TexasDreamer01

Title and Platform: And sometimes the sun wears thunderclouds (AO3 TBA) (tumblr)
Rating: Teen
Fandoms: The Hobbit
Characters: Bard, Thranduil, Bilbo Baggins, Galion, Glóin
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Background Relationships, POV Thranduil, White Gems of Lasgalen, Empathy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Disassociation, Thranduil Needs A Hug, Thranduil Gets A Hug, Literal Sleeping Together, Sleepy Cuddles
Summary:
"They were just as beautiful as he remembered her."

All things considered, it hadn’t taken very long to find them. Maybe it was something about their elvish origin, or maybe they had glowed with such a lovely pale light that Smaug had decided to group like items together, but after Gandalf had assured himself that the line of Durin was still breathing the wizard had made his rounds through the Treasury to extricate any unpleasant surprises that the dragon might have left.

“‘A little bit of curse’,” Glóin grumbled, sorting his vellum with a huff, “How can you have a little bit of a curse?”

Bilbo shrugged, checking for any scratches or flaws with the jeweler’s lens that had been loaned to him by Bombur, “Probably the same way you can have only a little bit of butter on your bread.”

The dwarf paused over a sheet marking out which family’s accounts might still be open, considering the words. He tapped a finger on the margin, sighing as he conceded the reasoning, “I suppose so. Still, he could do with telling us what that means.”

“Damn wizards,” They said in unison, Glóin’s voice frustrated and Bilbo’s amused at the frequent repetition.

Beginning his day with the ongoing figures of running one’s kingdom – even extended out to a base camp that he was increasingly finding comfortable due to particular individuals over the ground-in memories of the last time they had been pitched – was a long-instilled habit that would likely outlast this age. Thranduil was no stranger to poring over calculations, reports, and schedules.

It was having this interrupted, where in the past he had welcomed it on various occasions, that disgruntled him in the middle of sorting requests for particular trade items from the other kingdoms.

“Yes?” He asked, putting down his pen with a sigh and reaching for a pinch of sand that would settle his notes onto the page. The quiet shh of sand falling upon wet ink was well-matched to the rustle of waxed canvas as his steward greeted him.

“My king,” Galion said, holding up a missive in the distinctive rolled vellum that marked dwarvish craftsmanship, “A message from the office of King Thorin.”

The sigh he could withhold, but the tinge of exasperation he didn’t bother with. Despite having camps bordered on each other, and indeed within frequent eyesight of, there was a steady stream of written messages delivered like clockwork.

Perhaps it was to avoid causing undue conflict, and he would appreciate this acknowledgement of how short-tempered he and Thorin could be when in the same room, but it went unwritten that both preferred to speak in person. That Galion had not said it was directly from the dwarf meant that it was likely one of the man’s retinue.

Or, given the events of the past few months, more possibly from one of the Company and co-opting Thorin’s status to pass messages.

It was not outside the realm of believability, and he accepted the scroll with a nod, leaning back in his chair to unravel it without putting his work into disarray. Dwarves rather had the tendency of disrupting his hard-earned plans like that.

Instead of the studious lettering that denoted Westron as a second lettering, precise as the edge of an axe, it held the fluid phrasing of one who had grown up with the language and held its form as an instinctive nature. He arched a brow, seeing how Galion looked intrigued from the other side of the partitioned room.

“Who delivered this to you?” He asked, scanning the message for any inconsistencies. No, it did appear to be Bilbo Baggins’ writing, and not as a mere scribe. The flourish of a signature at the end spoke of confidence rather than presentation, making him frown and hoping that another problem was not about to be delivered on his doorstep.Galion’s curiosity increased, smooth as his answer was, “One of the dwarves frequently assigned to passing messages to Lord Bard, sir.”

A part of him wondered if it was a decoy, or if it was another of Master Baggins’ predilections for efficiency. Were it not for the bureaucratic headaches that tended to flower in the hobbit’s steps, he would almost be impressed at the amount of entertainment one person was capable of creating.

He was glad that he had already sent his son to Imladris – knowing his son so well, such an individual of firm opinions that was yet swayed into the sort of mischief that led one to travel halfway across the land would have been a potent combination. For now, though, his kingdom was still standing, and thank the stars for that averted disaster.

“Master Baggins has a gift for me,” He surmised, eyes flitting over the delicately-wrought words.

“Again?” Galion asked, eyebrows rising just as high as Thranduil’s own had been.

They shared a rueful smile, knowing that such combinations involving the hobbit consistently created a stir. The first had begun a war, the second had ended it, and Thranduil was not sure he could endure a third.

Galion bowed, “Shall I fetch refreshments?”

Thranduil smiled, rolling the missive back up and returning it to its bag, “I feel it would be unwise if we did not.”

One of these days, Thranduil was going to speculate on how he became accustomed to hobbit negotiation standards. The wine, having been brought for him and indulged with a fortifying sip before the informal meeting could begin, sat smoothly on his tongue.

The spread of food upon his table, arranged in little bites of foods that Master Baggins had politely informed him was customary for the meal at this hour of the morning, had been left primarily for his guest. Rolling the stem of his wineglass contemplatively as it sat on the table, Thranduil wondered whether he could divulge these recipes with the Mannish camp, as he was given the impression such sharing of food was an indicator of trust and respect.

He annotated one of the pages of inventory, one hand reaching absently toward a platter of sandwiches that was within reach.

“Those sandwiches were always my favourite,” Bilbo said wistfully, appearing abruptly and filching a sandwich of his own with a deft movement.

Thranduil startled, fingers tapping too loudly on the plate and making him whip his head toward the noise, “How did you get in here?”

What he wanted to say was ‘without anyone noticing’, but was rather interpreted literally and probably as a form of amusement.

Bilbo took a bite of his sandwich, making a pleased noise as he turned and pointed to the tent flaps, “Why, through there, my lord. How else?”

Knowing when the argument was cornered, Thranduil refrained from following that particular trail of inquiry and instead plucked a sandwich before they could disappear into that unenviable pit of a stomach. Master Baggins seemed content to while away the silence with eating, having perched into the only other chair with an ease that spoke of having elevenses with kings as a matter of course.

He knew for a fact this was not true, having gleaned from Bard, who in turn had contrived it out of his children, that Thorin had offered a retrospectively – and unintentional – insult and had packed up his Company before first breakfast could even chime in the Shire. Eyeing the meaning-laden braid tucked neatly behind the hobbit’s ear, he was both dreading and looking forward to meals being used as a form of socialization.

Certainly, hobbits had it perfected to an art.

Only after a respectable amount of time had passed did their meeting truly begin. Bilbo rifled through the inner pockets of his jacket, retrieving a lacquered box and setting it upon the table, far enough away from his piles of work that Thranduil acknowledged the consideration with a tilt of his head.

Despite the fine craftsmanship, he could tell it was of a plain design, inasmuch as dwarves could accomplish a minimalistic art. The interlocking patterns that decorated the edges of each face were cut into a pleasing texture, and he was oddly reminded of his home. Flicking a glance up, he saw the quiet preening on his guest’s face, and concluded that it was a deliberate choice.

It was touching. He rested his fingertips gently atop the box, “You are talented at making an impression, Master Baggins.”

“I do my best,” The hobbit demurred, a grin on his face.

Bilbo then gestured to the item between them, eyes twinkling, “There’s no special occasion, but I believe this at least warrants some attention. Between friends, if you would?”

“Friendship I will always give you,” Thranduil replied, marvelling at how this current twist of life was playing out.

He felt no trepidation in opening the box, but if he had known its contents, perhaps… perhaps he might have felt tempted to decline, if only because of the familiarity of its pain. His breath caught, and Bilbo across from him was admirably still, letting the moment spool into its conclusion. Certainly this was no idly-given gift, and he beat back the temptation to firmly shut the lid.

“How came you by these?” He asked, hoping his voice wasn’t as fragile as he felt.

Bilbo watched him for a moment, a myriad of thoughts upon his face, “It was in the hoard,” The hobbit finally said, quiet, “Not very far from the Arkenstone.”

His heart hammered in his chest, and he felt the sting of fire upon his skin once more, the memory as sharp as his grief. Bilbo looked as he felt, and it passed unvoiced between them the same conclusion of how the two contested gems came to be in such proximity. It was rather convenient that Bilbo insisted they take their meetings sitting down as peers, for the bolt of shock that had passed through him left a remarkable feeling of weakness in his limbs.

It was a foregone conclusion that he would never see these gems again. The manner of their parting, so finalized by Smaug, had felt like a second death of his wife – trodding over the searing pain of his soul being ripped apart so abruptly once more. Even being so close to a fragment of her memory by way of Laketown’s burning and the following battle had reminded him sharply of Thrór’s betrayal in those last tempestuous days.

For a moment he was torn between curling over those gems and evicting Bilbo from his presence, but the decision was – perhaps kindly – relieved from him.

“I can’t claim to know what it’s like,” Bilbo said softly, his steps silent on the ground, “But I know it’s something I would have wanted.”

He didn’t hear the burglar leave, ears too full of the crackle and roar of fire.

Time could not have fled his grasp so direly, for he knew that the rebuilding of the kingdoms serving as his neighbors would have roused his attentions in the time frame that mortals comprehended. So it was that he was… not content, but permissive of the slow trickle of minutes and hours slipping from his attention.

Memories roiled beneath the habitual control of his mind, entangling upon each other as his mind devised an unsettling amount of torments to occupy him. He kept a fragile thread of orientation upon the world with the box that beheld the least-healed of lashings on his heart.

He could hear words in his ears, but it took a long moment to parse that it was only one voice, and not one that was twisted tightly by the past.

“… and I’ll be right here as long as you need me to, Thranduil,” He heard, the voice accompanied by warmth across his shoulders, something about it settling the acrid etchings of memories that pulled him under, “I’ve already put my kids to bed, and the night watch started a little while ago. Galion let me know it was alright to be here…”

Fatigue slipped across his senses as gently as the fingers upon his brow, and he let himself be lulled amidst the crashing waves of his grief.

He awoke to warmth, and comfort. His hands felt unusually sore, muscles cramping as if they had been locked into place for hours on end. It was a mystery his mind was too slumberous to answer, his eyelids a leaden weight that convinced a sigh to be stoked from deep in his chest.

Arms tightened around him, and he murmured wordlessly, unwilling to move.

It was a languid situation he was unwilling to relinquish, unable to remember the last time he had felt so secluded from the pitfalls of his own mind. There was not even the perpetual background buzz rattling in his ears, neither from old injuries nor the headily-sweet wine that sat so thickly on his tongue.

Thranduil could not remember the last time he was so unburdened by the weight of memories and duties. Sinking into the strange hold around him was second nature to that, content to let his mind puddle and limbs grow heavy. It was just as he was beginning to flit back into sleep that a deep, kind-toned voice tugged him to full wakefulness, as gentle as the hand soothing down his back.

“Hullo,” It said, coalescing slowly into the recognition of a Man he had come to know. Bard, his mind murmured, and his fingers curled, a twinge of pain accompanying it that was quickly soothed with a brief tightening of arms around him, “Did you sleep well?”

He hummed, voice rough, the sensation unusual enough that he pried his eyes open. They did so stickily, and the memory floated up to the top of his thoughts that it had been an exceptionally long time indeed since he had been so unwarily well-rested.

Sighing, he asked, “How long?”

“Oh,” Bard said, a smile quite clearly in his tone, even if Thranduil’s own sleep-glazed eyes took their time to pick out the shape of the other’s lips when he tilted his head up, “Most of the night. It’s not quite morning, now.”

He blinked.

“I remember-” A yawn bubbled up, and how curious was that sensation, difficult to stifle as his hand – rather, his free hand – had uncinched itself from Bard’s coat to cover his mouth, “It was… quite light, when I-”

His tongue felt stoppered, unable to complete the sentence as his mind froze upon his most recent memories. The glow of his wife’s gems was burned into the back of his eyelids, and the sight had arrested his senses, forcing all else to flee from him. It was as if the sharp knife of her death had been plunged into his ribs once more, and his throat closed up.

“Aye,” Bard interrupted the spiraling thoughts that threatened to subsume him once more, tugging Thranduil closer with a hushing noise, “It’s alright.”

“It is not,” Thranduil said, “I had waited so long, and- now I rather cannot bear looking upon them.”

Bard made a thoughtful noise, the sound reverberating in the man’s chest from where Thranduil’s head laid – were it not for the apparent fact that he had slept thusly for an entire night, the tinge of hesitancy would have reared its head more sharply. As it were, he could only swallow, wondering how peculiar situations were occurring with greater frequency.

“There was a ribbon my wife adored,” Bard continued, fingers slowly stroking down Thranduil’s back in an almost absent gesture, “It was something she had picked up at the market one day, keen on surprising me.”

A quiet laugh, “It looked so delicate in her hair, the way she had it braided up. I was always teased whenever she took it off, holding it like the threads would fray if I was careless with it.”

Bard removed a hand from where it was resting atop Thranduil’s shoulder, shaking it a bit so the sleeve slid down. Upon his wrist was a tightly bound strip of fabric, twined upon itself so that it looked like a continuous whole. Thranduil shifted, peering at it curiously, “Is that… the same ribbon?”

“It is,” Bard confirmed, sounding fond as he watched him reach a hand out to brush at its edges with the back of his finger. The embroidered fabric was soft with age, warm from continuous wear, “I had put it into her keepsake box when she died, too afraid to touch it.”

Thranduil could parse what this story was intended to convey, and he focused on the reassuring, steadfast presence of Bard to gather his quailing courage, “What passed, that you would wear it?”

Bard let his hand fall back down, obscuring the ribbon. The weight was grounding through the silent pause, “I couldn’t remember what she looked like with it on.”

He felt his heart squeeze at the admission, so ruefully and easily said. The birds were just beginning to rouse outside, slowly drawing to a close whatever intimacy this moment enclosed. With little thought to the contrary, he shifted, just enough to overlap his arm with Bard’s. It was a comforting weight, something he could feel Bard also sunk into by the sigh he could feel depressing the man’s ribs.

“I think,” Thranduil murmured, “That I can only remember what she looked like when I see our son.”

“Yeah?” Bard asked, letting himself be weighed down into the bed.

He nodded, feeling the weather-roughened wool burr against his cheek, “They smile the same – so full of joy. I have done my best to give him happiness, but…”

“It never feels like enough,” Bard finished in a tone of agreement.

They laid there, the inside of the tent slowly becoming more visible even to a Man’s eyes, and Thranduil found himself loathe to depart the moment. Soon, he would need to ready himself for the day, putting the past once more behind him.

Bard, as if intuiting the demands that would be levied on them, merely stretched, bones creaking. The man made a relieved sigh, settling himself more securely around Thranduil, “I don’t mind this.”

“No,” He agreed, allowing those hands to once more bring his mind to ground, instead of flitting about the trees of his woes, “We have a little more time.”

Notes:

I've read various interpretations on why Thranduil would behave differently compared to book canon and movie canon, and while I haven't (yet) read the Silmarillion outside of looking up certain passages, I feel like the Gems of Lasgalen would be a sticking point in how Thranduil interacts with the Quest for Erebor due mostly to the fact that they were mentioned at all.

It is admittedly difficult to imagine Thranduil's POV, because the time scale of his existence in particular means that there has to be some granularity when approaching his priorities. Insofar as I know, Tolkien never writes of Thranduil's death, so conceivably and narratively Thranduil lives until the end of the world. In that light, how important must these gems be? Certainly not for their physical value or craftsmanship, so that leaves their sentimental value.

Thranduil had experienced by the time the Battle of the Five Armies ended, approximately, three or so near-death experiences, and more than a single lifetime's worth of dead kinsmen around him. In the movie, he bade Legolas to leave him, and I believe it was likely because he saw everything that happened in order to retake Erebor and how very easily everyone in that region could have been overrun. To have what was probably a long-forsaken memento of his dead wife returned to him shortly after his only child left him, whom he realized had a good chance of never returning to him, is likely more of a gut-punch than I think the narrative gives credit. Especially in the time-span of "forever".

Thranduil has over the course of canon evolved so much as a character, something I think has netted him a lot of skills and a certain sense of watchful sedateness - he came to the throne on the death of his father (which might or might not have been strictly on hereditary reasons), led his people through an era-defining series of battle that nearly wiped all of them out, survived the death of his wife when such situations ordinarily appear to kill an elf, and came through all of that with a strict sense of defending what he has left through any means necessary. It makes me think that he didn't march on the mountain because of his wife, but rather a that continuous habit to maintain the delicate, tenuous peace that Smaug's very presence threatens. A Smaug out of the mountain is much more volatile than a Smaug dozing away on enough gold that might well have effectively tranquilized an inherently malevolent entity. Thranduil gambles quite a bit with Erebor, so having the Gems of Lasgalen could in such a context been more rubbing salt in the wound rather than letting it heal.

(Also I exceptionally love the image of a Thranduil who has become scarily competent at bureaucracy. There's got to be some reason for him to more or less lounge in a throne, but still have the wherewithal to lop an Orc's head off during an interrogation. He's very much a "hell or high water" sort of person, and doing that for millennia on end is going to burn him out somehow.)

The idea that Bilbo and Thranduil could have, in canon, a shared sense of grief sounds quite potent, and I think a good way for them to talk to each other like peers. Neither of them would have much opportunity to discuss that with others, I think, given the touch of fate both of them seem to have.

Bard... hmm. I think here he really typifies the "Gift of Man" - his mortality means that his perspective is perhaps a bit more grounded on the physicality of death. Thranduil feels a bit adrift, and I think that really is due to him outstubborning fading away, but elves developing soulmates as a form of marriage has absolutely got to be an unending form of agony. I don't abide by Tolkien's worldbuilding of how he approaches marriage for elves (otherwise I wouldn't be writing Barduil in the first place), but I think being an effectively soul-based being makes for some interesting consequences.