must."

^this dialogue is perfect. Perfect.

That whole passage with Tilda playing with Thranduil's hair is adorable. He's so patient and loving with her, I just... *bursts*

Bard also knows firsthand how sensitive they are"

*giggles like the inner child I am* Also yes yes yes to sensitive ears. *ahem* Very much so.

"Bard almost pities him, but doesn't quite. He brought this upon himself."

ehehehe. I love Bard so much.

Also- "thorned beginnings of a sneeze" = niiiiiiiiice.

Tilda's dramatic farewell is beautiful. She's amazing.

(Seriously, considering how little canon characterisation you have to bounce off for her- serious props)

"Bard grunts softly as he settles to the edge of the bed beside Thranduil, and ducks forward appreciatively, eyes heavy, as the king rests a cool hand on the nape of his neck."

mmm. *happily stores image away in mental file*

"His shoulders slump like a weight is either dragging them down or has been lifted, as the edges of Thranduil's nails feather into his hair and trail across his scalp. It is better than any medicine, makes him feel calm and deep."

Happy fuzzies.

The comment seems to quiet Thranduil entirely, in both body and voice. His hand still lingers a while in Bard's hair, but he can feel the elf's mind beginning to draw into itself, and intuitively taps a finger at his knee.

Oh nooooo... *clasps knees and rocks gently* you're not allowed to do that to my heart.

"He feels as though he is dragging himself back to awareness after those. No quick and sniffling recovery, now."

Poor miserable baby. *gathers Bard up for hugs*

He pauses, hits the wall of a concept that he is obviously reluctant to address. The Elvenking sighs. "I would not waste any time I am given with you."

Nonono, my heart can't take this. He's letting down too many barriers and he's nervous, and AUGH.

There it is. Bard is still surprised at how his own throat cramps with the admission.

Well, that's it. My heart has now shattered. I hope you're proud.

"Do you think about that often?"

"No," Thranduil concedes. "It is in the back of my mind that one day you will die, but I don't daily fear the sorrow of your parting. Occasionally I forget altogether, but your affliction reminds me."

What sort of question is that, Bard? A question designed to cause me pain, that's what. I'm onto you, mister.

"He lies down slowly, warily, to the encouraging pressure."

Awwwww.

"Is Thranduil actually removing his boots?"

Just give in to the domesticity of your arrangement, Bard. Someone has to look after you, you stubborn mule. It's a good thing you're pretty.

"Forgive me, for earlier. For questioning your favor. I did not mean it, I know that you..." He doesn't want to say love, because he doesn't think that's it, but it's something very like it that feels safer, and warms the same spot in Bard's chest.

"There is nothing to forgive," Thranduil says, but he steps back in, and dips gracefully to touch his lips to Bard's brow. He assumes that it's an affectionate gesture, but after a lingering moment, the elf straightens with a frown transgressing across his ethereal features. "You're much too warm."

Aaaah, no, I can't take either of these paragraphs. Such warm fuzzy lovely mature feelings being had in the first one, then Thranduil being all patient and caring and worried and I am going to die.

"Thranduil touches his wrist lightly, and takes his leave."

No, you don't understand, that's so CUTE and perfect and asadasafgkl.

I completely sympathise with Bard's wanting to be left alone. And "Ugly, soaking sneeze"- yes. I can picture exactly what you were describing. I wouldn't want an elf to see that either, Bard.

I really enjoyed the image of the dressed-down, patiently-waiting Thranduil that Bard wakes up to. And this, of course:

He breathes in, brows colliding.

"--ah'tsschhh!

Aw, babby. He's trying so hard...

"You can't have her," Bard warns with the curl of a tired smile.

"You have two others, surely you can spare one."

"Not even one."

They are both such precious dads and I love everything about this scene.

The ease of this is both reassuring and a bit painful in its familiarity. It's in the domestic moments he finds himself missing her the most.

Sucker-punch to the feels! Soldier down, soldier down....

Were Bard feeling even a little more energetic, that expression would kindle a fire straight to his core.

Nnghfffft.

That whole description of Thranduil's glamour dissolving to show the scar- and of the dynamics of the healed wound itself- is gorgeous and incredibly effective. Many gold stars.

"You keep me on your blind side," Bard adds, after a long, quiet moment where he just absorbs the entirety of it. The Elvenking's eye on that side is milked over a dull and glassy blue.

This time Thranduil hesitates, his good eye finding Bard while the other shifts, automatic but unseeing in its socket. "I put my trust in you, Dragonslayer."

Well, that's one way to increase the emotional weight of the moment. He trusts Bard so intimately and completely and that is beautiful.

Thranduil stiffens first in shock, then in slow, grieving relief as the King of Dale leans forward to touch a press a single, fearless kiss to the ruined topography

It was "slow, grieving relief" that did it for me. He lets himself be so vulnerable with Bard. STOP DOING THIS TO MY HEART. (just kidding, please never stop)

"Perhaps," Bard admits with a smile, gazing down on the spill of white-gold across his breast. "I am stubborn." They will be in a bad way if he has to sneeze again, when he has to sneeze again, but if Thranduil wishes to capitalize on what time they have together, he is consenting.

Awwwwwwwwh. *melts*

"You cannot order me, I am no elf," Bard teases, with a warm huff of laughter that disturbs those pale strands and makes a pointed ear twitch lightly. He resists the urge to stroke it, but just barely. It would be a fast way to ensure there are soon very few clothes between them at all.

*bites lip* Um, I mentioned about the ear thing, right? *turns crimson*

"The strangeness of such an ancient creature draped against him like a contented cat will never fully abate, but Bard takes it for what it is. Like so many things in his life."

The pieces of my heart are too full for this adorableness. They're just so... perfect with each other, and you've written such a wonderful, thoroughly believable, dynamic for their relationship that I am now distressingly invested in everything about them. Darn you.

In conclusion, if this represents your writing goals, congratulations. You've done it right.

[RiversD]

Forgot something! *yeah, I know, I talk too much*

But if you'll forgive my commenting again, I'd like to add to my review-thing of part 2 my appreciation of the phrase "sits deeply forward", and indeed the entire sentence in which it is contained, because that image has followed me around and just refuses to let go.

Okaythankyoubuhbyenow....

[beatlelover22]

I honestly have NO idea how I've managed to miss this. Of all that is holy... this was so enjoyable to read! I didn't even realise how much I loved Bard, of course I've always been a fan of Thranduil... both their sneezes are magnificent how you spell them out. And oh my gosh, how sweet, all of it! Thanks for writing, Garnet, I LOVED IT AHHHH!!

[Maus_17]

This was so sweet! I loved their interactions- the stark difference between elf and man. And the foreshadowing- I saw that! Amazing.

[Zuki]

I never even considered this pairing but after reading this... Well, I don't know how I ever got along without it. I want more, like a spoiled child who's tasted its first bit of chocolate.

[TheCakeIsAlive]

Guhhh... I feared it would be silly, but it's so, so good. You paint a brilliant scenery bringing the emotions of the movie to life again.

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.

That sentence should not be utterly erotic, yet it is... you evil, evil person.

"The consequence of infrequency, I'm afraid. Also, I believe your grime is contagious."

*giggles* D'aww. "Your grime in contagious." That is the kind of contagion that I can most thoroughly approve of.

[Choobat]

So.....

Originally i had seen this and wanted to read but i didnt because i hadnt yet seen botfa and now i spent the last hour and i am litey dying like omg you have killed me what are words how do thing ahhhhh

I have no words to put this thing to justice and tbh i wish i could show this fic to my friends because omg its so gorgeous thank you so so so much