TexasDreamer01

Title and Platform: Build a door and then open it (AO3) (tumblr)
Rating: Teen
Fandoms: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Characters: Bard the Bowman/Thranduil, Bard the Bowman's Children, Gandalf | Mithrandir, Thorin Oakenshield, Background & Cameo Characters
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Battle of the Five Armies Fix-It, Background Fix-it, Life-Saving Visions, Thranduil Saves The Durins, Good Person Thranduil, Background Legolas, Background Tauriel, Background Dwalin, Everyone is Traumatized, Passing Around the Low Self-Esteem Ball, Developing Friendships, Pre-Slash, Tumblr Prompt, Emeralds of Girion, POV Bard the Bowman
Summary:
"The remnants of being devastated by a dragon's wrath and a subsequent battle to defend their homes are slowly being swept away. Bard is doing his best to keep up, and wondering when he'll fall behind."

Erebor took months to stand up. It made for a certain atmosphere, with Dale being rebuilt side-by-side, dwarves of the Iron Hills and elves moving frequently enough between the two cities that he could almost envision the bustling activity that Thranduil had confided in him while the ruins of Dale were still being swept for straggling enemies.

Privately, he thinks that there’s nothing like a calamity to bring people together. Everyone was affected by the death of Smaug, and from what Thorin’s Company could tell him, the dedicated chase of the orc leader Azog to end an entire royal line that brought several forces to kill anyone in their way. Something about that battle to secure Erebor was surely Valar-touched, Ravenhill catching nearly all of their eyes in time to see the eagles swooping over the battlefield.

He had not seen Thranduil for several days after the immediate end of the battle, and it was only after Sigrid found an elf who hadn’t looked immediately busy that they were able to glean some information. Apparently the king had paused in the middle of a skirmish on the outskirts of Dale and then called out an order for cover, ending up at the crux of the battle just as it was ending.

Bloody but successful, the king of the silver fountains would be able to reclaim his mountain in full. He knew that Thranduil was a good, if sometimes aggravating, sort, but attending to what everyone presumed to be his enemy with a retinue of impromptu elves at his side was astonishing to the dwarves. From the look on Thranduil’s face when Bard finally caught sight of him, attending to the grievously wounded king and princes was approached the same as a dire battle – determination had been carved in the man’s face, bracing Bard against the abrupt relief at seeing the elf alive and upright

They scarcely had time to reconvene with each other, and by some unspoken rule Thranduil was given to rest instead of administering to his kingdom. It left him as the only leader left standing, improvised as he was, and there was a certain irony in him holding everything together with Gandalf and whatever advisors from the neighboring kingdoms saw fit to gather to him. In a way, he didn’t know whether he was fortunate to experience the thorny grip of poverty and the Master’s disfavour, for it allowed him the practice at cobbling together a plan.

Supplies were organized and distributed, the injured congregated in the center of the three camps and close enough to the river to afford clean water. The dead were accorded to their peoples and customs, and the bare bones of shoring up Dale’s ruins for more permanent protection from the swiftly-descending winter were allocated whatever supplies everyone could scrounge up.

The sundering of the lake from Smaug’s body was an unpleasant task, but Bard supposed as he was the poor bastard to have killed the dragon, it was his task to retrieve the dragon from where it was polluting their waters. The wizard was a surprising amount of help, and though the man was walking with his own wounds from prior to the battle, he was able to smooth the dragging of Smaug to the shore with some magics Bard refused to question the good luck of.

It was this that bound the affections of elves and dwarves together most profusely, for they were peoples with the longest memories of what blights dragons could inflict. He watched along with his neighbors as pulleys and ropes were devised, leveraging their combined strength to pull the enormous rotting corpse from the water on the banks opposite of their camp. The sight of Smaug’s toothy grin would likely never leave him, but he felt some of the emotion leaching from him at the obvious state of death picking at the creature’s edges.

A part of him wished Thranduil could see it, remembering how much the elf had insisted on helping the survivors of Laketown in the immediate aftermath. Looking at how the dwarves and elves seemed to be discussing… something or other on the far bank, he reckoned Thranduil would have ample opportunity to settle any fears of his own after he had finished his own acute need for recuperation.

Task thus accomplished, the matter was tabled for a more opportune time, and everyone concentrated on surviving the winter. Dain had sent for more supplies from his home in the Iron Hills, but the lord had ruefully admitted he hadn’t anticipated so many mouths to feed. Bard could only nod, grateful he, his children, and his neighbors were already well-used to tightening their belts.

For the short period of time that Thranduil was temporarily indisposed, it was his son – a surprising discovery, but nevertheless an intriguing one – who took admirable command of the elves who had arrived with their king, directing some of them back to Mirkwood. The prince had cautioned it would only be enough supplies to tide them over until his father could make a better-versed decision, but Bard was grateful enough at the action that he overlooked how weary the young man looked.

And young he must have been, for when Thranduil finally emerged from his tent, looking pale but walking with grace and under his own power, he had fallen into his father’s arms with a relief that only those children who had yet to leave their roost displayed. The king looked startled, and Bard felt his heart twinge at whatever the years must have held between them, but embraced his son just as fiercely. The sight seemed to have settled not only the surrounding elves, something that spoke of whatever bad blood had been cleaving them apart, but also heartening any other onlooker.

He thought he saw Gandalf, who was never far from the center of action, smile in relief. It made him revise his opinion on whether to question Thranduil about it, if the wizard was learned enough to have an opinion on the sight.

When there was time – and often there was not, a frustrating circumstance despite having one of two kings back amongst the living – he greeted Thranduil warmly, clasping a hand upon the other’s arm perhaps a touch too familiarly, if the elf’s owl-eyed look was anything to go by. He bit his lip, refraining from apologizing as had been hammered out of him by multiple advisors, even if he had not wished to discomfit the man.

“Welcome back,” He said instead, wondering if his hand had lingered a touch too long by the way Thranduil stared down at it, “We missed you.”

In hindsight, he wasn’t sure what possessed him to say that, but the flash of vulnerable, bemused gratitude that swept across the king’s face meant the words had to be the right decision. Such reasons were often his only guide for considering the best course of action, even if most of his decisions were made half with the same instinct that made him determine which animals would be easiest caught for that week’s food.

Thranduil laid his hand over Bard’s, stopping it from divesting its grasp completely, “I am told it has been eventful while I was abed.”

He could hardly prevent the flush that stole across his face, as warm as the amusement laden in the words. Glancing at where their hands were entangled, he nodded, “Aye. We fished a dead dragon out of the lake, if you can believe it.”

For the rest of his days, Bard swore he would never forget the pleasure that filled Thranduil’s face, a wide smile upon the elf’s lips that matched the curious light in his eyes. It was a long moment before he could find the voice to speak, too stunned by the sight that graced his vision to interrupt it, “I told everyone to wait for your opinion on the matter before we did anything with it.”

“A fine gift,” Thranduil murmured, eyes fixed upon him and likely catching how Bard’s breath caught, “I thank you.”

“Anytime,” Bard murmured back, faintly panicking at whether he had just agreed to kill more dragons on Thranduil’s behalf. Gandalf assured him that was the last of the fire drakes, so surely he wasn’t obliged to hunt down any more…?

When Thranduil laughed softly, hand still covering his own, Bard considered that maybe damn the fact, he would have agreed anyway just to hear that sound again.

---

It was apparently with much badgering that Bard was summoned to Thorin’s tent. By dint of highest rank in the dwarven camp, it was their king’s, but he could see the scattered effects of the Company and Dain, who were the ones most attached to the king’s side. Both nephews were still with the healers, though he suspected it was rather so Tauriel could continue visiting and raise little issue.

Thorin looked nearly as pale as Thranduil had been when the elf had awoken from his own slumber, and the sight made him wonder how elvish healing worked – or at least how Thranduil’s worked, since the amount of fuss incurred by his actions seemed to indicate that it was unusual. Perhaps once he had recovered from this bout of the stubborn bluntness of dwarves, he would ask.

“You have kept this camp afloat, Bowman,” The dwarf rasped, looking much more clear-eyed than the last time they had exchanged words. He was regarded with a look heavily reminiscent of remembered shame, Thorin looking down at the blankets obscuring elf-healed wounds, “I owe you a great debt.”

Having already gotten himself entrenched in that exact topic with Balin, Dain, and Gloín – Bilbo himself appearing or not based on some arbitrary value – he could readily bite his tongue on the subject after many hours of discussion while this king lay abed, deep in a healing sleep. Instead, he said, “I am glad to see you awake.”

Alive would have been a better descriptor, given the rumors that had quickly circulated when the Thorin and his nephews had been borne by elves directly to the nearest tent, Thranduil leaning heavily upon the shoulder of a kinsman and straggling behind out of what was in many’s hindsight a deep exhaustion. Nevertheless, he was willing to forgive what the other was willing to repent on, and returned the contemplative nod given to him with one of his own.

Thorin inhaled, and by now he could recognize the sight of someone readying themselves for a proclamation, bracing himself accordingly. For what, he wasn’t sure, but the doubt that he was unfit to stand in the company of royalty had never truly left him, no matter how quickly he had acclimated to the duty out of necessity.

Whatever it was Thorin said next, it was indecipherable to him, only summoning a dwarf that must have been waiting within earshot. He recognized the one who came into the tent as Dwalin, who looked as dour and intimidating as ever, the sight only gaining impression by how the dwarf bowed to Thorin with all the stateliness of dedicated service. He watched as a wooden box was revealed from Dwalin’s holding, given to the man’s king with gravity.

Leaving as swiftly as he had entered, Dwalin left him alone with Thorin once more. The box was sat in the king’s lap, something he wondered was perhaps the wisest course of action, given how wounded the other was when he was retrieved from the battlefield. His brow crinkled as Thorin looked at the box – or perhaps past it, given the faintly glazed nature of his eyes.

“This contains what belonged to Lord Girion of Dale,” Thorin said abruptly, looking up at him, “It had been left in our safekeeping, though we had never finished the commission. Should you wish it, of course, we shall do so – Balin is overseeing the inventory of the hoard, to ensure that the design plans are found.”

“I-” Of course he knew that Girion was his ancestor; the Master of Laketown had scarcely let him forget it, a legacy that had hounded him even as he had prayed to strike where the man had failed while his own son held so frightfully still. To see something- something other than a blasted insult to his family, he wasn’t sure how to react.

A smile met him, perhaps more commiserative than he had originally assumed, “We all carry the burdens of our past,” Thorin said, quite considerately given how deep the man had fallen into an illness that had effectively started a war and nearly killed him and his nephews, “I had met Girion, once. He would have been proud of you, for succeeding where he had failed.”

Such praise unstuck his tongue, words of reassurance leaping forth out of habit at the sharp edge of self-loathing he could see, “I am sure yours would be proud of you, too.”

Thorin laughed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, but rather more bitter than he thought the dwarf’s actions warranted. He remembered sitting and listening for long hours as Dain quietly informed him of the nature of gold sickness, and how Erebor had faltered when the much-venerated Thrór fell under its sway. Even now the taste of the dwarvish ale, so finely aged and smooth upon his tongue, had sat bitterly with the recounted grief of precisely how much dwarvendom had lost with the desolation of Smaug. A part of him had wished then to kill Smaug a second time, not wishing such tragedy even upon people who had so eagerly roused themselves for a fight, now that he knew it had been in defense of a reclaiming a homeland so bitingly-won.

“I think you underestimate yourself,” Bard said instead, watching as Thorin’s gaze shot up to his in surprise, having had too much time to mull this particular string of thoughts as he was watching a battlefield be converted into a graveyard, “Even if you did not ultimately kill Smaug, you had reclaimed your home from him – that is no small feat. Do not diminish what you have accomplished, just because you have struggled for it.”

Words were the only thing of value he could offer, knowing only oneself could absolve their own shame, but he could see how deeply it struck at the heart of the matter by how shock had melted into gratitude. He ignored the mistiness of the king’s eyes, knowing his own were scarcely better and only after much practice at reassuring his children and others who came across his path the past tremulous weeks, approaching Thorin to sit in the chair left beside the man’s bed.

“Now tell me,” He said gently, “What is it that has been found?”

The distraction was appreciated, and after Thorin had nodded once more – perhaps to Bard but more likely to himself, the box was presented with little ceremony, its lid prised open to reveal what looked like hundreds of green gems, a necklace of the same set in fine silver laid atop and looking more delicate than almost anything he’s ever seen.

His eyebrows shot up to his hairline, astounded by the beauty laying in such a comparatively plain covering. This seemed to hearten the dwarf, a shy pride overtaking his previous mood, “There are few craftsmen who could compare to a master jeweler among dwarves,” Thorin said, “This was intended to be a set of jewelry for Girion’s womenfolk, to be passed down through the family. I have been informed you have three children, two of whom are daughters?”

“Aye,” Bard replied, feeling his shock settle into the familiar numbness of disbelief. As much as he had been ready to argue for the funds necessary to rebuild Dale and possibly even Laketown, this… this was personal wealth, far more than he believed had been held by the entirety of his town, much less ever passing through the hands of his family.

Thorin smiled, a look distinctly familiar of someone keen on spoiling a child – he would know, he and his wife having worn it often enough when surprising one of their children with a new toy or garment. It abruptly reminded him that Thorin’s heirs were also some of his closest family, and young enough to still be spoiled. His heart ached, hoping for the king’s sake that he would heal quickly enough to resume such a habit.

It was with that thought in mind that he accepted the gift, closing the lid gently and hoping sincerely that he didn’t drop or lose it, such precious contents admired not only for their beauty but also their sentiment, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Thorin replied, and Bard knew that the people of Dale would truly not only have an ally in Erebor, but also friends.

---

Sigrid had taken a long look at the necklace and refused on the grounds that it wasn’t to her taste. It bewildered him, but the look in her eyes beheld thoughts he wasn’t sure he wished to broach. He wanted to argue with her about it, knowing that she deserved such an adornment of beauty and more, but she had negotiated him down to a handful of the emeralds and a promise that he consider the necklace to someone who would appreciate it more than she.

He was so proud of her, and fully intended to foist whatever it was that he had gained in terms of authority onto her once she properly came of age, for she handled it much more deftly than her old father did. She had smiled at that, too, and made no promises but one to ensure his correspondence would be neatly sorted.

With the thought in his head firmly affixed that his eldest would make a fine leader indeed, he found Tilda well-integrated with the cooks milling around the mess tent, standing upon a stool and handling whatever task she could assist with. For a moment he merely watched, his child’s face bright and happy as she chattered with the people around her, a stripe of flour on her cheek that made her look so astonishingly like her mother that he could almost imagine her appearing around the corner.

The sight made him feel so fond his heart ached, and he walked on instinct to her, calling out her name. “Da!” She exclaimed, hopping off her stool swiftly and running toward him, toppling into his legs with enthusiasm, “Da, they’re teaching me how to make cheese bread, it’s so good! You should try some!”

He laughed as she went to tug him closer to the table, picking her up and swinging her around, “Hullo, love,” He said, pressing a firm kiss atop her head and listening to Tilda laugh, “I have something for you, if you want it.”

Bard stifled a laugh as her eyes boggled, attention immediately on the idea of a present. There was so little of them, and he found himself once again grateful that Thorin had lived, if only for how the return of Girion’s gems allowed him to put a smile on his children’s faces.

“Well, where is it?” She asked excitedly, wiggling in his arms. He set her down, keeping a firm hand on one of her own lest she run off and try to find it.

Grinning, he gestured for her to wave at the cooks before they departed the tent, his daughter mimicking the action enthusiastically with a wide grin that those in the tent returned. It was heartening to see how many people adored his children, something that even if the feeling was the same could never be truly shown when under the Master’s thumb. Tilda smiled more freely now, less afraid of catching unwanted attention, as if their happiness was forbidden.

He listened to her chatter about her day, pleased for the opportunity to do so.

---

“But Da,” Tilda said, wearing the same stubborn tilt of her sister, and Bard wanted to shake his head, already seeing how this was going to go, “I won’t fit in it!”

And it was such a practical reasoning that he had to sigh, pulling her close for a hug that she easily returned, “You will get bigger, sweetheart,” He told her, smiling as he watched her digest this news, “One day you’ll be as tall as you’ll need to be for it.”

Tilda nodded, looking unconvinced but willing to give it a go if he said so. Bain was watching from the other side of the table, having already shot a dubious look at the gems and firmly declaring that they were too sparkly and could he have a bow like him, instead? Some part of him wondered if his children were too humble, but then he watched the two of them exchange a look and silently communicate in a way that made him instead believe they were too mischievous by a half.

“It’s for a lady, right?” His daughter asked, glancing back at the necklace when he nodded, “Well… I know you can’t give them to Ma, but what if you had a lady? Sigrid already said no, didn’t she?”

He bundled her close from where she was perched upon the bench, holding her tight. He had never considered taking another wife after their mother died, too few willing to handle his children upon their own, nor any wanting to risk upsetting the delicate peace he had acquired by being the town’s best hunter and only bargeman willing to consort with the elves.

Pursing his lips, he gave Tilda a quick kiss upon her forehead, gathering his thoughts, “What’s brought this on?”

“Well,” Tilda glanced at her brother, who shrugged over his snack of bread and sausage, “It’s only that… You’re important now, yeah?”

He blinked, wondering what rumors were going around the town now. Despite the whole battle, and everything that seemed connected to it, he doubted he was doing more than what he had always done – making sure those in charge got along and not cause undue grief with their decisions.

It was easier with Thranduil, the expectations already in hand and the elf being no cruel lord that would exact a heavy price for loyalty. After meeting with Thorin, he found the dwarf to be much the same, and the light of that knowledge cast a more forgiving shadow on the events that destroyed his home and brought war to their doorstep. Being in the presence of two such esteemed individuals, while more friendly on the whole, was still rather daunting.

“I don’t see how,” Bard admitted, looking at the box of gems atop their table.

Bain grinned at him, shaking his head.

“What?” He grumbled, listening to Tilda’s giggle with a put-upon frown.

“Everyone likes you, Da!” His daughter exclaimed, grinning excitedly, “They’re talking about the house our great-great-… great? Grandpa used to live in. Maybe that’s why King Thorin gave you the necklace?”

“And the gems,” He murmured, mind turning over the gossip his children had apparently eavesdropped. Tilda, finished with her explanation, had shuffled off his lap and knelt in front of the box, picking up the necklace more delicately than he had anticipated, “What are you up to?”

Tilda tugged on one of his hands, and he obligingly unfolded it as he wondered what, exactly, his children wanted him to know. All three of them had refused such a precious inheritance with the same firm but kind vehemence, and there surely must be some reason behind this unity of theirs. He watched the speculative look in his daughter’s eye, and began to believe they already had someone in mind.

But who?

He closed his hand over the necklace when she bade him to, watching her small hands envelope his own. It reminded him fiercely of his first sight of Thranduil after his recuperation, how the elf had been held so fiercely by his own child, and he knew then for certain whom they intended this necklace to be gifted.

“Alright, love,” He said, pulling her close for another hug and wondering how they grew up without him looking, “Alright.”

---

The clouds upon the morning horizon were thick and tall, signalling a storm headed their way. Gandalf was already beginning his preparations to leave before the snow those clouds boded could fall, many missives squirreled away that would dictate his journey’s path.

Bard found himself sad to see the wizard go, having grown accustomed to the wizard’s presence and pithy words. It convinced him to pull the other aside, even if just for a brief moment.

“Will your feet ever turn this way again?” He asked, giving the wizard a stash of Tilda’s biscuits and smiling at the surprised appreciated at the savoury smell.

Humming an unknown tune, Gandalf tipped a wink at him, “A wizard is always where he needs to be, King Bard, never fret.”

“No king am I,” He protested, knowing that if such phrasing were a joke then a poor one it was.

“Then no wizard am I,” Was the swift rejoinder, Gandalf unruffled as he produced a bag of pipeweed with a pleased sound, “Only a weary traveller with unfortunate advice.”

Bard frowned, wanting to admonish such a dour perspective despite also wanting to argue the title Gandalf levied on him. He waved a hand when the wizard gestured if he could light his pipe, listening to the crackling of the match and watching the pungent smoke waft from the bowl.

“How can I be a king,” He sighed, watching the blue tendrils dissipate into the air, wizard a studious listener, “I lived in a house on a lake, only kept afloat in my town by how useful I was. That’s not a king, that’s… that’s someone whose only concern had been avoiding the Master’s punishments and putting food on the table.”

I’m just a bowman, he wanted to say, A bargeman. Someone who had naively invited trouble to his home, laden with enough desperation and increasingly-lean goodwill to consider the risk worth it.

Someone whose actions had burned down an entire town, by whose deeds nearly everyone had been killed by. They were thoughts that had often kept him awake, made his feet wander around the camp and check on everyone he could see before fatigue pulled him back down. If it had not been for Thranduil, arriving so timely with soldiers, healers, and enough supplies for the survivors, he doubted any survivors of rousing Smaug would have gotten through the winter.

Amidst all these roiling thoughts was Gandalf, looking at him calmly over his pipe. The sight was like a pebble in his hand, plucked from the river’s edge and smoothed by many years of rushing water. He took in a steadying breath, letting the weight of that proverbial stone settle the cresting worries of his mind.

“You are a champion of your people,” Gandalf said, raising his brows at him when he made to interrupt, “They have chosen their king. Will you accept their trust in you?”

Bard had half a mind to tell the wizard what a dirty game he played, but given the watchful eye he was treated to, he supposed that was the point. He felt the weight of the necklace in his jacket, and thought of how many people’s efforts it had taken to put it there, and to whom he had yet to gift it. Knowing, in hindsight, what a concerted effort toward peace that it was – and how delicately woven together the strands were of his personal life and his duties – the inheritance that had been sitting so heavily on his mind was now much lighter.

He smiled ruefully, “I’ve gotten us this far, haven’t I?”

---

In the end, it was an interestingly intricate series of messengers that arranged him time with Thranduil. His children, as keen of eye as their parents, completed half the task before his mind had even settled on a decision.

Their newest – and perhaps most steadfast – friend among the elves was also the captain of the king’s guard, and amply positioned to relay important details to her lord. Tauriel favoured him with a swift smile as she accepted a parcel of bread in thanks, and it was only shortly after that he found himself walking side-by-side with Thranduil the next morning, early enough that the lake’s mist had yet to settle.

He breathed in the morning air, grateful it was a warmer day in this latter part of the winter that some humidity softened the sharp edge of ice. Beside him, the elf looking mostly unaffected, even if he caught how the other’s eyes were riveted on the slowly-decaying dragon they were leisurely approaching.

It had taken a bit of prying, guised in words both polite and earnest, but he understood now that it was trepidation of one’s memories that hounded Thranduil at the sight. They were far enough away from Dale and the vestiges of its neighbors’ camps that Smaug was somewhat obscured from direct sight. No animals had yet attempted approaching the dragon’s body, but the silence was less fragile than he expected.

Nevertheless, he let himself drift slowly closer, providing the man so absorbed by the sight some way to ground himself, “Hey,” He said quietly, “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Thranduil murmured, almost distractedly. The man had gathered his sleeves over his hands, looser than the ones worn to battle but not quite as voluminous as his typical court-wear, so Legolas had informed him. It neatly hid any lack of composure under the guise of keeping one’s hands warm, but it was a flighty assumption given how elves felt little the touch of cold, “It has… merely been some time since I was so close to a dragon.”

And Bard assumed that the sacking of Erebor by this same dragon didn’t count. He chanced broaching Thranduil’s space, resting a hand against the man’s back. The king had too much self-control to startle so badly, but by the stiffening of his shoulders Bard knew he had knocked something loose in Thranduil’s thoughts.

Rather than apologizing – or removing his hand – he let his thumb sweep a comforting arc, the whisper it made over the heavy silk robe the only accompaniment to their breathing, both having drifted to a stop.

“I’m right here,” He said instead, “And that dragon is quite dead. I made sure of it.”

The words were well-practiced, he himself having long gotten-over stumbling as he reassured others when they were equally as roused by nightmares. It seemed the right blend of confidence and humor, having ushered his children back to bed with those words and settled townspeople and soldiers alike when they crossed the path of his nighttime wanderings.

A part of him understood why they had named him Dragonslayer – for if he carried the name, then it engraved the truth into reality. It had the same effect on Thranduil, whom he suspected needed it more than most, having fought his own dragon so long ago and barely survived the encounter.

“Yes,” Thranduil agreed quietly, face drawn as he turned away from Smaug and toward him, looking a little bit like someone had laid a fear to rest after a long time of wondering if anyone would, “Yes, you did.”

He wanted to draw Thranduil into his arms with a fierceness that came so suddenly his fingers tightened in the man’s robes. The action, minute as it was, seemed to settle Thranduil and made Bard wish all the more strongly. But he could not, if he wanted to get to the point of their meeting.

“I have something for you,” He said, mouth dry.

Thranduil looked at him fondly, “More than dedicating a slayed dragon to me? I can hardly fathom a gift that can match it.”

He grinned, quick as a sparrow, shaking his head. The necklace had been wrapped in some cloth that looked pleasing enough, knotted tightly to ensure its contents couldn’t escape. It was a matter of fishing it out, a gesture that went better with both hands even as he mourned the lost opportunity to keep so close.

“I don’t know if this will be as worthy,” He said, biting back the thoughts of whether he would be worthy, such ideas having been soundly defeated with the firm arguments he had endured, “But it is meant with the same sentiment.”

And at that Thranduil looked intrigued, glancing up at him before unclasping his own hands to pluck the gift from his hands. The feeling of fingers brushing against his palms made him shiver, and he wasn’t sure if the look that he received was recognition and contemplation. It was a hopeful interpretation, but he was taking these days one hope at a time.

The cloth looked plain in Thranduil’s hands, but it was undone with an attentiveness that buoyed his spirits. Such bouts of nerves he had thought long behind him – that he could experience it once more, and with someone who already thought so highly of his deeds in a disarmingly honest manner, made him believe that this was the best decision he had made in a while.

“Oh,” Thranduil said faintly, one hand paused over the loosed knot, staring at the necklace it had obscured.

“Aye,” He agreed, wishing to press his hand against the man’s back once more, but equally to hide his hands away in his pockets to avoid further temptation, “It was Girion’s, and- well. I would like you to have it.”

He was given a wide-eyed stare, his cheeks flushing over the sight. Thranduil looked back down at the necklace, uncovering it from its wrapping as if it were a fine gift. And it was, he knew this from his children, but the attention gave it a weight he hadn’t considered.

There was something about the sight of delicately-wrought emeralds held in those hands that made his heart swell with pride. It was a daunting emotion, knowing he had done little other than accept it from Thorin and pass it to Thranduil, but the sway of emotions on the other’s face was convincing as to its merits.

“Surely it would be better to remain in your family,” Thranduil asked, brow furrowing.

Bard shook his head, laughing, “I tried, believe me. My children would rather I have it, and insisted I find a lady to give it to.”

The words were met with a droll look, presumably from the knowledge that other races had difficulty telling elves apart. It made him reach forward, clasping his hands over Thranduil’s, feeling their strength even as his ancestor’s necklace was cradled in the man’s palms.

He smiled, watching as those defenses faltered and fell, being honest with himself at how much he relished their nearness. Wetting his lips, he spoke before his words could flee from him, “It would look beautiful on you. Please?”

Thranduil looked as if such compliments were rare to him, and Bard drew him closer by their hands on instinct, almost wanting to protest the look. It drew a smile forth, if much shyer than he could have conceived, “If this is your wish?”

“It is,” He said firmly, hanging on to the sudden notion that he wanted to woo Thranduil, to let this extraordinary person in his life be acknowledged in such a manner.

A moment passed, as if Thranduil needed to understand the idea that he was wanted in such a way. Perhaps it had been an eon, Bard thought, since this had last occurred for the king, and it made him want to impress just how earnestly he meant those jewels.

“I appreciate you,” He said, drifting closer into Thranduil’s space and keeping a keen eye on the emotions he was stirring up, “You have stood by my side when I needed you, and rallied your people in a way that I admire. Please see this as- as a token of my friendship, at least.”

Thranduil smiled, eyes crinkling. He shifted one of his hands so that the necklace was clasped between their own, and Bard let himself be drawn close enough to feel the heat emanating off the other’s body.

“Just friendship?” The king murmured, gaze tracking his own.

Licking his lips at the low tone, Bard attempted to steady the quick inhale he made. It did not go unnoticed by him that the action was noted, and his fingers tightened upon the ones in his grasp.

“I believe,” Thranduil said, “That a lord shall do in place a lady, hm?”

“Aye,” He agreed, letting that necklace wrap around their fingers, “That shall do nicely.”

Notes:

If opportunity doesn't knock, build a door.

- Milton Berle, as quoted in One Door Closes, Another Door Opens (1995) by Arthur Pine and Julie Houston, p. 109 (Wikipedia)

A wise man will make more opportunities than he finds.

- Francis Bacon, Essays, 52. 'Of Ceremonies and Respects' (Wikipedia)

Danger will wink on opportunity.

- John Milton, Comus (1637), line 401. (Wikipedia)

Written for Barduil Month's April 3rd prompt, "Emeralds of Girion".

A little headcanon of mine is that all elves can have visions, but some are better at it than others. If Elrond and Galadriel can do it, then so can Thranduil, and given that he's someone who chooses not to sail west and dedicated himself so thoroughly to his realm, I imagine he's particularly well-placed to receive a vision and act upon it because Thranduil really does not like catastrophes. (Am I still irritated Tolkien decided to kill off Thorin, Fili, and Kili? You betcha.) Elves seem to have souls that are a bit... wiggly in their bodies, so I think the mechanics of healing look a bit different from applied healing like herbalism or surgery.