Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bard stepped around the corner of Steep Street, his mind on the plans for repairing the citadel walls, when Imrahil charged at him with daggers drawn.

Instinct more than conscious thought had Bard throw himself backwards, barely out of the Elf's path, and he scrambled for his sword while Imrahil skidded to a halt, pivoted and came at him again a lot faster than anyone ought to be able to.

Luck more than skill let him block the Elf's next attack. With a noise somewhere between a hiss and a snarl Imrahil backed away, adjusted his grip on his daggers and went for Bard again, cold determination in his grey eyes. The first few slashes and stabs were experimental, Bard could tell that much, but it still cost far too much effort to parry them with the blade of his sword. By sheer coincidence he managed to knock Imrahil's hand aside and leave him open to an attack.

It was the uneven ground that did it, the ground and the fact that Imrahil no longer was where he'd been a moment ago. Bard hadn't even seen him move, he just felt a sharp rap against his calves that sent him stumbling. Before he could recover his wits he was flat on his back on the rough paving stones, a wickedly sharp dagger a cold bite at his throat.

Bard held very, very still and didn't dare to even gasp for breath.

"Yield," Imrahil hissed, pinning him with one knee on his chest, the other pressing down on the wrist of his sword arm.

"No," he growled back, and got a hard slap to the cheek with the flat of the dagger's blade in response.

"And you're dead," Imrahil said pleasantly, getting back to his feet in one fluid motion, daggers already resheathed with a twirling flourish. He didn't even look ruffled. Bastard. "If this had been a real attack, you would now stand before Mandos and ask what happened."

Bard glared up at him. "No need to enjoy it that much, Princess."

"You should have run," Imrahil went on, pointedly ignoring him. "I left you an opening. You're not nearly proficient enough with a sword to make confrontation a reasonable response."

With a groan, Bard pushed himself up with decidedly less grace than his opponent. His back wasn't at all happy with him. "If I'd run, you'd just have tackled me and then I'd have gotten a dagger in the arse."

"Maybe." Imrahil shrugged. "This way, I would have cut your throat. A quicker way to go, perhaps."

Bard wiped his dirty hands off against his coat and bent to gather up his sword. He liked the fine Elven blade, a gift from Thranduil, but he was only too aware that he needed to work on handling it properly. Against Orcs he could stand his ground, but they weren't exactly known for their finesse.

"Reassuring," he muttered as he checked the sword for damage. "Would I have gotten away if I'd run?"

Tilting his head, Imrahil looked around them. "Not without a guard to block me and buy you time. You should reconsider your stance on that."

"We've been over this. I'm not going to waste someone's time and labour just to make them follow me around all day. Besides, the only one who's trying to kill me these days is you."

Imrahil treated him to a stern look at that. "And I could have done it every single time I tried."

"Not that time I kneed you in the groin." Bard held fond memories of that achievement, petty as it might be. "I'm not bothering with guards."

"Then you'll have to learn to defend yourself better. You Men are far too easy to kill." Imrahil's eyes narrowed as he looked Bard over, making him feel like a raw recruit. Another shake of his head, then he vanished around the corner without a further word, doubtlessly to plan his next ambush.

Bard watched him disappear, then straightened his clothes and continued on his way, trying to ignore the persistent feeling of being watched. He had no idea what exactly had made Imrahil decide that there needed to be practice assassination attempts to spice up their lives, but the Elf clearly was determined to keep them up. It was almost touching to see him care about Bard's safety like that, though the sodding bastard also enjoyed himself far too much for comfort.

The rest of the day passed without any further attempts upon his life, fake or otherwise. Which was good, since Bard hardly had the time for that kind of distraction these days. It had been two weeks since the rebuilding efforts in Dale had begun in earnest, and he hadn't found a free hour ever since. Winter was upon them, as the Elves were fond of pointing out; not that it took their honed senses to see the signs. But that meant that buildings needed to be evaluated, decisions had to be made about which structures to keep and which to abandon. The group of Dwarves who'd been sent by Balin to assist them had turned out to be invaluable for that work, and they’d make the difference between a hard winter and an impossible one. But everybody still expected Bard to make the final choices on anything from which roof to mend first to the best place for a stable, or how many hands should be assigned to sewer cleanup duty. He wished people would believe him when he pointed out that he was hardly an authority on these matters.

"There's a messenger for you," Percy told him when Bard returned to what had been Thranduil's tent in the ruins of the old palace's main hall, and what was now their makeshift meeting place until at least part of the roof could be repaired. Thranduil had been kind enough to leave the tent to them, and Bard had pretended not to hear his murmurs about needing at least one proper place to receive visitors that wasn't in shambles and leaking rainwater.

"From the Elves?" He’d received regular letters from Thranduil since the Elvenking had left with his main army, full of information about supply delivery schedules, movements of Orcs in the area and a myriad diplomatic matters. And, most importantly, about Sigrid and Tilda's stay in Thranduil’s halls and their promise to make one last trip to Dale before winter set in.

Percy shook his head. "No, that would've been much better. Looks like Alfrid's not as gone as we'd have liked him to be. We should have left him stuck in that troll to suffocate, would have saved us a world of trouble.”."

Bard drew a sharp breath at that. After Alfrid's departure he hadn't spared the slimy git - literally, at that point, as he’d just been dragged out of a troll’s maw - another thought, and he didn't know what he'd thought would become of that little weasel. Alfrid had run after the battle with enough gold in his makeshift bosom to let him go wherever he pleased. That he resurfaced now didn't bode well.

"Where is he?" Bard asked.

Percy waved vaguely in the direction of the main square. "We left him sitting by the fountain, didn't seem smart to let him stay here with the plans and maps and all that stuff. And it's not Alfrid, he's sent Braga to talk for him."

Bard rolled his eyes. "He couldn't have found anyone worse, could he?"

"Well, look on the bright side, at least nobody's started pelting him with eggs yet."

"That's only because we don't have any eggs to spare." Bard heaved a sigh and swiftly checked his clothes and weapons. Normally he couldn't care less about appearances, but if he'd picked up one lesson from Thranduil, it was that sometimes it paid off to look as impressive as possible. In Bard's case, that wasn't very impressive at all these days, but when it came to dealing with the former head of Lake-towns loathed guards he'd take what edge he could.

That same idea seemed to have occurred to Percy; he followed Bard without comment, looking far more threatening than he ever had as Lake-town's portmaster. He had his own reasons to dislike Braga, Bard knew, just as most of Dale's new inhabitants did. Always the Master's weapon, the guards had been hated. Even now those among them who'd decided to stay in Dale and who'd fought with the other survivors were still viewed with some suspicion.

When Bard stepped out onto the raised platform overlooking the main square, he could feel the change in atmosphere. Normally the square would be bustling with activity as the central gathering point, but right now people kept to the fringes, muttering to each other where they stood in tight groups. Seated on the wall of the fountain's basin, Braga was watching them with a smug smile on his face. He still wore the armour and uniform of Lake-town's guard captain, though it looked patchy in places.

"King Bard," he drawled and got up to give an exaggerated bow.

"I'm no king," Bard countered sharply. He wished he knew how to put an end to that nonsense; being called a lord was bad enough without a crown to complicate matters even further. Dragonslaying really shouldn't be a basis for a monarchy.

Braga shrugged. "Master Alfrid sends his greetings from Lake-town," he said.

Around the square, people fell silent.

"So that's where he's ended up?" Bard asked, careful to keep his voice even. "As the Master of an abandoned town? Perhaps for the best, that way nobody can protest against him."

Master of Lake-town. They should have known Alfrid would try something like that.

"Abandoned?" Braga gave a derisive laugh. "Hardly. There are enough people who're wise enough not to follow you, Bargeman. Lake-town's going to be rebuilt and everybody's going to prosper again. Not like you up here with your old crones and drunkards. Useless, the lot of them. Anyone in their right mind should leave before night falls."

At his side, Bard could feel Percy take a step forward and quickly raised his hand to stop him, just in case. The last they needed was a brawl. Besides, he could see Elves up on the walls, not quite hidden but unobtrusive, and he was willing to bet that at the first sign he gave, arrows would fly. It was a reassuring thought.

"What do you want?" he asked calmly, well aware that everybody was listening.

Braga came up the steps, right into Bard's space, and it took effort to keep still. "The Master extends an offer to you. Come back to Lake-town, bring the people with you. If you do, he'll forgive you."

"What for, that I didn't tell him the dress didn't suit his figure? I'm sorry for that." Bard straightened and squared his shoulders just a little more. "He doesn't really expect us to return, does he? Why would we? Lake-town burned, we all saw that there is nothing left. If Alfrid thinks several hundred people can survive the winter in the farming sheds along the shore, he's even blinder than I thought."

A few people had returned to the Long Lake in the past few days, but Bard didn't think that had been out of any old loyalties. They were fishermen, it was all they knew and they didn't want to try their hand at a new life. While Bard didn't think their decision wise, all he could do was wish them well and hope for the best. It seemed that now he'd also need to hope that they managed to stay out of Alfrid's way.

"We're rebuilding," Braga said, "better and greater than before. Which brings me to the second message the Master wants me to give you."

Bard waited and refused to play along by asking.

"The gold. You've taken Lake-town's share. If you hand it over now, the Master will be lenient."

For a few moments Bard was at a loss for what to say in response. He'd negotiated with Thorin for their fair share; they all had marched into battle for it and far too many had paid with their lives in the end. It was theirs, it belonged to the people here and they needed it as their one chance to rebuild and recover.

"The Master's willing to be kind. He won't take what you've already wasted out of your hide," Braga went on. "Just turn over what's still left."

"If he wants the gold owed to Lake-town, he can come and claim it from the Dwarves." And wouldn't that be a sight to behold. Bard almost wanted Alfrid to give it a try, if only to see the Dwarves' response to such a move.

"Is that your answer?"

Bard calmly met Braga's eyes. "Tell Alfrid to speak to the Dwarves about the gold, it's theirs to give. We only took the fair share owed for the destruction of Dale, and it's been agreed with Lord Balin and King Dáin that it will be used to rebuild the city." He paused, aware that most of the people around the square didn't even pretend to do anything but listen anymore. "And tell him that Dale will support the claim of the people of Lake-town. I'd rather have friendship between us than anything else."

"I don't know that the Master's going to think that's enough," Braga said.

Bard shrugged. "It's what he'll get."

"A pity." Braga took a step forward, his hand on the pommel of his sword in a gesture that was anything but casual, and out of the corner of his eye Bard saw one of the Elves on the wall ready her bow and take aim. He tried to wave his hand dismissively without drawing too much attention to it and it probably worked, since Braga didn't suddenly keel over with an arrow into his back.

"We are not going to stand in Lake-town's way if they are reasonable," Bard said. "You can tell him that."

Braga huffed another derisive laugh. "He'll be happy to hear that, I'm sure."

"Best get back to him then, don't let him wait."

One more sneer, then Braga spat at Bard's feet and turned away without another word.
Once their unwelcome visitor had mounted his scrawny horse and left, Bard took a slow breath and looked around to make sure the Elves had stood down. He saw several with their bows still in hand, expressions grim, and wondered whether Braga had even been aware of them. Ever since the battle, the people of Dale had grown accustomed to the often silent presence of their allies, and by now they had all settled into workable patterns around each other. They had also grown a lot better at spotting the Elves - with the exception of Imrahil, who got far too much pleasure out of being an irritating, invisible bastard.

Perhaps they should try and see whether Imrahil wouldn't like to visit Lake-town. It would hardly be diplomatic, but it would send a clear message, and right now Bard didn't have the patience to play whatever game Alfrid was trying to start. Imrahil was fond of scaring people, so they might as well use his talents and inclinations for the greater good.

If Alfrid wanted to proclaim himself the new Master of whatever was left of Lake-town, then Bard wasn't going to stand in his way as long as Dale was left in peace. As for those who decided to follow him… it was their choice, and perhaps they preferred a known quantity like Alfrid and their old life on the lake to the uncertainty of Dale. Bard wasn't going to begrudge anyone a decision against following him, not when he still had far too many doubts that he was the best to do this. Let them try to take their own fate in hand, just as the people of Dale would do. With winter practically upon them already, their paths would hardly cross for months to come.

With his focus firmly on that last thought, Bard turned his mind away from Alfrid and Lake-town, and back to the more immediate business of scorched roofs in need of thatching and tiling.

Everywhere around him the town burned. Wood cracked as a roof collapsed somewhere nearby and splashed into the water. Sparks flew like twisted fireflies and he felt them burn his skin, but even if he could have moved, he wouldn't have cared.

His children. He had to find his children, get them to safety no matter what it took.

Bard struggled to move, he fought to take just one step that would bring him closer to his children, lost somewhere in this chaos of fire and flame and freezing water. From up on the belltower he should have been able to see their house, but he was rooted in place and couldn't even turn around to look. Couldn't even shout their names and hope against reason that they'd hear, that they might escape.

"You would stand against me?" the dragon hissed behind him. "You, Bowman, Bargeman, faceless and nameless? Who are you that you presume to challenge me?"

He felt the tower's floor shake under his feet as a gust of burning air tore at its foundations. One step, just one step and then another-

"Death you think to deal me? That such a wretched little creature should dare to stand against me… What a fool you are."

I killed you! he wanted to scream. He remembered Smaug's roar as the black arrow had struck, he remembered the mind-numbing terror as the dragon still hadn't stopped, the certainty that he'd failed Bain, that he'd failed Sigrid and Tilda. Then nothing and air and heat and water. He remembered dragging Bain to the surface.

He remembered seeing the dragon fall out of the sky, black as death and no longer burning brightly.

"It takes more than a lowly beggar to slay a dragon. Why should you succeed when those far mightier than you have fallen to my flames?"

Again the tower shook. Somewhere below, a support strut creaked, then shattered and the tower began to lean to the side, slowly and then faster and faster. Bard wanted to hold on to something, wanted to jump, to run, something, anything, but he couldn't even blink. It was with open eyes that he fell towards the fire and the freezing water beneath. Towards the certainty that he'd failed his children and all the others.

He felt the flames burn his skin, the water in his lungs-

- and jerked awake in the darkness, a scream lodged in his throat. An arm's length away on the other cot, Bain murmured something incomprehensible in his sleep, then settled down again.

It was to the sound of his slow, even breaths that Bard spent the rest of the night wide awake despite his exhaustion.

The sun was only just rising a few days later when Bard was confronted by a group of people led by Hilda, her hands firmly on her hips as she scowled at him. Behind Bard, Bain made a wordless noise of dismay at the sight.

"What's wrong?" Bard asked, slowly stepping through the doorway of their little house. The assembled group didn't look angry, which was a relief, but they looked determined about something that Bard suspected he wasn't going to like. He also had the feeling that he wasn't going to start his day with his customary walk through the streets today.

Hilda took a step forward. "You didn't tell us the Elvenking's going to come back tomorrow," she growled.

Bard frowned. "Just for negotiations. It's not going to cause interruptions. On the contrary, there'll be a few more Elves to help with the carpentry and the roof trusses, so work should go more quickly - if they manage to get along with the Dwarves."

There hadn't been any incidents so far in that regard, but Elves and Dwarves had mostly ignored each other and were focusing on different areas of Dale. They were all very careful to make it look coincidental that their paths hardly crossed.

"Good to know, but that doesn't help us now, does it," Kyrre said, a large shovel in his left hand.

Bard decided that his best option was to simply wait and see where this was going.

"Where are we going to put them?" Hilda demanded to know. "Bad enough that half the Elves we already got are still in tents for sleeping!"

"Not that they really sleep, I think," someone in the back piped up. "Can't say I ever saw one."

"And why would you go around looking at Elves at night, darling?"

"I was just saying!"

Hilda cleared her throat. "We'll need to find a solution, and you've left us precious little time for it. Visitors, important ones at that, and you'll make them sleep in the streets like common rabble. What are they going to think of us?"

"I don't think we can find quarters for a hundred Elves within a day," Bard said cautiously. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bain slowly inch forward and come to stand at his side. "And they will be prepared for it."

"We're not talking about the normal Elves, though that's bad enough," Hilda huffed. "Is the Elvenking going to sleep in a drafty tent again as well? That's not proper, we won't stand for that."

It was something Bard hadn't considered even for a moment, in part because Thranduil's tent had been a lot more comfortable than anything they could possibly come up with in Dale. "There are plenty of Elves here," he said, "and Lord Thranduil is in communication with them. If he has objections to staying in a tent, he certainly has informed them already."

The looks he received for that were somewhere between pitying and irritated. "You're the Lord here," Kyrre explained kindly. "You need to offer him something good, it's all about hospitality. The Elves are being nice and we can't look like we're not grateful."

Bard considered that, eyebrows raised. "I assume you've thought of something already?"

"He's a king, he'll have to stay with the Lord of Dale," Hilda said. "That's you."

He glanced at her. "I'd almost forgotten."

"Certainly looks like it, the way you act sometimes," she said.

"He's trying, and he's not doing so bad," Percy came to his defense. "He's new to it, he'll figure it out. Anyway, you get to deal with the Elvenking, he seems to like you so that's good."

Bard cast a dubious look at the small house where he and his family had been staying since their first night in Dale, though it was just him and Bain now while the girls were with the Elves. The door was stuck half of the time and only one room was actually usable, the rest was blocked by half-burned roofbeams and covered in dirt. He couldn't imagine Thranduil crossing the threshold voluntarily, not in his fine robes and with his pristine hair. "I think a tent might be better."

"We thought about that," Hilda said, and it sounded slightly ominous. "We can't fix the palace for you in time-"

"You're not going to fix the palace for me!"

"- but there's that nice merchant's house on the south edge of the main square, we can get that tidied up in a day. The roof's still good so nobody's going to get rained on."

"If we use the big house for that, we can have that little shack Bard's got now for the food, can't we?" Kyrre asked. "Not like he's going to use it anymore, right?"

"Good idea," Percy agreed. "The place's dry and the walls are solid, just needs a bit of work on the roof and some of the windows. Should be fine for the lembas stuff at least."

"But that's our home!" Bain protested before Bard could get over his surprise.

Hilda gave him a kind look. "Don't worry, you and your father can keep the big one, who knows how often that's going to be needed. And really, if we've got a lord, we need to make it look proper or the Elves and Dwarves are never going to take us seriously. Bad enough that he won't dress the part."

Bard opened his mouth, then shook his head and didn't bother with saying anything. There had been more than one impossible fight in the past weeks, but this one wasn't one he stood any chance of winning.

This time the arrival of the Elvenking didn't come as a surprise, as it had been on that first desperate morning. The travelers had been spotted far down the road already, the watches regularly reported on their progress, and by the time they rode up into the main square Bard was ready to greet them. Only the rain marred their efforts, but there was hardly anything they could have done about it when the weather had taken a turn for the worse for the past week already.

"My Lord Thranduil!" Bard called when Thranduil brought his horse to a stop in the middle of the square. He was wearing armour, just as before and probably as a necessary precaution, but there was a noticeable absence of tension about him this time. "I welcome you back to Dale."

Thranduil shot him an amused glance, then waved his hand in greeting. "I thank you for your hospitality, Lord Bard," he returned, with a half-smile at the title which clearly said that he could guess Bard's thoughts about it. But there were plenty of Elves and people of Dale watching, so formalities had to be observed. Bard couldn't wait to get that stuff over with; he wanted to speak to Thranduil properly, he wanted to get everybody out of the rain again. But more than anything else he wanted to see his daughters, who should be somewhere among the Elven retinue. He couldn't see either of them yet, but most of the riders still had their hoods up against the downpour. At least it wasn't snowing yet, though that couldn't be far off. The mornings were turning ever colder, so it couldn't be too far off anymore.

"There's not much we can offer you yet, but shelter from the weather should be possible. We've made what arrangements we could." Somewhere behind him he heard Hilda mutter something under her breath that didn't sound flattering.

"That will be most welcome." Dismounting, Thranduil murmured a few words in Sindarin to his horse that sent it with a group of others that were being led to the stables. After a quick glance at his people in the square, who were being guided to more sheltered places, he swiftly came to join Bard where he stood. "It appears you have been busy while I was gone."

Bard looked around and tried to see the square with the eyes of someone who'd been away for close to three weeks now. They had cleared much of the rubble, and building supplies were set in the western corner, stones of all shapes sorted into piles. The shattered statues had been taken away and the fountain basin held water again, though it was being used as a wash trough at the moment. And the bones of the citizens of Old Dale had been given a proper burial, their forgotten funeral rites replaced by the respect of Dale Rebuilt.

"We've tried our best. Turns out that wanting to be comfortable for the winter is a great motivation. Come, let's get out of the rain, or Sigrid's going to be angry at me for leaving the Elvenking to get wet. Do you have attendants or something?"

Thranduil threw him a faint smile. "They will join me in a moment. For now I would exchange a few words with the Lord of Dale in private."

Returning the smile, Bard glanced around and saw that most of the hooded travelers had already vanished into the surrounding buildings. "Where are my daughters?"

Thranduil's expression turned far too understanding, and Bard's heart sank. "In my halls. It was not safe for them to travel, not in these rainstorms and with packs of Orcs still attacking the roads."

Closing his eyes, Bard took a slow breath, held it for a moment, then exhaled. He'd been so certain that he would see Sigrid and Tilda today, that he'd find out how they had fared while they'd been gone, how they were handling life away from him and Bain. This was by far the longest their family had ever been divided and he had been convinced that their separation over the winter would be interrupted today, however briefly.

"How are they?" he asked, his heart quietly aching.

Thranduil took a step forward, prompting him to move as well. "I've got letters and messages from them for you. But let's abandon the rain first."

"Of course," Bard agreed almost automatically and led the way across the square to the house he'd been shoved into. There hadn't even been time for him to take a look, but he couldn't have cared less about that now. Bain had seen it, and since his son hadn't said anything it surely was fine.

Bain… Bard would need to tell him that his sisters weren't here, when he'd been waiting so hard for them to come back. The three of them had always been close despite any arguments siblings were bound to have, and it had been obvious over the past days that Bain felt off balance without Sigrid’s level head and Tilda’s exuberance.

They stepped inside the house and into what looked like a small antechamber, dark except for the light from two small windows high in the wall. Even in here the smell of rain lingered, together with the scent of dust that Bard had come to associate with Dale.

Thranduil closed the door behind them, leaving them in sudden silence. "They are both well," he said, stepping forward to brush his lips against Bard's brow, his hands settling lightly on Bard's upper arms. "I have last seen them when we left, and they were hale and hearty, though sad that they could not come with us. Sigrid says to remind you that you told her only to travel if it's safe, and that in my realm there is no risk that she'll fall into a fish trap." Thranduil paused. "Which I can confirm, though I'm not certain why it's a concern."

Bard managed a brief laugh despite the tightness in his chest. "That happened four winters ago, she was distracted and slipped off one of the walkways in Lake-town and into the water. Normally that's not a problem, all three of them could swim before they could walk. But she got her leg caught in a fish trap and had to sit tight for a while before we could pull her out. Most embarrassing moment of her life, or so she says. And one of the most frightening of mine." He bowed his head and leaned forward a little into the hold of Thranduil's hands. "I miss them."

"As they miss you," Thranduil said gently, and Bard was reminded that he, too, knew what it was like to be separated from his children, though in his case they were considerably older. "I'd have you know that I kept my promise about not letting Tilda sleep in the stables. She's spending much of her days there, however. One of my horses has been re-named Sunshine."

Bard quirked an eyebrow. "It's a good name for a horse," he said in defense of his little girl.

"We're speaking of a black stallion." Thranduil studied Bard's face, then closed the distance between them for a brief, chaste kiss to his lips. "You have my word that they are well, just like all the other people you've entrusted to my care."

"I know." Bard sighed slowly, then straightened and met Thranduil's grey eyes. "You'll have to tell me more, but later. I think I'm supposed to show you where we're keeping you while you're here."

"My attendants will be pleased with that. They weren't too happy about the prospect of a tent once more." Thranduil took a step backwards, his hands slipping away from Bard's arms. "Lead the way."

Bard turned around, walked forward into a great hall filled with old chairs lined up in an orderly row along the wall, and stopped when he realised he had no idea where to go. Thranduil shot him a quizzical glance.

"There might be a problem," Bard said.

"You've never been here before?"

"How did you guess?"

"I'm beginning to know you." Thranduil waved his hand towards a wide door to the left. "I have been here a few times when this was Girion’s residence before he became the Lord of Dale. If I am not mistaken, this should lead to the upper floor and the quarters for guests and the family."

Bard quickly went upstairs to have a look, a little scandalised at all the space they would be wasting when it could surely be used for far more important matters. In Lake-town they'd only had the big kitchen and the small attic, and the latter had been too cold in winter so all four of them had slept in the same room. Now there was enough space to house at least a dozen people, though he didn't want to imagine what it would take to keep the rooms warm. Girion probably hadn’t had to consider such questions at the time, though now Bard wondered just what the tie had been between his ancestor and the Elvenking. One day he’d have to ask.

"We should rejoin our people," Thranduil said when Bard came down again, his head still spinning from the wealth of old furniture he’d seen behind some of the doors, "and let them know what is required of them today. Has Dáin made any changes to the plans for the council tomorrow?"

"No, he only asks that we hold it in Erebor rather than Dale." Bard hadn't been entirely certain when he'd agreed; it seemed mainly like a plot to make Thranduil enter the Dwarves' stronghold. But the Elvenking didn't look displeased at the news, quite the contrary.

"Excellent, that means he will be bound by laws of hospitality. Even Dwarves have manners on occasion where those are concerned." Thranduil rolled his shoulders to adjust his flowing cloak. "You and I need to speak about what to expect from the negotiations at some point today."

Bard breathed an inward sigh of relief at that. With Thranduil being at least nominally an opposing party, he hadn't been certain whether asking was an option. Not that this would have stopped him from doing so, but it was one less concern on his mind.

"Then let's find your attendants," he suggested, turning towards the building's entrance again. "Before they think I've kidnapped you and now keep you prisoner without any proper furnishings."

Thranduil easily fell into step to his right. "You are aware that I am capable of surviving without small comforts. I simply choose not to when there is no need for it."

"You're making cushions sound like a great achievement of civilisation."

"I've slept on the ground often enough to appreciate them. And I've been in enough battles to know that the difference between victory and defeat can be whether your army slept well and has dry boots and full stomachs." Thranduil stopped at the door, one step away from the rain that was slowly turning into sleet. "How are your people doing in that regard? The reports I received said that the supplies are sufficient."

Bard nodded and braced himself before stepping out from under the roof to brave the elements. "It's enough to get us through the winter unless it turns out to be particularly long," he said. They'd spent a lot of time calculating and counting over the past days, and people were slowly beginning to believe that they'd actually make it through all of this relatively unscathed. To Bard it had been heartening to see everyone regain their confidence.

"We have another handful of weeks before the snow arrives in earnest," Thranduil said, glancing south. The weather for Lake-town had always come from that direction; clouds were no concern when they rolled in from any other side, but what came from the south was to be taken seriously. "I'll send another wagon train with food so you can make it in case something goes awry. Best we don't risk transports in the deep of winter."

"I thought Elves can walk on snow."

"We can. But our wagons can't." Thranduil frowned at the sky and they walked a little faster up the stairs and into the ruins of the palace.

The leaders of the Elves stationed in Dale were waiting for them already and bowed their heads in greeting when Thranduil and Bard stepped inside. Imrahil was the last to straighten, a little smile on his face and a hand casually dropping onto the handle of the dagger in his belt as he glanced at Bard.

Bard stared back at him and shook his head in exasperation. "You could pick less conspicuous circumstances, Princess," he muttered.

"Perhaps, but if I wanted to make a point…" Imrahil trailed off, his hand falling away as he assumed a more formal stance again.

Thranduil looked at his son, then at Bard, raised an eyebrow and appeared to decide that whatever was going on, he didn't need to know right now. Instead he greeted the Elves, then turned to Bard and asked where Bain was.

"He'll be in the old foundry, the Dwarves are fixing the forge."

Thranduil nodded at one of the attendants. "Find Lord Bard's son and fetch him," he said, then looked to Bard. "He should be here for this, he needs to learn."

Bard returned the look. "He's learning how a forge works."

"And that would be excellent if he were the son of a smith," Thranduil said calmly. "But as he is the son of a Lord, there are a few other matters he should be aware of."

It made sense, of course, but it also turned Bard's thoughts in directions he didn't necessarily want them to go right now. Bain would have to face the duties placed upon him due to his bloodline at some point. In a way, he already had when he had stood with Bard against Smaug. But he was still young, he wasn't yet a man grown. There should be some leniency for him.

Bain arrived after a little while, breathless and still wiping dark smudges off his face. A quick glance around the tent and the assembled Elves, then he came to stand at Bard's side, quiet and expectant, and Bard rested a hand on his shoulder in reassurance.

The next few hours were filled with discussions on the state of all kinds of matters in Dale. Imrahil's turn came first, with reports on the rebuilding of the walls and what the patrols had encountered on the plains - mainly scattered Orcs, along with a few wolves. None of that came as a surprise to Bard; regular assassination attempts aside, he'd managed to figure out how to deal with Imrahil where serious matters were concerned. And though the Elf had a talent when it came to being an irritating pain in the arse, he was competent enough that Bard had no grounds to complain. Thranduil wouldn't have left anyone who couldn't handle the situation well, and Bard didn't think he'd make an exception for Imrahil. Besides, the son of the Elvenking would doubtlessly have the training needed to lead an army.

After the military matters they moved on to supplies, then the state of the buildings. Every little detail was considered, estimations were made on what it all would mean for the winter and the coming year, as well as how to improve the conditions with what time was left before winter settled in.

"You've achieved much in a short time," Thranduil said when they at last assembled far too many lists of far too many things to do, but also a small list of matters already accomplished.

Bard met his eyes. "We did," he agreed. "The people of Dale, together with the Elves of the Woodland Realm." And also the Dwarves, whose help was substantial, but Bard didn't need to be a seasoned hand at diplomatic relations to know that particular insight wouldn't be appreciated right now.

"And we shall continue to do so." Thranduil looked at Bard, then at Bain, who straightened under the scrutiny. "I would have friendship and alliances between my realm and that of Dale. It will be needed in the coming years."

"Is there something we need to be worried about beyond all those lists and tasks?" Bard asked some hours later. Night had already fallen, and he and Thranduil were seated in one of the far too many rooms of Bard's newly acquired house, officially to continue their discussions in a more private setting after supper.

Thranduil reached for his goblet and regarded it for a moment, then drank from his wine. "There is always darkness in the world," he said eventually. "Sometimes the light shines brightly and banishes it to some extent. But I feel that now it's gathering once again."

Bard nodded. "Gandalf has been muttering about similar things." And the wizard had made just about as much sense as the Elf.

"He should know, he has seen it. And apparently he has understood that we, too, deserve to know when evil gathers on our doorstep." Thranduil put the wine down again and leaned back in his chair, an ornately carved leftover from the last inhabitants. "For what it's worth, I believe there will be peace for a few years. A decade or two if we are lucky, maybe even more. But we must be prepared."

"Is that why you're willing to talk to the Dwarves? Dáin tried to ask me about it, I think he hates not being able to guess what you're going to propose tomorrow."

Thranduil's smile was just shy of feral. "A Dwarf, unable to second-guess me. How charming."

"There's a man of Dale unable to second-guess you, too," Bard said. "And he'd appreciate a heads-up in case he's supposed to do something in particular tomorrow."

"The Lord of Dale can rest assured that nothing will be suggested by me tomorrow that will harm his people. Mostly, tomorrow's meeting is to establish boundaries and to make it plain to everybody that you, I and Dáin intend to form an alliance once the dust has settled a little after the past few weeks."

Bard met his eyes. "Do we?"

"We should. My kingdom could endure on its own, but Dale and Erebor can't, not at the moment and in the state you are in. And with what has come to light about Dol Guldur, it is my opinion that even an alliance with the Dwarves is preferable to standing alone." Thranduil sighed, then shook his head. "We will have to speak about this tomorrow, so I'd rather leave it for now. Will you bring your son with you?"

The change of topic caught Bard by surprise. At today's briefings, Bain had behaved well and had even asked some questions of the Elves and of Bard afterwards that had shown he'd understood the issues at hand. Bard had been proud of him for that, but he hadn't considered letting him come along to the discussions with the Dwarves. Apparently Thranduil had other ideas.

"Should I?" Bard asked, drinking from his wine. Elven supplies, brought along by Thranduil's attendants. Clearly he wasn't about to abandon the luxuries he was accustomed to if it could just as well be avoided, and Bard was quite happy to share in a few of them. There had even been a tub of hot water earlier, though Thranduil had been thoroughly scandalised that Bard hadn't asked for the bathwater to be changed once the Elf had been done with it.

Thranduil nodded. "Bain is your heir, and he's old enough for you to establish that by letting him accompany you. If he's seen with you, people will get used to the idea that he will follow in your footsteps one day."

"I'm not sure I want to place that burden on him." Bard shifted in his chair and tried to find a more comfortable position, but so far he'd been out of luck. Whoever had owned the furniture before had clearly placed aesthetics over comfort. Not that it stopped Thranduil, who looked entirely at ease as he lounged with that boneless elegance only Elves seemed capable of achieving.

"It's not your choice to make. He is your son and as far as I'm aware, Dale and Lake-town never had a tradition of daughters inheriting the leadership positions of their fathers. Otherwise you might consider Sigrid as well, she's got a keen understanding for diplomatic matters."

It was hard not to smile at that praise for his daughter, so Bard didn't even try to suppress it. "She's always been good at reading people," he said. "All the children in the neighbourhood listen to what she's got to say, even the ones who usually call the shots."

And she'd negotiated refuge with the Elvenking for all those who couldn't endure a winter in Dale under the current conditions, which did count as a greater achievement in Bard's eyes than keeping Bain from pulling Tilda's pigtails. Sigrid had a bright mind, and he was beginning to dare hope for opportunities for her to use it more than she might have been able to as a poor bargeman's daughter in Lake-town.

"She is doing well among my people, and she's been very interested in our customs," Thranduil said, rising from his chair to fetch the carafe of wine from the side table. "Tilda as well, though she is currently more interested in my horses than most other matters."

Bard cast him a swift smile when his goblet was re-filled. "Thank you for taking care of them," he said with all the sincerity he could muster. He still missed them with all his heart, but at the same time it was comforting to know that they were safe and wouldn't be lacking anything they needed. There might be much he didn't know yet about the Elves and their king, but there was no doubt in Bard's mind that in this matter he could rest easy.

Thranduil halted in his steps to let his hand fall on Bard's shoulder. "You are most welcome. And I return your thanks for the trust you place in me."

"You haven't given me any reason to do otherwise, and I don't believe you will." Bard raised his hand and rested it on Thranduil's where it lay on his shoulder, warm and solid. "You're my ally and you're my friend."

All he understood from Thranduil's murmured response was elvellon, Elf-friend, and what he thought was Sindarin for 'shining star', which didn't make too much sense to him. One of these days he'd have to start learning the language properly; there were far too many Elves surrounding him right now, and at least some of those under Imrahil's command barely spoke the Common Tongue. Bard was picking up random words here and there, but mostly it was swearing, or what passed for swearing among Elves. They were a fairly dainty bunch where colourful language was concerned.

"Whatever you said, I'll probably agree," he offered and received an amused chuckle in return.

"I should teach you so you finally speak a more civilised tongue." Thranduil's hand slipped out from under his own and brushed along his neck, a warm point of contact that left him wanting more and cautiously hopeful that he might have it once more.

"Perhaps I'll learn with the right incentive," he said, aiming for a balance between teasing and suggestive.

"And what might that be?" Thranduil asked as his fingers carded through Bard's hair now; he leaned into the touch with a quiet sigh, his eyes falling shut. The strip of leather he'd used to tie the worst strands back and out of the way was carefully plucked loose.

"I think you can figure it out. Elves supposedly are so very wise." The deft fingers in his hair felt good against his scalp, a fleeting reminiscence of less complicated days long past. Briefly he leaned forward to place his wine on the table before him, one less distraction in his hands. He heard a low clink as Thranduil set down his own goblet somewhere. For a little while Bard focused on the small sensation of snarls getting detangled and errant strands combed out.

"We can also be very foolish," Thranduil said.

"Sometimes there isn't much of a difference," Bard offered and was rewarded with a brief tug at his hair that might have been reprimand or agreement. "Does it matter?"

"Perhaps." Thranduil paused. "Perhaps not."

"Go not to the Elves for counsel…"

This time the tug definitely was chastising. Bard cheerfully ignored it and leaned back until he could rest his head against Thranduil's stomach, and after a moment the slow petting resumed.

"Galion has informed me of something alarming earlier," Thranduil said eventually, his amused tone making it clear that there was no need to be concerned.

Bard tilted his head back until he could look at Thranduil, albeit upside down. "What would that be?"

"Apparently the bed provided isn't acceptable."

"And what am I supposed to do about that?" It was impressive enough if a bed had been found in the first place, though there certainly weren't any mattresses to be had in Dale after two centuries of abandonment.

Thranduil shrugged, tracing the shell of Bard's ear with his fingertips and sending a quiet shiver down his spine. "I was hoping you would be kind enough to offer me yours."

"Where am I going to sleep then?"

"I don't see why you should have to move."

Bard raised his eyebrows at him. "Is that so. Well, in that case, I hope you're willing to have an early night."

"You are tired?"

"I didn't say anything about sleeping, did I?"

Thranduil's expression turned into one of thorough amusement as he offered Bard a hand to draw him to his feet. "By all means then, let's retire."

Actually finding the bed in question turned out to be more complicated than expected and took a few attempts. For the most part the upper floor of the house had been emptied, though they came across a room that was still set up as a study of sorts, with a large desk and several uncomfortable-looking chairs. Finally the next door Bard tried yielded the desired results - a bedroom which, judging by the sight of his second coat tossed over the back of a chair, was intended to be his. Not that he'd have had much more patience for exploring when he could feel the touch of Thranduil's hand at the small of his back, tracing small circles that were just a little too deliberate to be innocent.

The clearly Elvish pillows and sheets did give him pause, however. He could have sworn that his bedding had looked different this morning.

"Should I just assume that your attendants already appropriated my bed for you?" he asked with a quick glance at Thranduil.

"I encourage initiative where it's suitable."

Bard looked at the cushions, then back at the Elf. "I take it they know that we're…" he trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the two of them when he didn't know what to call what was between them. "This."

"You have spent considerable time with me," Thranduil said. "And I have guards outside my tent when I am forced to reside in such rustic settings."

Guards who had good hearing, not that anyone but a deaf person could probably have failed to catch those particular sounds with only canvas to muffle them. For a moment, Bard hovered between concern at having such private moments witnessed when he had no idea what consequences it might have, and faint contentment that Thranduil appeared not to be worried by the idea.

With a shake of his head he pushed those thoughts aside and stepped close, raising his hands to cup Thranduil's face and draw him into a kiss that was eagerly returned. It felt easier this time, less hurried than when they'd done this before. No immediate concerns for survival, no looming battles or the chaos of their aftermath. Just the two of them without any need to rush, and Bard happily let himself be dragged down into those soft, ridiculous Elven cushions.

"You know," Thranduil murmured in his ear, his hand slowly drawing up the hem of Bard's tunic, his fingertips a warm distraction, "there is nobody to overhear you tonight."

Pushing up, Bard rolled them over until he was half on top of Thranduil, sparing a grateful thought to the wider bed. They'd have ended up on the floor already if he'd tried that kind of vigorous move before, along with all the froofy cushions and their golden tassels.

"What makes you think I'm going to be the one to be loud?" he asked with a grin.

"We shall see." Thranduil smirked back up at him, his hair still impossibly smooth and his clothes barely wrinkled. Bard fought a sudden urge to try and ruffle him a little. He opted for another kiss instead to stay on a safer path; even Thranduil's tunic seemed far too fine to risk damaging it, to say nothing of the outer robes they'd fortunately left in the safety of the chair by the window already.

He soon wished that they'd dealt with the rest of their clothes as well before tumbling into bed. Having Thranduil solid, close and so very tempting wasn't doing much for Bard's concentration, not when it was far more interesting to focus on the shift of long limbs and firm muscles against him as they settled ever closer together.

"You're making these tricky on purpose," he complained with a half-serious growl when he couldn't figure out where the fastenings on Thranduil's tunic were hidden.

"They're merely simple buttons," Thranduil countered but helpfully caught Bard's hands in his own and guided them inside the collar of his tunic. "Right there, it's very simple."

Bard growled again as he gave it another try and felt the fiendish little things slip from his fingers. "There's nothing simple about this." He'd thought the clasps on the Elvish tunics he'd been gifted were complicated when he'd needed a few tries to undo them, but those were nothing compared to what he was confronted with now. It didn't help that Thranduil's hand had by now wandered down along his spine and found their way inside his trousers, and was now creating far too much of a distraction. Not that he minded, as such; he just wanted to finally get these sodding clothes out of the way.

Success, finally, and he didn't have the patience anymore to do anything but toss that offending garment off the side of the bed. The rest soon followed; he was in no mood to draw this out when what he wanted was to touch and taste and feel Thranduil's smooth, warm skin against his own.

Thranduil's amused mien was far too easy to read as Bard bunched up their remaining clothes and threw them somewhere into the darkness of the room where the candlelight didn't reach. "Better?" he drawled.

"Much better." Bard pushed himself back and took a moment to simply look at him, something he’d never really had time to do before. He rather liked what he saw.

Catching his eye, Thranduil stretched languidly beneath him in a way that definitely wasn't coincidental, and all the more tempting for it. "I should hope so. I should also hope that you don't plan on just watching.”

He didn’t really get the chance to reply to that; a moment of marvelling that they were actually doing this in a proper bed was all it took to apparently make Thranduil decide to take matters in his own hands.

How he ended up on his back was a bit of a mystery, albeit one Bard had no complaints about; his attention was on Thranduil's lips against his own, suddenly demanding rather than pliantly amused. He went along with it for a little while, gradually pushing for more to see how much he could get away with. It earned him a chuckle and a sharp nip to his bottom lip that stung enough to make him draw a sharp, startled breath, then another as the next bite fell against his throat.

"I'm not wearing a high collar tomorrow because of you," he gasped, tilting back his head despite his best intentions to protest further. He felt Thranduil's laugh against him more than he heard it, and almost rolled his eyes when a line of kisses was trailed down the side of his neck, only for Thranduil to stop at the bump of his collarbone to nip and suck at the sensitive skin and raise a bruise.

"There is no reason why you should," Thranduil told him with far too much smugness in his voice.

Bard didn't even bother trying to put his thoughts about the irreconcilability of love bites and the presumed propriety required of a lord into words. Instead he just wound his hands into Thranduil's hair at the base of his neck with the firm intention of reining him in if there were any more attempts at leaving marks.

He raised his head to claim a kiss, Thranduil's hand stroking up and down his side in an almost careful caress that provided a faint counterpoint. Then Bard yelped when that same hand suddenly pinched his nipple, sharp enough to spark a confusion of pain and pleasure. The latter won out when Thranduil ducked his head and soothed the sore spot with a gentle lick, though Bard couldn't quite shake the tension of anticipating another bite. He was rather looking forward to it.

The anticipation curled low in his belly when he felt Thranduil's hand follow the crease of his thigh and he readily let his legs fall open, tilting his hips to get that touch where he wanted it.

"Such impatience." Maddeningly, Thranduil firmly gripped his thigh instead, fingers drawing small circles just a hair's width from his cock. It was enough to make Bard want to bang his head against the wall with sheer frustration.

"I'd just like us to get somewhere before winter sets in," he quipped and tried to subtly shift so he'd finally get that hand on his cock. It just earned him another chuckle.

"Winter is yet some days off," Thranduil said, coming along willingly when Bard dragged him up for a kiss heated enough to distract them both for a little while. "I wouldn't worry, there is plenty of time."

Bard dropped his head back into the overstuffed cushions with a groan that turned into a decidedly more pleased noise when Thranduil finally had mercy on him and closed that last bit of distance. Elves, he thought absently as he bucked his hips to rock into that wonderfully firm grip, far too much time on their hands.

Thranduil didn't seem to be inclined towards patience anymore either, a change of mind Bard heartily appreciated. There was a time and a place for drawing things out and playing, but after weeks of recalling their shared pleasures and hoping that there'd be another opportunity for a tumble, he simply wasn't in the mood for much finesse. Thranduil in his bed, Thranduil's lips against his own in a deep kiss. Thranduil's fingers slick with oil between his thighs to ease the way, making him shudder with a heady blend of expectation and want. Thranduil rocking against him as they found a pattern together and let it carry them along. It was all he’d ask for right now, and more.

Although, he had to admit to himself as they lay wrapped in each other afterwards, exhausted in all the right ways and content to just enjoy each other’s presence, this wasn’t something he’d want to miss either.

By next morning the sleet had turned into snow, a first sign of what the winter held in store for them. In his head Bard went over the supplies of firewood while they rode along the road to the gates of Erebor and cautiously deemed it enough to keep them from having to tear down the uninhabited buildings for fuel.

"Is there anything I need to do?" Bain asked him, nervousness plain in his voice. Whether it came from the prospect of participating in official negotiations or the simple fact that he was riding a horse for the first time was hard to tell, but Bard figured that a reassuring smile couldn't hurt in either case.

"Just listen to what everybody's got to say," he told him. "I don't think you'll be asked questions, but if anyone does, simply answer them."

"Your father is wise," Thranduil said from Bard's other side, not even pretending that he hadn't been listening. "The Dwarves won't pay much attention to you, which means that you can watch them without interruptions and tell us later what you saw. Imrahil will do the same, so you can look to him for guidance."

Bard didn't need to turn around to the riders behind them to know that Imrahil had to be rolling his eyes. The Elf hadn't been too enthusiastic about being enlisted as an aide to his father for the day, and it probably hadn't helped that Thranduil had dropped a few comments about him needing to learn how to negotiate with Dwarves. Privately, Bard had wondered exactly who Imrahil was supposed to learn that from since all he'd witnessed of Thranduil's ability in that regard had been insults.

When they reached the gates of Erebor, a group of Dwarves with Balin at the front stood ready to receive them. It was by far the most formal greeting Bard had ever gotten from them; normally he simply rode up to the gates, waited for someone to come get him and then followed them inside to talk to Dáin or Balin, or whoever had time to deal with him. But for this visit there were proper bows in greeting, along with a highly stilted exchange of welcomes and thanks between Balin and Thranduil. Bard got lost somewhere in all the titles and references to ancestral homelands until Balin began the entire procedure all over again with him.

"Lord Bard of Dale and Lake-town, of the line of Girion, slayer of Smaug the Golden, we bid you welcome in Erebor for this occasion."

Bard inwardly shook his head, wondered whether it was worth trying to cut this all short, then decided against it. At least there was definitely less to say about him than Thranduil.

Once the horses were taken away their group was led into a hall in the Mountain Bard hadn't seen before, full of bright candles in niches in the walls and a fire burning in the hearth in one of the corners. After the freezing air and cold wind they had felt outside, the heat was almost too much at first, but Bard moved closer to the fire nonetheless. It was still hard to feel truly warm in Dale despite all the aid from the Elves, and the only time in the past weeks that Bard hadn't been cold had been when he'd had Thranduil in bed with him. Elves, Bard was discovering, were wonderfully warm.

Dáin arrived with yet another group of Dwarves clad in finely woven wool and furs, all of them looking a lot more dignified and formal than the Dwarves Bard had been dealing with so far. Bard braced himself for another round of greetings while at his side Thranduil settled into his usual straight posture, assumed a blank expression and adjusted his golden robes minutely with a well-practiced shrug that made the fabric shimmer in the candlelight.

"So the woodland fairy's decided to prance into my kingdom after all," Dáin grumbled.

Thranduil slowly turned to face him. "As if anyone who stands barely as tall as my knee could have prevented me from doing so."

Apparently the time for formality was over. Bard heaved a sigh, caught himself in the middle of it and quickly pretended as if nothing had happened.

Dáin stared up at Thranduil, then growled. "You bloody Elves could do with an axe to the knee. It's not like it's worth hitting your pretty heads!"

"Only because you could not reach them even if you tried."

"Bah, you're only not chickening out of this because you've got your dainty toy warriors out there. Underfed and delicate, the lot of them. Are they really the best you can do?"

"Against Dwarves? I hardly need them, every Elfling with a toy bow could handle you."

At Bard's side, Bain cautiously stepped closer to him and tugged at the sleeve of Bard's new coat, a gift from Thranduil this morning so he'd look appropriate. "Da," he murmured, "are negotiations always like that?"

"From what I've seen, it's normal when they involve Elves and Dwarves," Bard murmured back, his eyes on the two kings. Dáin had his arms crossed and a scowl on his face, while Thranduil had his hands tucked into his finely embroidered sleeves and presented the very image of Elven haughtiness.

"Toy bows are the best you pointy-ears can do anyway, not like you ever learned how to make proper weapons. Elvish stuff, nothing a true warrior would ever use." Dáin shook his head in derision and Bard half expected him to spit on the polished stone floor to underscore his contempt. "Delicate forest flowers. Bah. Sit down before you faint."

Somewhat to Bard's surprise, Thranduil settled on one of the three chairs at the round table in the center of the room with a flourish. "Gladly if it makes you feel more comfortable to be on the same level as me, if only in height and not other matters."

Dáin sat as well, so Bard took the third chair with a mix of amusement and trepidation. Whatever he had imagined about formal talks between the King under the Mountain, the Elvenking of the Woodland Realm and the Lord of Dale, this wasn't it. Then again, he really shouldn't have expected anything else after seeing those two on the battlefield.

Cups filled with ale were placed before them, so finely crafted that they rivalled those Thranduil used for his wine but entirely different in style with their angular, geometric patterns. Some customs clearly were the same, no matter what race, and Bard took a ritual sip to demonstrate his acceptance of the Dwarves' hospitality. The ale was bitter on his tongue, with an odd sweetness underneath, and he carefully set the cup down again as he swallowed. To his right Thranduil did the same, his mien not betraying his thoughts about the taste.

"I've heard your proposal," Dáin opened. "Far too many of you squirrely bastards in Dale, it's completely unacceptable."

Thranduil treated him to a mild smile. "The city needs to be protected somehow, and I'd rather not leave that to the Dwarves who were responsible for its destruction, and who failed to guard it this time around as well."

"What's the Lord of Dale's opinion on that? Feel safe with the pointy-ears, lad?"

"They're keeping us safe, we don't have the manpower to do it by ourselves," Bard said after a moment's consideration. Dáin knew that Dale wasn't able to muster a proper defence, so that couldn't come as a surprise. "Their help has been invaluable and we are beyond grateful for it, just as we're grateful that the Dwarves are assisting in the rebuilding."

"You need proper work done, you come to us," Dáin agreed. "The Elves are good for poncy food, perhaps."

"The Dwarves are welcome to join the effort of keeping Dale supplied," Thranduil said. "Perhaps that caravan my sentries have spotted approaching from the Misty Mountains carries food to be shared? Though I pity the people of Dale if they must partake in Dwarvish fare."

Dáin's eyes had narrowed while Thranduil spoke. "My people will have safe passage through your dingy forest."

"But of course. As long as they do not step off the road and trespass on my lands." Thranduil leaned forward. "Are Dwarves capable of that? They seem to get lost so easily."

"Small wonder when you sodding fairies can't build roads worth a damn. Better if you lot pull guard duty then, that's all you're even remotely useful for."

"So we agree on these matters as outlined in my proposal?" Thranduil asked, the drawl he'd spoken with entirely gone from his voice at a sudden. Bard eyed him cautiously in case this sudden shift to reason was a ploy of some sort. "I will continue to provide troops to ascertain the safety of the valley, as well as armed escorts for those Dwarves journeying through my realm from the Misty Mountains, provided they obey my demand that they remain on the assigned paths."

"Aye, and in turn we'll fix up the roads here, and once we've got the furnaces running properly in the foundries we'll start with the weapons." Dáin leaned back and patted the small braids in his beard. "That leaves the question of payment."

Thranduil flicked his fingers dismissively. "I will not make demands for the presence of my troops and patrols in exchange for repairs to the roads if the link between Dale and the borders of my realm is included in them. The weapons will be paid for at the rate you would charge your own people for those delivered to my realm, and at cost for what militia Dale can raise at the moment."

Dáin shook his head. "Unacceptable. We can't mine at full capacity yet. You want those terms, pixie, you wait a year."

"In a year Dale will be overrun by soldiers of fortune and you'll suffer just as much from that. It's in your interest that a local militia is set up as soon as possible. They need to be armed properly, and my troops need fresh weapons and repairs to their gear if they are to continue in their guard duty."

Dáin considered this. "Repairs we can do even when your flimsy Elven weaponry is hardly worth it. Lord Bard, what's the state of your armoury?"

"We've depleted half of it during the battle, and I don't know how useful the rest is," Bard said, grateful that the initial volley of insults had eased up somewhat. He wondered whether he'd been expected to join in, or referee like he would have done if this had been Bain and Sigrid in one of their bickering moments, rather than two supposedly high and mighty kings.

Behind him, Imrahil cleared his throat. Turning his head, Bard looked at the Elf where he sat on one of the benches along the wall, Bain by his side as they listened.

"If I may add something," Imrahil said in the most deferential tone Bard had ever heard of him. It immediately made him evaluate the table for its usefulness as cover in case an attack was forthcoming.

Bard nodded for him to go ahead.

"Dale has sufficient quantities of pikes and spears, and bows will doubtlessly be supplied by the Woodland Realm," Imrahil went on. "Some swords and axes are stored in the armoury, but they will need to be sharpened at the very least. It will be enough to outfit the Men of Dale."

"And your own troops?" Thranduil asked, though he had to know the answer since they had discussed this very topic only yesterday in exhaustive detail. Bard hadn't thought anyone could spend that much time debating the relative merits of hair and sinew for bowstrings, but Thranduil's advisors hadn't had any problem with it.

"They require repairs to their armour, first and foremost. New blades in some cases, too. And what must be provided are arrowheads by the thousands, bodkins and broadheads both. Our stores are close to depleted." Not the entire truth from what they'd discussed yesterday, but probably as close to it as the Elves were ever going to admit it in front of a Dwarf.

Dáin considered this, grimaced, then gave a wordless growl of displeasure. "Sodding Elves. Bad enough that you yourselves fight with arrows rather than proper weapons, now you've got to make others follow you in that folly."

"Highly useful, those arrows," Bard said and didn't have to even glance at Thranduil to know there'd be at least a hint of a sardonic smile on the Elvenking's face. "Excellent for slaying Orcs. Or dragons, if necessary."

"That wasn't an arrow you shot the beastie with, lad, that was a bloody harpoon," Dáin huffed.

"I should think that to a gnome both would look the same," Thranduil drawled in turn. "But if you're unable to provide, we'll handle the arrows. Elves have been making those before the first Dwarf wondered why his head is so close to the ground even when he's standing up straight."

"You'll do no such thing. If I'm expected to rely on Elvish guards and patrols, they'll have proper weaponry, not shoddy Elf-work." Dáin shook his head. "Frizzy forest squirrels, you still think you can slay an Orc with a little lullaby and barricade doors with twigs." He paused. "Mind, I've heard your singing. You might actually be able to kill an Orc with that yammering."

"A Dwarf with an opinion on music. Will wonders ever cease." Thranduil leaned forward, the gold threads of his robes catching the candlelight. "We are agreed on the weapons as well?"

"Aye," Dáin said. "You pointy-ears patrol, we supply you at the rates we'd charge Dwarves, and Dale at cost. And you'll keep the eastern roads to the Iron Hills safe."

"As far as they're within my influence," Thranduil amended. "We will re-negotiate in the spring, once the snow has thawed."

From Dáin's face, Bard could tell that he wasn't the only one surprised by that move. Right now Thranduil held the upper hand; Dale completely depended on him at the moment and the Dwarves, too, needed his cooperation and even assistance. Which made Thranduil's concession all the stranger, because while the Elves had shown them a lot of goodwill, it wasn't pure altruism that had made them help. In spring Dale and the Lonely Mountain would find it easier to survive without the Woodland Realm's constant support, so a delay worked against them.

Thranduil had to be up to something, and Bard suspected that he was moving faster than expected with his plans for the alliance he had mentioned yesterday. Either that, or he simply enjoyed throwing Dáin off guard and was setting up another opportunity for them to sling insults at each other so they wouldn't get bored.

"Agreed," Dáin said eventually, his eyes dark with suspicion. "And I'll have your ears if you trick us."

"As if you'd notice. Or be able to reach that high." Thranduil leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs at the knee; Bard had to briefly focus on Dáin to avoid getting distracted by the memory of those long limbs wrapped around him earlier this morning. "We also must establish provisional trade agreements. Lord Bard and I require a replacement for the trade links that ran through Esgaroth, and I expect there will be a considerable need for wood in Erebor in the near future, among other matters."

Dáin nodded. "Send someone over with your positions and demands, Balin will talk to them and give you ours. Then we'll meet again once I'm sure you flighty forest squirrels have something worth discussing."

"I will attempt to break it down enough to make it comprehensible to you," Thranduil promised kindly.

Dáin huffed with impatience, then turned to Bard. "Make sure he doesn't screw you over, lad. Elves aren't to be trusted without a lot of safeguards all around."

"If you'd told me that being a leader means getting stuck at negotiation tables that much, I'd have made sure someone else got the job," Bard muttered a few days later as he and Thranduil were returning to Dale with their small entourage after an afternoon of nitpicking over water rights.

"It's all part of your duties, and you are doing fairly well at it, considering that it is your first time," Thranduil returned, then gestured in greeting as they rode through the city gate and the Elven guards bowed to their king. "You've been impressive today. I didn't consider the underground springs and neither did Dáin, by the looks of him."

Bard looked at him, eyebrows raised. "You had no reason to consider them anyway, it's not like they affect your realm. I'm half convinced that the only reason you tagged along today was so you'd get a chance to try out whatever new insults you came up with since we left yesterday."

Thranduil's expression clearly said that such a thought would never have occurred to him and that the notion was entirely beneath him. Bard figured he'd been spot on with his suspicion.

"I think I'll need your advice on those settlement issues Dáin proposed at the end," he said as they slowly made their way up along the winding streets leading to the higher levels of the city. "Are there truly Dwarves who choose not to live underground?"

"On occasion. There was a small Dwarvish community in the Dale of old, mostly because of arguments within the ruling families and Dwarvish stubbornness to find solutions to the conflicts and compromise."

Bard studiously looked at his horse's grey ears and tried to not even think the thoughts of comparable Elven stubbornness that were threatening to go through his mind. "So should I agree?" he asked instead. "We haven't had any issues with the Dwarves since the battle, but they all return to Erebor in the evenings and are only in the city during the daytime. And I don't think Imrahil's the best indicator for what to think of them. He always looks like he smells a rotting fish somewhere and that just has to be an exaggeration."

Those last words had been loud enough that Imrahil, riding behind them together with Bain, had certainly caught them. Bard resolved to be especially cautious today. In a way he was almost looking forward to it. Getting pounced on by an insane Elf was a much simpler and more straightforward matter.

"I wouldn't invite Dwarves into my realm even under the direst of circumstances," Thranduil said with plenty of conviction in his voice, paired with a dash of hostility. Elves and Dwarves; one of these days Bard was going to have to ask just where that animosity came from and whether anyone even remembered it anymore. He'd heard legends, but all those were simply ridiculous.

"They're not asking to settle in the Woodland Realm," he pointed out, barely scraping past calling the forest Mirkwood. That name didn't sit well with the Elves at all, as they'd found out over the past weeks when mentioning that name had caused even the most even-tempered Elves to bristle.

Thranduil shrugged. "For you it might make sense to permit a small settlement within Dale. It can give you leverage against Dáin, should you need it."

Bard snorted at the idea, then briefly focused on guiding his horse around a tight bend with a treacherously hidden patch of hard-packed snow. Riding was becoming more familiar with every passing day, but it still wasn't something he particularly liked to do. Boats were much more reliable than horses, and they didn't startle and balk at the faintest surprise. "I'm not going to take Dwarves hostage. For one thing, where would I put them? They'll just tunnel their way out of whatever dungeon I can stick them in."

"You should come to my realm, we have proper dungeons there that can hold Dwarves."

"Unless a Hobbit turns up and lets them out." Bard didn't bother to hide his grin at the thought, which earned him a haughty glower in turn. "We've got dungeons in Dale. I'm just not very keen on the idea of using them." They had discovered Dale's underground cells already, along with the two poor bastards who'd been kept there when Smaug had devastated the city all those years ago. From the looks of it, their deaths had neither been easy nor quick.

"You will just have to hope then that no inconsiderate bargemen seize a smuggling opportunity and spirit them away from your realm."

"If I'd known what they were up to, I might have handed them back to you. It would have spared me a world of trouble." They reached the stables and dismounted, handing the reins over to the two older men who'd taken command of Dale's few horses and were now also handling the Elves' mounts. Bard had long resolved to make sure to be there if Thranduil ever rode into the city on an elk again, just to see what they'd do.

They walked the rest of the way up to the citadel, for once fortunate enough that it was neither raining nor snowing. Not that this had stopped Bard from making his rounds of the city; he needed to know how the rebuilding was progressing, keep an eye on how Dale's newly formed militia was coming along, and be reachable for everybody and their concerns. Locking himself away behind doors just because it was warmer and dryer there was not an option.

Their retinue had already been left behind at the stables, and Thranduil exchanged a few words with his son in Sindarin before Imrahil gave a swift bow and departed, Bain in tow. Those two had struck up an odd accord during hours of waiting while Thranduil and Dáin insulted each other and Bard did his best not to lose his temper with two venerable kings for behaving like children.

"How are we doing?" Bard asked once they were alone. "Really."

Thranduil considered the question for a few moments as they slowly walked along the main street, his eyes on the sky to the east. "Reasonably well. There is considerably more at stake here for you than for me, but so far I do not believe that you have made any concessions that are likely to hurt you in the future. Assuming, of course, that you intend to work with the Dwarves rather than just exist side-by-side."

"It's not like we've got a choice in that matter. We'll need the trade revenue they'll generate. Dale can't live from farming alone, even if the valley's soil turns out to still be fertile and isn't baked solid. We tried to get a look at it, but we can’t tell yet." Bard slowed to consider one of the more damaged buildings they passed. Bain had suggested gardens on the ride back, a luxury that had been entirely impossible in Lake-town, but if they used the materials from the more desolate buildings for the better ones and cleared the space… It was something to keep in mind.

"I may be able to assist with your fields, but I won't know before spring," Thranduil said.

"Never attempted to re-grow something on earth that's been baked into a rock by a dragon?"

"Oddly enough, no." Thranduil studied the house as well, though he couldn't know what Bard was looking for. "I find myself doing a number of new things these days."

Cocking his head, Bard looked at him. "I know insulting Dwarves isn't new, I've seen you do that before."

"It's a required part of negotiations with them."

"And you enjoy it."

A smile curled at the corner of Thranduil’s mouth. "Perhaps."

"Elves," Bard muttered.

That earned him a smirk. "You're still new to all this. Give it a year or two and you'll see why a bit of creativity during diplomatic debates can be highly beneficial when you're dealing with Dwarves." He looked into the distance again, then held out his arm. A moment later a bird landed on it.

Bard wasn't surprised by the sight of a jay perching on the Elvenking's outstretched arm, or that it calmly let Thranduil pet its head as it fluffed its wings, the bright blue flight feather edges briefly catching the sunlight. It also wasn't surprising that Thranduil spoke to it in Sindarin, because Elves were just odd that way.

What did come as a surprise was that Bard understood the bird when it answered.

"I come directly from Lord Calemir," it tweeted. "He reports skirmishes with bandits from the east. There are two hundred Dwarves travelling, but they have been shielded from attacks. He will keep you informed and he asks about the state of trade on the River Running."

Thranduil told the jay something in Sindarin, finishing with the upwards lilt of a question in his voice.

"Lord Calemir is well," the jay answered. Bard couldn't really tell how it spoke; it opened its beak, but nothing should have enabled it to talk. And yet the bird did so. It wasn't even the strangest thing that had happened lately. If dragons could talk, there probably was no reason why normal birds shouldn't be able to do so. "He does not need reinforcements and he tells you that the main force winters in Dorwinion." The bird fluffed its wings once more, then shook its entire body, feathers puffing up in the cool air.

"Thank you," Thranduil said, his fingers still carefully brushing over the bird's reddish feathers along its back. "Give my son the message that he needs to keep up his patrols and secure the eastern flank in the winter. Any Dwarves who travel from the Iron Hills are under his protection." He scratched the bird's crest once more. "Find the highest building of the city. The Elves there will have food for you before you begin your long return."

The jay clicked its beak in agreement, then took flight again, pushing Thranduil's arm slightly downwards from the force of its flapping wings. Within moments it had disappeared from sight.

"Should I ask why you can talk to birds, or why I understood it?" Bard wanted to know. "Because I did, and I don't know about Elves but for Men that is not a normal occurrence. Did you have anything to do with that?"

Thranduil tilted his head. "All Elves can speak to birds and understand them in turn."

Bard took a step forward and reached for his sleeve to get his attention, then dropped his hand again when he became aware of what he was doing and that he might get dirt on the embroidered silk. "Thranduil," he said as calmly as he could, "in case you haven't noticed, I'm not an Elf."

"Of course not.” Bard’s look of exasperation presumably was plain enough, since Thranduil went on, plucking at his sleeve with his other hand to adjust the fabric where the jay had perched, “When the people of what would become Dale chose your ancestors as their leaders, they had good reason to do so.”

Bard just rolled his eyes and refrained from voicing any complaints about Elves and their need to be cryptic. By now he’d learned that it didn’t accelerate things. “So they were capable? That’s good to know. Still doesn’t explain the bird thing.” He could have sworn that around them a few of the ubiquitous thrushes were listening, their little heads cocked in an unsettlingly sentient way.

Thranduil followed when Bard began to walk again, falling into step by his side. “One of your ancestors must have been familiar with an Elf,” he offered as what apparently seemed a sufficient explanation to him.

Bard shot him an unimpressed glance. “Familiar,” he repeated.

Thranduil’s lips curled with the beginning of a smile. “Intimately so.”

It took Bard a moment to comprehend that little suggestion. “You’re telling me some great-great-however many great-grandfather shagged an Elf?” he demanded to know. It wasn’t unthinkable. Of course it wasn’t unthinkable - he was doing plenty of Elf-tumbling himself these days, he could hardly blame an ancestor for it. But it was still an odd thought to say the least. He fought a sudden urge to reach up and check his ears for pointiness.

“Or a great-grandmother,” Thranduil corrected, surreptitiously catching Bard’s elbow to steer him around the statue of a deer and along what Bard had come to think of as the scenic route through the less-devastated bits of Dale. “It's too far in the past for you Men to be aware of it. Long before the founding of that little waystation that eventually became Dale, a thousand years or more by your reckoning, so it won't make a difference in your life anymore."

"Aside from the fact that a jay can talk to me." Bard shook his head. An Elven ancestor somewhere? The mere idea of it was strange, even though it had to be forty generations or more ago. Far too long a timespan for anyone to recall, much less to have kept records. Bard could name his father's ancestors back to Girion, but that was mere family business and hadn't gone any further than that. Whatever had happened before that was lost to time, though the Elves might remember more. "Do you know who it was? Which Elf?"

Catching up with him, Thranduil gave a brief shrug. "I do not keep an eye on all my subjects," he said. "There have been settlements of Men within the Woodland realm since long before my father's reign, and sometimes…"

"Things happened?"

"Things happened," Thranduil agreed. "Half-elven children, with just a touch of the graces granted to Elves by Eru Ilúvatar. Over the generations much of those gifts would have become lost, but some linger more than others."

"I understand birds, but don't have the pointy ears?" Bard asked, still trying to think this through.

Thranduil tilted his head. "Pointy ears?"

Bard glanced at the Elf's ears. "I might have developed a certain fondness of them lately, so I'm paying more attention," he offered. "You know, I thought sometimes that I heard birds talk, but never anything like this. Mostly I thought I heard them say 'hawk'. I mentioned it to Percy once and he figured I'd simply had too much ale." Which might not have been an entirely inaccurate assessment, but that was neither here nor there.

"Normally they don't have much to say that is of interest to us." They turned around the corner into the main square and Thranduil spared a brief nod for the Elves there who greeted him. "I assume they never saw a need to speak to you before."

"Pity, I could have used the company on some of the longer trips." A thought occurred to him. "Shouldn't the rest of the people understand them too? I'm pretty certain I'm related to half of Lake-town in some way. If there's an Elvish ancestor, we'd all have the same one."

"These matters weaken over the years. In his time, Girion was one of the few left who could speak to them and it may have been lost even further since then. Almost all of his lineage died in the destruction of Dale, and few of the city's inhabitants made it out alive. As far as I am aware, you and your children are his last living descendants, so it may be limited to you by now."

Or to a few more who all figured that it was best not to mention an ability to chat with pigeons and have them talk back, since that didn't exactly inspire confidence in one's sanity. "My children can do it? The girls?"

A faint smile on his face, Thranduil seemed to guess his thoughts. "I'll ask them to try once I return."

"It's going to save you a lot of paper. Sigrid's gotten wordy in her last few letters." Bard had treasured every sentence she'd written and her letters were safely tucked away in a small box by his bed, even the earliest ones where her words still sounded sad and formal. The Woodland Realm might be the safest place for her and Tilda, but that didn't mean that he couldn't miss his daughters and that they couldn't miss him.

"Sigrid is welcome to what paper she requires," Thranduil said, then raised his head to glance up at the sky where clouds were gathering once more. "But the opportunity for letters will soon cease. Another two or three days, then the snow will fall in earnest and the paths will be blocked."

Bard looked at him. "I assume you aren't planning on spending the winter here." He'd miss his presence, for his company and advice, and also for far more mundane matters. For one thing, Thranduil was wonderfully warm to curl up against in bed when the air was cold enough for their breaths to cloud. Bard had spent the past few nights with his nose tucked into the crook of Thranduil's neck and his hands kept warm between them.

"Much as I appreciate your hospitality, I don't intend to remain. We will depart the day after tomorrow, it's the latest I dare. Whatever negotiations we haven't settled by then will need to wait until spring."

They slowly circled the square, letting everybody see them speak. By now Bard's people were used enough to the Elves currently stationed in Dale that they no longer batted an eye at co-operating with them, but it was still useful to show them that the Elvenking was on their side, taking an interest and that Bard trusted him. At the very least it would calm any concerns over all the children and infirm who were wintering in his realm. Not everybody was fortunate enough to have received news, and Bard knew that he wasn't the only one to worry about someone far away these days.

"Surely there can't be much left for us to discuss," Bard said. They came close to the fountain and he saw the shine of ice on the stones. Winter indeed. "We've settled patrols, food supplies, weapons, road maintenance, farming rights for the plain, water rights, mining, settlements, ale brewing and I'm still not sure why you even got involved in that given that none of you Elves like the stuff... "

Thranduil treated him to a slow smirk. "We have barely scratched the surface," he said, blithely ignoring Bard's quiet groan at that. "But most other matters can wait. You'll have the winter to prepare for those. I'll give you a list."

Bard was beginning to suspect that the sole reason why he'd been stuck with the lordship of Dale was that nobody else wanted to bother with the minutiae of actually running the place. In the past he'd never spent much time wondering what it was that lords and ladies, let alone kings, did beyond lounging about in their fine robes and with silly crowns on their heads. Now that he was finding out just what it entailed, it all looked a lot less glamorous.

"You better be ready to listen to any birds I send," he told Thranduil. "I'm going to have a lot of questions."

For a creature who, by his own account, didn't require sleep, Thranduil seemed to quite enjoy doing it when the opportunity presented itself. If it weren't such a waste to keep a light lit during the night, Bard could have watched him sprawled naked across the froofy cushions, his pale skin in stark contrast to the strong colours. It had been a good look earlier that night when the small lamp had still been burning, before they'd let themselves get distracted by more physical pleasures.

In the darkness he slowly moved closer, carefully sliding an arm across Thranduil's bare chest as he curled against his right side. A half-awake murmur, then Thranduil turned a little before settling into sleep once more as soon as Bard drew the covers up around them. Elves might not get cold but they certainly appreciated the feeling of finely woven sheets, and right now Bard was quite happy to share in the sensation and be able to avoid the scratchy blankets he was accustomed to.

It was odd how quickly he'd grown used to having Thranduil in his bed. A mere week and yet the Elf's quiet breathing was familiar already, just like the faint scent of clean spring water and herbs from the bath he'd insisted on earlier. An incredibly wasteful habit, in Bard's mind, though he couldn't help appreciating the luxury of hot water in such quantities. He still refused to have the water changed for himself when it had only been used by one single Elf - who never got dirty or sweaty anyway - and Thranduil still looked aghast at the notion, but had at least stopped ordering his attendants to do away with the water and re-fill the basin before Bard could have a quick wash.

Perhaps they really should look into the rumours that houses in Dale of old had been supplied with running water, not just cold but also warm. Bard had seen the old public baths in the lower part of town; some of the basins were still connected to the pipes that diverted the water from the springs, though it was all cold and starting to freeze by now. The Dwarves might know more, since the pipes clearly had been created by them.

Absently combing his fingers through the fine strands of Thranduil's hair, Bard considered the idea. It couldn't take any immediate priority, not with so many other matters to deal with first that were more important to their survival. They had functioning wells by now and some of the fountains had been restored, too, that had to be enough. Warm water might be pleasant, but it would be too much of a luxury when they needed to handle less glamorous and more practical things first, like clearing streets from rubble and fixing the sewers. The latter, when explained by some of the Dwarves, had been a slightly baffling concept to most of the people, who were used to Lake-town's far more straightforward system. Apparently Dale had even had fancy ways of disposing of waste.

"Is there a particular reason why you are awake?" Thranduil murmured in the darkness, his voice rough with sleep.

Bard rested his head against Thranduil's shoulder. "Just thinking."

"About something important, I hope, if it keeps you from sleep at this time of the night." With a rustle of the sheets Thranduil turned towards him, a hand reaching out to find Bard's with surprising accuracy, or perhaps the aid of Elvish night vision. "I have been reliably informed that Men require their rest. Several times, quite vocally."

"Some rest is appreciated," Bard told him, shifting to tangle their legs together. "And I was thinking about baths."

That earned him a quiet huff that might have been the beginning of a laugh. "I knew you would see reason eventually. Dale could turn into a civilised place after all."

Bard aimed a light punch at Thranduil's shoulder, then shoved him back into the cushions. Judging by the soft thud, at least one of the frivolous things scattered to the floor. "I should take offense on behalf of my city."

"Perhaps you should," Thranduil teased. "What would the Lord of Dale have me do in recompense to such a grievous affront?"

"I'll have to think about it," Bard returned, readily letting himself be pulled in for a kiss that soon distracted him from all thoughts about bath water and turned his attention to far more immediate matters. Like the firm grip of Thranduil's hand on his hip, the quick, sharp nip to the juncture of his neck and shoulder followed by a soothing flick of Thranduil’s tongue.

"I'm certain we can come up with something suitable," Thranduil murmured against his throat and Bard felt smooth fingers wander up along the length of his inner thigh, slowly teasing until they drew a quiet groan from him. "Maybe a precious manuscript from my library, or a barrel of Dorwinion's best wine…"

"As long as it's a full one and not one you expect me to return downriver." He rose up to straddle Thranduil's hips and bring them closer together, hands braced against the cushions on either side of the Elf's head as he leaned in to claim another leisurely kiss. Tomorrow this would be out of reach for the remainder of the winter, so he tried to draw it out and commit every touch, scent and taste to memory, just in case.

Thranduil seemed to catch on to his mood; his touches slowed a little though his definite interest was hard to miss. "Perhaps not wine, then," he suggested, his lips brushing against Bard's as he spoke. "A bow and arrows might be an acceptable gift, crafted by my people and second to none other in all of Middle-Earth."

"Tempting," Bard whispered back, one hand tangling in Thranduil's hair at his temple, thumb tracing the delicately tipped ear. It got him the response he'd already learned to expect from that caress: a happy sigh and an invitingly bared throat that was sensed more than seen. Briefly he rubbed their cheeks together before bowing his head to find that spot at the junction of neck and shoulder where he knew he'd left a mark yesterday, a startling sight against the unblemished skin. When Bard's first tentative lick was greeted with a pleased hum he grew bolder, sucking and nipping until he imagined could feel the heat against his tongue. The mark would be gone by morning, but that wasn't the point; it was far more arousing to know that Thranduil would allow this and to feel him turn smooth and pliant under Bard's explorations.

"Hm, perhaps not a bow after all..." Thranduil murmured with a buck of his hips, then gasped when that earned him a sharp bite from Bard, followed by a soothing nuzzle.

"I like bows." Shifting, Bard worked his knee between Thranduil's thighs and felt them fall open at the lightest pressure.

"A bow it is, then." Thranduil's hands came up to frame Bard's face and tilt up his head enough so they could kiss comfortably, then drew back again. "And a fine horse to ride, fit for a lord..."

Bard licked the thumb resting against his lips, then sucked it into his mouth and drew a moan from Thranduil that went straight to his groin. "It's not horses I'm interested in riding right now," he murmured.

"Is that so?" Thranduil murmured back and he could easily imagine the no doubt raised eyebrows and faintly intrigued look, and wished he'd taken the time to light a candle. It would be such a decadent waste of precious wax, but the sight would have been well worth it. "Then by all means…"

It was an invitation Bard was hardly going to ignore. Leaning forward, he reached out in the dark and found Thranduil’s arms, let his hands wander up to his shoulders for balance and bent to claim his mouth, not quite demanding but with plenty of purpose behind the kiss. He could have gotten lost in the growing familiarity of this closeness, the slow slide of their bodies against one another, and for a little while he just focused on coaxing quiet sounds of pleased contentment from Thranduil’s lips.

He felt the flex of Thranduil's thighs as he shifted his hips against Bard's, languidly at first but then with growing determination. The friction was enough to send shivers down Bard's spine that Thranduil seemed able to sense and chase with his fingertips, the touch almost light enough to tickle. Bard let him explore, happily arching his back into the caresses.

"I believe you said something about your intentions," Thranduil whispered in his ear, their cheeks resting against one another.

"Such impatience," Bard murmured in reply, turning his head enough that Thranduil was bound to feel the scratch of beard stubbles against his unblemished skin. The little gesture had the expected effect, one Bard had discovered during their past nights together; a hiss, a contented sigh as Thranduil rubbed their cheeks together once more before sliding their mouths together in a soft press of lips.

"Merely appreciation," Thranduil countered, shifting again to make Bard settle between his thighs.

Eyebrows raised at that rather blatant demand, Bard laughed as he did his best to hold still and not give in to that delicious friction all too easily. It was a matter of principle, after all, never mind that his cock had quite different ideas. "I think there might be another word for it."

"If you wish to argue semantics..." Thranduil caught his hand, lacing their fingers together in another spot of bright contact. Bard felt him stretch beneath him and lean away, muscles bunching at the confusing movement until the light scrape of glass against wood and the sound of a stopper being removed from a vial provided an explanation.

"I'm not arguing," he hissed as Thranduil's hand slipped down between them and wrapped around Bard's cock to draw a groan from him, not at all surprised but with a shock of pleasure nonetheless. For a few breaths he let the strokes continue, luxuriating in the sensations they coaxed from him, then claimed the oil and put an end to the teasing.

Their movements lacked the urgency that had pushed them earlier that night and Bard rather enjoyed the more languid pace as they moved together, sharing gasps and moans and sparks of pleasure. It would have to last them a while, he knew, the winter at the very least; that awareness was enough for him to draw Thranduil even closer and savour every moment.

The winter was indeed going to be a long one.

A few days after Thranduil's departure, Bard once more found himself horizontal and at the mercy of a smirking Elf, though not nearly in as pleasurable a way.

"Better," Imrahil pronounced cheerfully, his knee digging sharply into the small of Bard's back to keep him flat on the ground. "Though you're still dead."

"No need to sound so happy about that," Bard muttered and tried to push himself up, but quickly discovered that Imrahil's hold on him was immovable. Elves might be lighter than Men of the same size, but their deceptively slight frames held far greater strength. "You only got me this time because I didn't want to hurt you."

It wasn't even an excuse. For once Bard had actually seen him coming and had been ready. He was reasonably sure that if he'd tried, Imrahil would now be lying on the rocky ground at the foot of the city walls and wonder how he'd gotten there. But that might have injured the demented bastard, depending on how well Elves bounced, and Bard suspected that Thranduil might have something disapproving to say about that.

"You need to stop holding back." Imrahil finally got off him and kindly offered him a hand. Bard pointedly ignored it as he scrambled to his feet to get off the icy walkway on top of the wall. "For all you know, I might be the one to try and assassinate you."

Wiping his hands clean on his coat, Bard glowered at him. "You're the only one who tries that these days, Princess."

"Fortunately for you," Imrahil said, then moved so quickly that all Bard saw was a blur before he once again hit the ground, the wind knocked out of him as he landed flat on his back. Imrahil leisurely pointed a dagger at him that had been sheathed a moment ago.

Bard glared up at him and struggled to draw a steady breath. He was beginning to see the appeal of the Dwarves' insistence on insulting Elves out of sheer principle.

Imrahil cast him a bright smile. "You really should have seen that coming."

His eyes on the tip of the dagger in case killing him twice wasn't enough, Bard slowly sat up. The chill of the flagstones was creeping through his clothes and his back ached from getting knocked down not once but twice in a row.

Sodding Elves.

"Da?" he suddenly heard from behind himself. "Da!"

Bard quickly turned his head to the rather unexpected sight of Bain, a drawn bow and nocked arrow in his arms. His son was aiming at Imrahil, his expression somewhere between determination and fear.

"You let him go right now!" Bain shouted.

When Bard glanced back at Imrahil, the Elf was slowly raising his hands, the grip on his dagger loose-fingered and as unthreatening as it could be.

"It's all right, son," Bard called, his voice pitched to be calming as he got to his feet. It took some effort not to wince at the bruises doubtlessly forming on his arse, but he did his best to ignore those. The last thing he needed was for Baim to stick an arrow into the leader of the Elves here in Dale, never mind how proud the sight might make him feel. "Practice, nothing else."

"You're sure?" Bain asked, his stance steady.

"Yes. Put the bow down, Bain, I think you're making him nervous."

Imrahil smartly kept his mouth shut at that and merely held still until Bain lowered his bow and withdrew the arrow from the string. Then he swiftly sheathed his dagger and cast Bard a fleeting smile. "Your son is better at this than you, at least he's remembered to arm himself."

Bain frowned at him. "We were going to practice archery. I don't carry my bow all the time."

"It isn't the most practical weapon anyway, no matter what your father might say." Imrahil looked Bain over, a contemplative expression on his face. "You'll grow a good deal more. The sword should be a suitable weapon for you, as long as you begin to work with it in earnest soon."

"He's good with a bow," Bard said firmly. And Bain truly was; he had that touch of talent that, combined with practice, would make the difference between a good archer and a great one.

"Which doesn't mean that he should only learn to use one weapon." Again Imrahil looked Bain over. "I've seen you with a sword on the day of the battle."

Bain nodded. "I wasn't very good with it."

"You kept your sisters safe," Bard protested, stepping close to his son to draw him into a brief one-armed hug against his side, onlooking Elf prince be damned. Bain leaned against him a little, so the gesture clearly wasn't entirely unwelcome; Bard fought the urge to affectionately ruffle his boy's hair. "And killed four Orcs."

"Laudable," Imrahil said, and the agreeable tone of his voice put Bard on guard. "Which only makes it more important that he be trained properly." He paused, then sketched a slight bow. "I am willing to offer my services in that area."

Bard opened his mouth to refuse, but before he could do so he felt Bain straighten at Imrahil’s words and when he glanced at his son's face, all he saw was hopeful eagerness.

Rationally, Imrahil wasn't a bad choice, never mind Bard's personal feelings about the matter. The Elf was an excellent fighter and certainly knew his way around a sword a lot better than Bard could ever hope to. In all of Dale there probably was nobody among their own people to match him, and if it had to be an Elf who taught Bain, it might just as well be this one. Besides, even with the distractions of negotiations and planning and Thranduil and a thousand other small matters on his mind, Bard hadn't missed the fact that Bain had spent much of the past week at Imrahil's side in the background during the talks with the Dwarves. Apparently proximity had bred familiarity.

"You'll still practice archery with me," he told Bain sternly. "No matter what Imrahil says."

Imrahil glanced at him, a slow smirk on his lips. "You're adequate with a bow," he conceded.

Bard raised an eyebrow. "I shot a dragon."

"Big creatures, dragons." Imrahil looked down at the sleeve of his finely tailored tunic and brushed away a speck of dust only visible to Elves. "Very hard to miss."

"So even you might be able to hit one if you're lucky, Princess?" Bard shot back.

Imrahil merely quirked an eyebrow at him, for a moment the very image of his father despite his dark hair. "I'll leave those creatures to mortal Men, you appear to have something of an affinity with them if history is any indication."

Bard wasn't quite certain what he was hinting at. Some of the legends and myths, doubtlessly, but he couldn't piece it together from what he knew of the tales. Another matter to add to the list of things that needed his attention at some point, though this was a fairly unimportant one even if it might help to make a little more sense of the Elves sometimes.

He was saved from having to come up with a comeback by the sound of Percy calling his name from somewhere further up in the city, and a moment later the man was looking down at them from the top level ramparts.

"There's a few Dwarves here to see you, Bard," he called down. "They're a bit frazzled, I think. They sure aren't up to their usual standards, they haven't insulted any of the Elves even once. It's confusing the Elves, too."

Bard and Imrahil exchanged a swift glance.

"Better see what the beardy moles are confused about this time," Imrahil said. "Though it might be anything that baffles them."

The Dwarves were indeed something that might be called frazzled. They also had sent Bofur to lead the small delegation, which was a clear sign that whatever was going on, Dáin wasn't certain that he wanted to make it his problem. Even after his coronation, the Dwarves who had gone on the quest for the Lonely Mountain with Thorin were a separate group and by now Bard had a fairly good idea of what it meant when he was faced with one of them rather than one of Dáin's followers from the Iron Hills.

Bard herded them into the great hall, got them seated around the old map table from Thranduil's tent they'd permanently borrowed and poured them cups of the wine the Elves had left behind. Imrahil quietly bristled at the scene, clearly unhappy at wasting precious vintages on Dwarves, but Bard studiously ignored him while he observed the customs of hospitality. They all paid scrupulous attention to these gestures; even Thranduil never declined offers of food or drink from the Dwarves. Under the circumstances Bard wasn't about to start a diplomatic incident just because Imrahil didn't feel like sharing his Dorwinion red with the neighbours.

"Does the Elf have to stay?" one of the Dwarves asked.

Imrahil sharply stepped forward. "You won't send me away, Dwarf. Not when my King has commanded me to be here."

"Of course, just a servant taking orders. Can't think for yourself with that pretty head, can you?"

Apparently the Dwarves' confusion had lessened enough for at least a few insults already, though Bard had heard much more creative ones over the past days. Rolling his eyes, he raised his hands in what he hoped would be seen as a placating gesture.

"I'd ask you to keep the peace under my roof," he said, ignoring the way the Dwarves and Imrahil glanced up at the tent canvas that sheltered them in lieu of the still missing roof tiles. "What is it the King under the Mountain requires?"

Bofur cleared his throat, and at that sound the Dwarves fell silent. "We have an unexpected situation," he said slowly. "An intruder we don't know what to do with."

Bard suppressed a sigh. If any of his people had been foolish enough to try and sneak into the Lonely Mountain, he'd set them on duty to clean out the sewers for the winter. The last thing he needed right now was an aggravation of the careful balance between Dale and Erebor. The help of the Elves might be what kept them going right now, but if the Dwarves decided that the Men of Dale weren't reliable enough as trading partners, Bard might as well take his people and see if someone else had a use for a few hundred stubborn and slightly aggravating souls. It would put them at the mercy of Alfrid, and the mere thought made his stomach turn.

Damn it, when had his life reached a point that he needed to worry about these matters?

"Where's that intruder now?" he asked.

"We caught her last night. That's when we figured it's a wee bit more complicated than just some fool wandering through our halls." Bofur drank from his wine and pulled a face. "You need some proper stuff, not this Elven swill. We'll send you ale, can't let this sorry state continue. It's not right that you should live in squalor."

"Ale, as if anyone needed more proof that Dwarves have no taste," Imrahil muttered. Bard shot him a look that was primly ignored. He rather liked the idea of ale; the wine was nice, no arguing that, but it was considerably more fancy than what Bard would normally choose.

Bofur thumped the wine cup down on the table, scattering a few drops. "Aye, ale. A proper drink, makes you strong and puts some hair on your chest." He grinned at Imrahil. "Perhaps not yours, though. Never figured out whether it works on Elf maidens."

"It clearly addles the minds of weaker creatures, like Dwarves."

Bard sighed and leaned forward, his hands firmly planted on the polished wood of the table. "I have three children who don't bicker nearly as much as you do, I don't need you to make up for that now. What's with that intruder? Who is it?"

Bofur looked distinctly uncomfortable. "An Elf."

Imrahil shot to his feet, blazing with sudden rage. "You will release that Elf immediately!"

Bofur didn't even flinch, Bard had to give him credit for that. "And how're you going to make me?"

"I'd lop your head off, Dwarf," Imrahil spat," if it were not so close to the ground!"

"You think you can take me on without an army of your pointy-eared pixie friends?"

"As if you'd stand a chance against me!"

"One Elf? I won't even break a sweat!"

"Big words for such a miserable little creature!"

"I'll show you misery!"

"Silence!" Bard bellowed.

It was enough to shut up both Imrahil and Bofur, at least for a moment. But with abilities honed by years of raising three children who, though well-behaved most of the time, still squabbled like all siblings, a moment was all he needed.

"You are going to stop this right now," he ordered before either of them could get a word in. "I don't have time for this nonsense. Imrahil, sit down and shut up. And you," he pointed at Bofur, "explain that bit about an Elf you caught."

The expression on Imrahil's face was murderous for the time it took Bard to draw a breath and exhale again, then it turned carefully, entirely blank as he remained standing. It was as much concession as the Elf was ever going to give him, Bard figured, and decided not to push his luck.

"We knew someone'd been sneaking around for a few days," Bofur said with a cautious look at Imrahil before he focused on Bard. "We found the entrance they used, and we thought it was some foolish child from Dale, perhaps. We knew it couldn't be an Orc."

"How?" Bard wanted to know.

"No Orc can enter Erebor without us being aware of it, you may take my word for that." Bofur waved his hand in a way that made it clear he wasn't going to elaborate. "So we started to flush them out. Nobody who's never lived in Erebor knows all the halls; all we needed to do was close them off one by one. Took us two days to trap her. Imagine our surprise when we didn't have a youth from Dale but an Elf." He paused. "That Elf, too."

"That Elf?" Bard asked. "What Elf?"

Bofur looked uneasy, but eventually answered. "The one who helped us fix Kíli at your house."

It took Bard a moment to remember her name, though he recalled her face and her red hair easily enough. "Tauriel?"

Bofur nodded. "You know her?" he asked and sounded suspiciously relieved about that.

"She kept my daughters safe when the dragon came."

"As did we," Bofur said.

Bard met his eyes. "I don't remember you doing much for them after you took them to shore. I believe you were rather in a hurry at the time to get to your share of the treasure. I guess you were not the only one the gold turned into a fool that day."

To his credit, Bofur didn't look proud of himself at the reminder.

"So what are you doing with her?" Bard asked. "She made sure that you got out, too, from what my children told me, and she rescued you from the Orcs. You should be treating her well, not keep her prisoner."

There was the hint of a smile on Imrahil's face at that, so fleeting that Bard might just have imagined it. But given that Bofur's unease was increasing, the sodding Elf was probably loving this.

"Lord Dáin doesn't know that, and it won't make a difference to him. She's an Elf, he wants her gone from the Mountain." Bofur exchanged glances with the other Dwarves around the table, then turned back to Bard. "And he wants the Elvenking to vouch for her. There have been… threats from her that she'll creep back in, and that just won't do, an Elf loose in Erebor."

Bard nodded. "That shouldn't be a problem. I'm sure Lord Imrahil will be happy to give you his word that he'll keep an eye on her."

"No, I won't," Imrahil said firmly. He met Bard's quizzical look. "I cannot."

Bard took a slow breath and reminded himself that kicking the irritating bastard in front of the Dwarves would not be diplomatic, never mind how satisfying it might be. "Why not?"

"The King banished her."

"So?"

"So she is no longer one of his subjects. He won't guarantee her actions."

Bard inwardly rolled his eyes and reached for the last shreds of his patience. "He doesn't need to. You're the leader of the Elves here in Dale, you can vouch for her."

"I am still beholden to my king," Imrahil said, his voice carefully void of all emotion. "What part of that is so hard to understand to you? She is banished, she is no longer counted among the Elves of the Woodland Realm. I cannot go against his command."

"She's one of your own, doesn't that count for anything?" Bard demanded. "Do you so easily abandon your people?"

"The King-"

"Isn't here right now. You are." Certainly Thranduil wouldn't leave one of his own to the Dwarves of all people, that couldn't be acceptable to him out of sheer principle. A banishment could be rescinded and Bard had no doubt that Thranduil would do so if it let him annoy the Dwarves even for a moment.

"I cannot," Imrahil repeated.

"You'll leave her a prisoner then? Leave her behind? I've come to expect more of Elven loyalty."

"What do you know of loyalty?" Imrahil hissed.

Bard refused to back down. "More than you, clearly."

"You understand nothing," Imrahil said, managing to retreat back to his usual cool and haughty demeanour, though there was plenty of derision in his voice now. "Tauriel has been a friend to me since your ancestors still shared a scraggly cave with their goats. But I have sworn an oath of loyalty to my king and my people. She's broken hers, I will not break mine. Can you even comprehend what that would mean, Lord of Dale? You have led your gaggle of dirty fishermen for a few weeks, what do you know of all that it takes for a realm to survive? You need us, you would all perish within days without us. And you think you can lecture me about loyalty?"

The words struck hard, just as Imrahil had to have intended, but Bard refused to let him see. "I know I don't leave any of mine behind."

"You are a fool," Imrahil told him.

Bard shrugged. "Not for the first time, or the last. And if I'm already being foolish…" He looked at the Dwarves, who had been wise enough not to interrupt the brief argument between him and Imrahil. He wondered what kind of image that had presented, then decided that after all the more or less veiled insults traded back and forth between Thranduil and Dáin, he didn't care. "Bofur, tell Dáin I'll give my word that Tauriel will not set foot in the Lonely Mountain without his leave."

Imrahil turned to stare at him. "You cannot."

"And why not? You won't have her, the Dwarves won't have her. Dale needs anyone with a solid head on their shoulders and a working pair of hands. She's saved my children, in my eyes that's more than enough to earn her a place in Dale." There hadn't been time for Bard to speak to her in those chaotic few hours at the Long Lake's shore, but his children had told him much about her during the hard walk to Dale. If she needed a place now… well, Dale had plenty of that to offer, so why not add an Elf to their small population if she was willing to come.

Imrahil studied him for a moment, then smoothly rose from his chair without even a glance for the Dwarves. "I do hope that you know what you are doing, Lord of Dale," he said as he left.

It had been snowing long enough during the night that the road was barely visible when Bard rode to the Lonely Mountain's gates the next morning. All tracks from yesterday had vanished and even the roadside markers were beginning to disappear under the snow. They'd managed to keep the road reasonably clear so far, mostly thanks to a few dozen Dwarves traveling back and forth between Erebor and Dale on a daily basis, but once the snow began in earnest it would take a lot more effort than that.

Bard's mare wasn't too eager about the ground, but by now horse and rider were accustomed enough to each other that it didn't take too much convincing to make her move after an initial snort of disdain at the cold snow she was supposed to wade through. In a way Bard was glad that he only understood birds, not horses; he suspected this one wouldn't have a lot of friendly things to tell him right now.

The Dwarves had made considerable progress with the gates since the last time Bard had seen them a week ago. The moat had been cleared out and most of the shattered wall segments repaired; there still were piles of rubble to the side, but probably not for long. Dwarves and rubble didn't go well together, the people of Dale had learned by now - either the material was still useful and therefore had to be sorted and properly stacked for storage, or it was useless and thus needed to be removed to where it wouldn't be noticed. There was a lot of brick sorting happening in Dale these days in order to keep the Dwarves happy.

There were sentries posted on the top of the wall as usual, and Bard didn't even bother calling up to them anymore. They'd have spotted him halfway from Dale already and announced his arrival, so he simply reined in his horse and waited. For a moment he considered dismounting, but decided against standing around in ankle-deep snow. Besides, the threshold of the newly constructed gates had been raised enough that he'd be on eye level with any Dwarf who came out even if he remained on his horse.

It didn't take too long before the gates opened and Bofur appeared, wrapped in furs against the weather.

"Lord Bard," the Dwarf greeted him, and Bard nodded his head in response. "We hoped you'd come today. You'll still take her?"

That was a bit direct even for Dwarves, in Bard's still limited but growing experience. "Unless anything has changed?"

Bofur looked briefly uneasy. "No, no. Your word that she won't come back without permission, that's all we ask."

Frowning, Bard studied the Dwarf. "Lord Dáin does know about this, doesn't he?"

"Of course," Bofur hastened to assure him. "He agrees, too."

"So what's the matter?" Three children. Bard knew when someone was trying to get away with something and Bofur was worse at hiding it than even Bain had ever been.

Bofur was positively fidgeting by now. "Nothing. Óin has gone to fetch her."

Bard considered that, then asked, "He was with you and my children when the dragon came, wasn't he?" Along with Fíli and Kíli, but he didn't add their names.

Bofur nodded.

"And now he just happens to be the one to assist you in this?" Bard pretended to be busy with brushing snowflakes off his horse's white mane for a few moment. "You're certain Dáin is aware of what you're doing?"

Ah, there it was, the briefest hint of consternation on Bofur's face. "Mostly?"

Bard leaned forward in the saddle, a kind smile on his face. "And what wouldn't he know about?"

Bofur hurriedly glanced up at the guards on top of the wall, then stepped closer to Bard. "Just that Óin's not taking the shortest way to the gates, that's all. It's nothing you need to be concerned about, it's only... " Bofur sighed. "She's been good to us, she's helped. It's not her fault what happened. And she's only sneaked into Erebor because she wanted to say goodbye to Kíli. She couldn't, see? Not when she wasn't allowed with the Elves, and Lord Dáin won't let any pointy-ears into the Mountain if it isn't something official."

It took some effort to make sense of this. "I take it the slightly longer way involves going deep underground?" Where the tombs of Thorin and his heirs were, hidden away in the darkness deep inside the Mountain.

"It might," Bofur said carefully.

In a way it was reassuring to know why Tauriel had been trespassing, as sad a reason as it was. Bard wouldn't have left her behind, not when he was so far in her debt for saving his children first from Orcs and then the devastation of Lake-Town. But it might have been more difficult to decide what to do with her if her motives had been different. Having to watch out for Imrahil's assassination attempts was bad enough already without having to watch his back because of yet another Elf who was skulking around.

"Anything else I should know that Dáin hasn't been told?"

Bofur shrugged. "Not really? Well, I don't think he knows that Tauriel was at your house with us, but that hardly matters now."

"Not after it burned and sank," Bard agreed mildly and saw Bofur wince at that. "My children will be glad to see her again. They've been wondering what happened to her after the battle."

And they had been resigned to the simple fact that she'd died when nobody had seen her anymore. Too many had been lost that day, and Bard knew that the Elves hadn't been able to find all of their own on the battlefield. With the people of Dale it had been even more difficult; they hadn't even known for sure who'd made it out of Lake-Town alive, only to go missing in the chaos of the fight. Tauriel had only been one among many who couldn't be accounted for.

"I think she's been roughing it up on the slopes," Bofur said. "Too steep for Dwarves or Orcs, but the Elves get up that sheer rock face like mountain goats so the sentries didn't spot her. She certainly looks like she's been out on her own."

Bofur's assessment turned out to be more than accurate when Óin came through the gates, followed by the scruffiest Elf Bard had ever seen. Her clothes were dirty and torn in places, her green coat muddied, her hair a single reddish-brown tangle. There even were smudges of dirt on the pale skin of her face and hands.

Bard had dealt with a lot of Elves lately. Not all of them were as fastidious as Thranduil about washing and changing their clothes more than once a day, but they all had an overall cleanliness in common. Elves didn't get dust in their hair or dirt on their faces. They didn't tolerate mud spatters on their clothes and nature seemed to be well aware of that, because they could stay practically unblemished while the Men working side by side with them looked as though they'd been trudging through a swamp the entire day.

He wondered whether all was well here.

"My Lord Bard," Óin greeted him while Tauriel ignored them all. "How good of you to come. You should leave now."

Bard raised an eyebrow. "Or questions might be asked that you don't want to answer?"

"You won't need to smuggle her in a barrel of fish, at least," Bofur said, gently pushing her forward, down towards the steps. "Less of a smell."

Tauriel hesitated, then turned around to rest her right hand above her heart for a moment before extending it towards the two Dwarves in a brief, jerky gesture. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice rough as if she hadn't spoken for a while.

"You'll be all right," Óin told her. "Lord Bard'll take you to Dale, there's plenty of other Elves there."

Bard thought he saw a flash of dismay on Tauriel's face, but she didn't say anything, she simply came down the steps and stopped at the horse's side. Bringing a second mount clearly would have been the smart thing to do, but having even one horse was a novel enough idea that Bard felt he could be forgiven for the oversight. So he just held out his hand to her and pulled her up behind him when she took it.

"Do give my regards to King Dáin," he said to the Dwarves, then nudged the horse into a slow canter, back towards Dale.

For more than half the distance they rode in silence, Tauriel barely holding on to him with a loose grip of one hand to his shoulder. Bard let her be; whatever was on her mind clearly weighed heavy enough to occupy her thoughts.

He probably should inform Thranduil about somewhat accidentally acquiring one of his Elves. Doubtlessly Imrahil had already done so; there were daily bird dispatches going back and forth between the Elves in Dale and Mirkwood now that the roads were no longer passable. But Imrahil would only have sent his interpretation of events and not bother with any explanations Bard might have for it. Then again, were explanations needed? As far as Bard could tell, either Tauriel was one of Thranduil's subjects, in which case he was doing the Elvenking a favour by getting her away from the Dwarves. Or she wasn't, which had to mean that the Elves had no claim on her anymore anyway.

"I didn't know you were a lord," Tauriel said when they had covered half the distance, her words almost too quiet for him to catch.

Bard shrugged, knowing that she'd feel the movement of his shoulder under her hand. "Me neither. It happened."

"A lot happened," she offered after a brief silence.

He hummed in agreement. "I should thank you," he said, slowing the horse to a walk to give them the opportunity to speak without even keen Elven ears overhearing. "You saved my children."

Her grip on his shoulder tightened for an instant before relaxing again. "They are well?"

"All three of them. Bain is here in Dale with me, he's been having a lot of good ideas on how to handle the rebuilding and he's getting good at all kinds of carpentry work. If I'd known, I'd have let him handle repairs a lot earlier. I'm proud of him, he's doing well."

Tauriel didn't say anything at that, just sat quietly behind him. If it hadn't been for the faint sound of her breathing, Bard might have thought she wasn't there at all.

"I haven't seen Tilda and Sigrid for a few weeks now, but they are fine, too." Or so he kept assuring himself; it was hard not to grow concerned now that there no longer was a way to exchange letters or hear from the messengers, and so far there hadn't been any birds. "The last I heard from Tilda was that she's been learning Elvish dances. I wonder how she's doing at those, she's swift enough, but she's never been good at remembering steps before."

He paused to see whether there was anything Tauriel would add, but she kept silent, so he picked up their one-sided conversation again.

"Apparently Sigrid keeps busy with getting to know all the Elves in Mirkwood. The Woodland Realm, I mean. And she watches over our people there, the ones who’re staying with the Elves because they wouldn’t survive the winter here in Dale. That's more than I really like, but we couldn't keep them healthy here, and it's one less worry. Though perhaps I'd better worry that Sigrid's going to usurp me as their leader, not that I'd mind. She's ruled the household since she turned eight, running a city would be simple. Maybe I should let her, she'd be good at it and she's got a head for numbers, that's got to be useful."

He continued to talk for the rest of the way, about his children and the small, everyday problems that had been solved in Dale over the past weeks. Whether Tauriel was interested at all in Percy's ideas for setting up a market of sorts with what they found in Dale, or in Bard's hopes where running water was concerned, was hard to tell. But as long as she didn't protest, Bard decided that he might as well use the time to go over these matters and look for obvious flaws in their plans.

Decisions would have to be made about Tauriel, he knew, but not today. Her silence wasn't so hard to read, and there was no need for urgent choices. They could afford the time to let her grieve, if that was what she needed; Bard wasn't going to begrudge her that.

When they rode across the bridge and through the city gate into Dale, Imrahil had obviously made his own decisions about her. The Elf watched their approach from the ramparts in plain sight of a number of his warriors.

"Lord Bard," he called down, his voice carrying despite the falling snow. "It's good to see the safe return of you and your guest."

Bard looked up at him and tried to make eye contact despite the distance. "She'll be treated with all due hospitality," he called back.

Imrahil studied them, then gave a bow that was plainly mocking in its perfection. "Just so."

Bard could smell the dragon, sulphur and ash and sheer age. It was a stench he'd never forget in his life, and one he should never have smelled here in Dale.

"Did you think you could run from me?" Smaug hissed from the top of the great hall's ruins. "Did you think I wouldn't find you again? You and your miserable followers… Hide all you want, run as far as you can. I'll always find you."

Again Bard stood frozen in place and could only watch as Smaug climbed down from the roof, walls shattering under the weight of his claws. In the pale moonlight his hide was a dull, pockmarked brown that lacked the glow of fire it had mirrored in that terrifying night in Lake-town, and yet it did nothing to lessen the fear Bard felt at the sight.

"They follow a wretched creature like you," Smaug growled, lowering his giant head until Bard could have touched his maw if he'd been able to move his arm. "Just because you slew a dragon." A hiss, a widening of the nostrils that sent scorching hot air rushing against Bard's face and made him fight for breath. "Tell me, Dragonslayer, how will you save them this time? So weak, so helpless… I could make you watch as I devour them one by one."

Bard fought against the paralysis in his limbs. He felt his muscles ache from the strain, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't move even a finger. Still he pushed against whatever it was that kept him chained; what choice did he have? He had to fight, he had to warn the people of the danger.

"What will you do then?" Smaug demanded, his lips drawn back in a snarl that bared fangs longer than Bard's arm. "Will you try and slay me once again, when the first time wasn't enough? I wonder how you'll do it. Do you think the Elves will fight for you? They didn't fight for the Dwarves, why should they care about such a rabble as you've brought here? Men die so swiftly in their eyes."

"They are our friends!" The words were barely a whisper and yet felt like a victory.

Smaug threw back his head on his long neck and roared with laughter. "Why should they be your friends, when you bring me with you? I will follow you, Dragonslayer, no matter where you go. Your life is tied to me until the end of time itself."

Everything seemed to blur for a moment, and when he could focus again Bard saw the square filled with those who'd escaped the inferno of Lake-town and the chaos of battle. Hilda stood by the fountain and Percy just behind her; Kyrre and his wife were a little further back, along with Ingjerd, Mara and Alin. He knew the name to every face now and they all looked at him with such trust. Bain waved at him from the middle of the crowd.

"Run!" Bard gasped but they didn't hear him and somehow didn't see the dragon looming just behind them. "Please, run! You must run!"

They didn't react.

"You think you can stop me, Dragonslayer?" Smaug jeered and rose up, wings spreading as he drew a deep breath that made his chest glow like embers in the hearth. "You think I will be merciful?" The last word was spat out like a bit of gristle. "You think I will spare them?"

Another deep inhalation, like the roar of a storm out on the lake, and then there was nothing anymore but fire and death.

Bard came awake gasping for air, heart pounding in his chest. For a moment he wasn't certain where he was, until he remembered Dale and the house they'd put him in, and the bed he was sleeping in alone these days.

He forced himself to calm down despite the stench of dragon in his nose. An illusion, it had to be. Just a dream, and not even the first time he'd had that kind of nightmare. Many among the people dreamed of that last night in Lake-town, even if few would admit to it if asked. But Hilda knew such things and she'd mentioned them to Bard because it was something he was supposed to be aware of.

A dream. Not real. And yet he only felt calmer once he'd gotten out of bed and pushed open the shutters of the window so he could see the roof of the great hall and be sure that no dragon was perching there. The only figure he spotted was that of an Elf up on the highest belltower, armour shimmering in the moonlight.

He stood there for a little while, until the freezing night air became too much to bear. Not real, he reminded himself once more as he closed the shutters again so he wouldn't waste more heat. Not real. The dragon was dead, everyone was alive and well in their beds this night.

And yet he found himself in the narrow hallway and in front of Bain's bedroom door without quite knowing how he'd gotten there. Carefully he pushed it open, trying not to make a noise, and breathed a quiet sigh of relief when he saw Bain's sleeping shape in the dim light of the single lamp he'd left burning.

By the time the first light of dawn began to brighten the sky he gave up on the sleep that had eluded him all night, shrugged on his clothes and headed down to their latest rebuilding project in Steep Street. The next few hours he spent sorting through piles of bricks, throwing out the broken ones and neatly stacking those that could be re-used, and did his best to not think of dragons.

The idea of using messenger birds was highly fascinating in theory, turned out to be a lot more difficult to put into practice.

Bard hadn't given it too much thought when he had seen Thranduil with the jay. Give the message to the bird, tell it where to go, watch it fly off. That should have been simple.

Thranduil had, however, failed to tell him how to actually attract a bird to give it a message in the first place.

"This is ridiculous," Bard muttered under his breath as he attempted to sneak up on a promising-looking crow he'd spotted on a pile of rubble in an abandoned smaller square.

The crow took flight as soon as it saw him coming and landed again a few feet away.

Bard heaved a sigh and slowly continued his approach. "Look, I'm not going to eat you," he told the bird.

The bird was unimpressed and fluttered up to land on the edge of the nearest roof. It cawed down at him, and Bard didn't need to be able to understand it to catch the meaning.

"I need you to take a message to the Elvenking for me."

The crow cocked its head and looked at him. Bard took that as a good sign.

"Tell him that Tauriel has been found, and that she is under my protection for now," he said. "Ask him what he wants me to do with her. Tell him that Imrahil is not being helpful in this matter because he has no idea how to handle this."

The crow's caw at that sounded a bit like laughter.

"And if you see my daughters… Tell them they are loved, and that they're sorely missed."

With that he sent the crow off and was left to wonder whether the bird had truly understood what he'd asked of it.

Bard kept a fairly close eye on Tauriel for the following days, as much as his other duties allowed. He wasn't certain what he'd expected her to do - keep away from the bustle in the streets during the daytime, perhaps, or even attempt to leave the town. But she simply, quietly fell into step with the people as if she had been there from the beginning. He knew she spent some of her time in one of the empty houses that overlooked the plain and gave her a view of the Lonely Mountain, that she was accepting food when it was offered to her and that she helped when climbing shaky rooftops was required. Once Bard had seen her speak to Imrahil, but that conversation had looked less than comfortable for both of them. She never talked to the other Elves and did not even attempt to make contact, and neither did they.

The crow returned three days later and reported its success in delivering the message. It also carried brief greetings from Sigrid and Tilda and assurances that all was fine with them, as well as Thranduil's response.

Bard found that a little hard to believe. "Is that really all he said?"

"He says that she is no concern of his," the crow dutifully repeated and managed to sound cranky, which was an impressive feat for a bird. "He thanks you for taking her in and says that he believes Dale needs new people, and that you're welcome to her."

"That's helpful," Bard muttered, then yelped when the crow pecked at his hand.

The crow cawed at him. "It's what he said."

"Yes, yes. Thank you for carrying the message." Bard offered the crow a bit of lembas from his pocket that had been intended as yesterday's lunch and forgotten. The bird seized it carefully with its beak and took off, leaving Bard behind to wonder just what to do with Dale's first official Elf.

Over the next week, the winter Thranduil had warned Bard about firmly settled in. For three days the snow didn't stop falling, and it was all the people of Dale could do to keep at least a few pathways cleared to let them move back and forth between the buildings that were in use. The Dwarves couldn't make the short trek across the valley for over a week, and any and all rebuilding that had to be done in the open came to a complete standstill in the meantime.

An almost complete silence settled over Dale for the first time since the arrival of the refugees from Lake-town, and if it hadn't been for the smoke from the restored chimneys, the city would have looked as if it were still abandoned. Even the Elves stayed indoors if they were not on watch duty.

The sudden change in pace made everybody pause, take stock and make decisions that went beyond a handful of days. Housing arrangements were re-done, temporary co-habitation either turning permanent or dissolving again. In most cases it happened quietly, as if hardly anyone had the energy to spare to make a scene. And if some of the new arrangements were less than conventional, that same lack of energy kept any disapproval to a minimum.

Bard didn't notice much of a slow-down in his days; he merely shifted from rushing around in the streets to dealing with all manner of problems indoors, and the hall in his house turned into Dale's new semi-official gathering place. At least it was warmer than meeting outside in the main square.

Slowly but surely they were gaining an overview of their situation. Bard had set Bain to count everybody currently living in Dale, figure out what their profession had been and how to best put them to use in the coming months. That census was coming along more quickly than he'd expected and within a handful of days Bain handed him a complete list of everybody lucky enough to have survived the destruction of Lake-town and the battle against the Orcs, as well as stubborn enough to have decided to stick around.

It gave them a first proper look at an issue Bard had suspected for a while now. Too few men had made it through. Lake-town's women were capable, he had no doubt where that was concerned, and plenty of them had done the same work as their husbands and brothers. But it left them with the very simple problem that when it came down to physical labour, they'd be without their strongest hands for at least half a generation until the current children were grown. Right now the Elves made up for it, but they couldn't stay forever.

After more than a week, the first group of Dwarves made it through from Erebor again to resume their work on Dale's walls. Along with their tools they also brought an urgent request for Bard to join Dáin for a discussion.

It didn't bode well.

There had been a few negotiations after Thranduil had left, but on the whole they'd agreed to shelve their remaining matters until spring. Neither Bard nor Dáin were ignorant of the fact that Thranduil was the dominant power in the region by far and that any agreements they might reach were useless if he didn't approve. Dáin grumbled more about it than Bard did, but in the end they'd both kept the Elvenking at least informed of what was being talked about.

Besides, the last time the Dwarves had requested an urgent talk, Bard had ended up with an Elf he still didn't know what to do about.

There was no way to avoid it, however, and so he sat in one of Erebor's smaller halls the next day, Dáin and Balin on the other side of the table.

Greetings were exchanged, ale was offered and duly accepted, then Dáin cut to the heart of the matter.

"We've had a messenger," he said. "Claimed to come from Lake-Town."

Bard sighed inwardly. It clearly would have been too much to ask that Alfrid had decided against pursuing his plans. "What did they want?"

"Their share of the gold Smaug stole and which Thorin promised to them."

He shivered at hearing the dragon's name. Dead, he reminded himself, no matter what a few dreams might tell him.

Dáin leaned back in his chair, his arms folded over his chest as he regarded Bard. "It's part of your share, lad, so I don't know why this should be my problem."

"It's your gold." He wondered whether he might give back all that Dale didn't need to survive. The gold was cursed, he was certain of it; anyone who took what wasn't their right to take would suffer for it.

Balin shook his head. "According to the contract we signed with you as the representative of Dale, the share you received encompasses the claims of Dale for the destruction when Smaug arrived, any gold that might have been stolen from your city by the dragon in the following years until now, as well as reparation payments for Lake-town. As far as we can determine, this new demand concerns the latter. Dale claims to be the successor of Lake-town, so all claims revert to you since the majority of the people has settled with you and they've acclaimed you their lord."

Resting his hands on the cold stone surface of the table between them, Bard leaned forward and inwardly cursed Alfrid and his damned insistence on being a sodding pain in the arse. "What do you expect me to do?" he asked.

"Tell us whether you want to share with them or not," Dáin said. "No need to make this complicated."

There was more gold than Dale could possibly need in the coming hundred generations or more. Bard had seen it and still had trouble believing that so much gold existed, let alone that he was the one expected to keep it safe in the name of his people. But that was the issue, wasn't it? He needed to keep it safe, and he had seen what the Master had done with the wealth he'd taken from the people. Alfrid had been part of that, and everybody had known that he'd turned into the driving force behind it all, with the hope of one day taking the Master's mantle for himself. If Bard gave him part of the gold now, it wouldn't end up doing anything but line a few very select pockets.

"What exactly did they tell you?" he asked.

Balin shrugged. "About the gold? That they hold a claim in the name of Lake-town and that you told them to come and speak with us. Which, like I said, is not correct. You are the representative for any and all claims Men might have upon us, and we've settled with you already. I imagine you'll have a visitor before long."

"I'm looking forward to it," Bard said dryly. "And I will attempt to settle this."

Dáin gave an amused huff. "Good luck with that, lad, I don't think they'll wait for you to come up with a fair division."

Eyes narrowed, Bard waited. Dáin was shrewd enough not to make such comments without reason, and Bard had learned to wait him out, which could take hours depending on how tempted any participating Elvenkings were to trade insults.

"They've made us an offer, too," Dáin continued, his gaze firmly on Bard. "Not for the gold, but for supplies. Seems like they think they can deliver food once the snow's gone, and run transports from Erebor to the Iron Hills. They also want to trade for whatever we might mine or forge."

Bard shook his head. "They can't have horses and carts for it. Or boats, practically all the barges were destroyed, it's going to take them at least a year until they've got enough of them set up."

Dale needed the trade links with the Dwarves. It was the only reason why the city had been established in the first place, as Erebor's contact point with the wider world. The Dwarves had never been particularly interested in handling the commercial side of their achievements in Erebor, and hadn't cared at all about matters like farming or trading for other goods. Dale had supplied the Lonely Mountain for centuries, had kept the Dwarves fed and outfitted them with whatever they might need. And in return Erebor's ore and metalwork had been sold through Dale.

If whatever settlement Alfrid was establishing down at the lake poached that trade from them, Dale had no reason to exist. They'd manage to carry on, what with piles of gold up to the ceilings in the Lonely Mountain's vast vaults. But there would be no point in it. Why have a city that served no purpose?

Balin cleared his throat, drawing Bard's attention. "We haven't made any agreements with them. But if their offer is competitive…"

"A low price doesn't make them reliable," Bard countered. "I know the river trade, I know what can and should be asked."

"In that case," Dáin said, "I'm sure you can make us a better offer."

As soon as Bard was back in Dale, he recruited the most capable assistant he could think of.

"What exactly am I supposed to do about your talks with the Dwarves?" Percy wanted to know when Bard dragged him away from his fireside chat and into his study.

"Juggle a few apples to distract them while I nick Bofur's hat, of course." Bard offered him one of the chairs, then sat down himself.

Percy cocked his head. "Really?"

Bard gave him a look.

"It wouldn't be the strangest thing you've done lately, you've got to admit that." Percy dropped onto the chair. "So what's it you need? My wisdom? My moral support? My virility?"

"It would be a lost cause if I had to rely on any of that," Bard muttered and poured himself a cup of wine, then another one for Percy. He was beginning to see why Thranduil was fond of the stuff.

Percy grinned. "My good looks, then," he said and reached for the cup, frowning when he saw the contents. "You think you can talk to the Elves about leaving us ale rather than wine?"

"I'm not sure they know what ale actually is." Bard had seen Thranduil drink it when the Dwarves had offered, but never more than the sip required to honour the offered hospitality.

"Explains much about them." Percy leaned back and watched Bard for a few moments. "So what is it? I'm guessing you don't need me just to drink with you. Not that I'd mind."

"I need your knowledge. You've been Lake-town's portmaster, I need you to tell me all you remember about fees and fares."

Percy's eyebrows rose. "That's going to take a while."

"Good. The more you remember, the better."

"Narrow it down a bit, or we'll be here all night." Percy drank from his wine and pulled a face at the taste, then had another sip before he put the cup down again. "It's a bit soon to think about tariffs, isn't it?"

"I'm not going to tax anyone when we still don’t have everybody under roofs that don’t leak. But we'll need to figure out a contract with the Dwarves about transports, and the sooner we get that done, the better."

"You should know that, you've been ferrying stuff all your life."

"Only for the Elves in the last few years, and part of that payment was in empty barrels." Which had been sufficient to keep Bard and his family fed and warm most of the time, and had let him stay within a day's journey of home while his children had been too small to be left alone for longer times. "I need to know what was usually paid for what freight."

Percy considered that. "You're aware that it doesn't quite compare, right? I know the fares for transport on the river, but we'll need to figure out what the difference is between that and getting stuff up to here. We'll need carts, for one thing, and there'll have to be a dock somewhere to load and unload cargo. Makes things complicated."

"Could we go upriver?"

"If you can get our Dwarf friends to repair the canals, probably. Old Dale had a waterway network that ran down to the lake." Percy had another mouthful of wine, looking thoughtful as he swallowed. "Don't think you want to suggest that to them right now, though, if you want them to finish Dale first. I saw the canal locks on our way up and they didn't look like there was much left. That's going to take a while to fix."

"But it could be done?"

"Those Dwarves hollowed out an entire mountain, I don't think a canal is too tricky for them. The little buggers would probably do it just for the heck of it if you tell them you don't think it can be done."

"Let's keep that in mind. Now all I need to know is what we need to charge for transports to the Dwarves."

Percy shook his head, chuckling. "You realise that's mostly going to be guesswork?"

"Just give me some kind of idea, I'm not asking for more. I need a basis so I can keep talking to Dáin."

Percy watched him. "Why now? We won't have the manpower to spare for quite a while yet."

Bard hesitated. Percy had never been among the Master's followers; he'd kept his head down and done his best to assist Lake-town's smugglers by looking the other way and dropping hints whenever possible. And ever since their arrival in Dale, he'd firmly supported Bard's decisions and carried out whatever needed to be done. He could be trusted, but it still didn't come easily to be open. If there was one lesson Bard had learned over the past years, it had been to keep his plans to himself if he didn't want more trouble than strictly necessary.

Avoiding trouble was, admittedly, no longer an option these days. More importantly than that, keeping secrets had been the Master's way, and if there was one rule Bard had set himself for this whole sodding lordship business, it was that he would never be like that.

"Alfrid's decided to go and offer the Dwarves contracts," he said.

"And we're not going to let him?"

Bard sighed. "It's going to hurt those who've decided to stay at the lake. But if he does it, we might as well give up Dale. The city can't run on the dragon's hoard forever."

Percy shrugged. "Let them figure it out," he said, reaching for a scrap of paper and a quill. "And until then, let's figure out a few facts."

The weeks came and went while they slowly established routines and order in Dale. Midwinter Day saw a small feast, their best effort to mark the new year with the limited supplies they had. The Elves joined the party, if not the collective mild hangover the next morning, though Bard assumed they'd seen worse over the years. He'd certainly ferried enough wine up the Forest River over the years to get the entire population of Mirkwood properly drunk a few times over.

It helped to bring the Elves closer to the people of Dale. There had been a noticeable distance despite them being allies, in part because there had never been that much contact between them all. Lake-town hadn't been very welcoming to visitors for a long time, and not many of its people had ventured into Mirkwood. As the winter went on, some of the people even opened their homes to Elves they had befriended, and Bard quietly wondered whether they'd be seeing any lasting effects of this down the road.

Bard kept to his habit of being out and about the city as much as he could whenever the weather allowed. He'd done the same in Lake-town, though partly because being cooped up in a small house with nothing to do had simply never appealed to him in any way. Being surrounded by others let him gauge the mood and see if anything was amiss; in Lake-town at times it had been depressing, though he'd never been able to look away. It had gotten him into plenty of trouble whenever he hadn't managed to keep his mouth shut and his head down.

It still got him into trouble these days, though in other ways.

He felt, more than saw, Imrahil pounce on him from the top of the wall he'd just passed.

"Oh come on!" he gasped as he desperately twisted to throw himself backwards, out of the way. "Really?"

Imrahil landed in a light crouch before him, casually spinning a long dagger in his left hand. "Careless," he drawled. "Once again."

Bard glanced left and right, but there was no immediate escape route open. On his left was a wall, and on his right one of the smaller fountains that he wasn't even going to attempt to cross, because being soaking wet wasn't a humiliation he needed to add. Turning around wasn't an option unless he wanted to end up on his front rather than his back this time.

Smirking, Imrahil gave him the time to determine the hopelessness of his position, then took a step forward. "You should pay more attention." Then he lounged at Bard.

Only to be knocked aside just before reaching him.

Bard, already braced for impact, blinked when he didn't land on his arse for once.

"He isn't the only one," Tauriel hissed, her eyes on Imrahil as she moved between him and Bard, blocking his angle of attack. "My Lord."

It was the first time Bard had seen Imrahil genuinely startled, though he almost immediately slipped back into faintly disdained amusement. Tauriel, on the other hand, held herself straight with tension, shifting her stance as soon as Imrahil as much as twitched.

For long moments they remained where they were, tense like two cats whose paths had unexpectedly crossed. Then Imrahil took a half step forward, and before Bard could decide whether that was a smart or foolish move, Tauriel had her daggers drawn and charged at him.

Seeing Elves fight was impressive for their sheer speed and agility. Bard hadn't paid much attention to them during the battle because he'd been occupied with other concerns, like not getting slaughtered by Orcs, but there had been a few opportunities lately to see them on the practice ground. Those instances, however, had mostly been against Men to assist in creating something like a militia for Dale, and it had been about training so the Elves had held back.

That Imrahil was holding back at first was obvious; he let Tauriel's attack come and blocked it easily, knocking her dagger aside with his own as he pivoted and she lunged past him, scrambling to turn around against her momentum. It repeated a few times until Imrahil suddenly moved from mere side-stepping into an attack so swift that it caught Tauriel off-guard and sent her stumbling.

She recovered immediately, stepping far enough back to gain herself a moment to reassess the situation, then went for Imrahil again in a blur of motion too fast for Bard to see the details. He could tell that neither of them were hesitating anymore now but that they were fighting at the best of their abilities, honed by centuries of practice.

Bard also became aware that Imrahil was still trying to get past Tauriel and through to him, and that he was slowly but surely pushing her back, one step at a time.

"Damn it, Princess," he muttered, casting about for something, anything to do. He could run to save himself - and probably should do so, in Imrahil's opinion - but that was never going to happen.

He wasn't going to wade into the whirlwind that was the two fighting Elves with a knife, that had to be a recipe for someone getting accidentally injured. Throwing stones seemed petty, and simply ordering them to stop was hardly going to work when Imrahil barely listened to him at the best of times.

Bard did the most logical thing. He grabbed one of the buckets that sat waiting by the fountain, plunged it into the freezing cold basin, then swung it to throw the water at the Elves in a wide arch.

The effect was immediate. Tauriel and Imrahil startled apart, both of them occupied with suddenly getting soaked, and it was enough for Bard to reach in and grab Tauriel's arm to haul her backwards and put himself between them.

"Enough!" he bellowed, reaching for the tone that had always been enough to put an end to squabbles between the children. "Believe it or not, but I've actually got more important matters to deal with!"

Imrahil shook himself and drew himself up straight. "This is an important matter!"

"You didn't get to kill me this time, I'd say I'm doing well." Folding his arms, Bard met his eyes and refused to back down despite the fact that irate Elves were a rather frightening sight to behold.

"Only because you had help."

"Which you've been nagging me about for weeks now." Bard glanced at Tauriel, who was quietly wiping her sleeve across her wet face. "Don't complain, Princess, just admit that you lost."

Imrahil stared at him, then muttered something in Elvish that was bound to be highly uncomplimentary and stalked off.

"I'm not sure this was wise," Tauriel offered when Imrahil was out of sight and presumably out of even Elven earshot.

Bard shrugged. "I've given up on being wise around Elves, it never quite works the way I'd like it to. He's been trying so hard to show me how easy it would be to kill me, it's nice to see him thwarted so thoroughly for once. Thank you for that."

Tauriel sheathed her daggers with a swift twirl of her wrists, her eyes on the dark splashes of water on the ground. "I didn't realise what he was doing. I wouldn't have interfered if I'd known he wasn't truly attempting to do you harm."

"You thought he really was out for blood?" The idea was more than a little disconcerting. Bard had been aware from the start that Imrahil was more than just displeased at being ordered to stay in Dale, and he knew that the Elf wasn't particularly fond of Dale's ragtag crowd. But it had never occurred to him that Imrahil might actually attempt to do him harm beyond proving a point.

"For a moment I did," Tauriel said, but she didn't sound convinced.

Bard considered it, then shook his head. "No. He's an arrogant bastard with a stick up his arse, but I don't think he would."

"You have known him for a handful of weeks, and you trust him that much?"

It didn't take much to hear the real question behind her words. Tauriel had been treated well in Dale, but she'd been an outsider since her first day, partly because she'd kept herself at a distance, partly because nobody had been entirely sure where she fit in. The Elves ignored her most of the time, though Bard had seen them watch her when she'd not been looking. To the people of Dale she just was one Elf among many and didn't warrant particular attention when she kept quiet while some of the others made efforts to befriend the Men they found themselves in such close quarters with.

It occurred to Bard that she might be lonely.

"He hasn't given me any reason not to trust him," he told her. "Despite his occasional attempts to stab me, but I seem to have that effect on a lot of people."

A hint of a smile crossed her face. "I wonder why."

Bard grinned at her. "A complete mystery," he said. "He claims it's to teach me to be more cautious, but I think he's simply enjoying himself most of the time. Not that he'd ever admit to that."

Tauriel considered that. "He is right."

Bard sighed. "Don't you start as well. I'm not going to make someone follow me around just in case that demented Elf decides to try and pounce me like a mouse. Surely everyone's got to have something better to do around here."

She hesitated, then raised her chin to meet his eyes. "Not everyone," she said quietly.

Bard held her gaze and waited.

"I don't," she continued.

There were plenty of tasks to be dealt with in Dale, but Bard had to admit that Tauriel might have a point. She didn't fit in with the Elves anymore, and didn't fit yet with the Men. And while he knew that she kept busy, there were no duties she truly called her own from day to day.

"Would you like to?" he asked.

She looked at him, and he saw the uncertainty in her eyes.

"It might stop Imrahil from actually stabbing me one of these days. And with so many Elves here, I could use someone to explain the occasional… difference, you might say."

Her eyebrows rose. "Difference?"

"There were twenty naked Elves in the big fountain yesterday evening," Bard said, and still felt baffled at the thought. "Cheerful, naked Elves. There was singing. I don't know about Elves, but in my experience people don't look that happy in the middle of winter when they're chin deep in icy water."

The corner of her mouth twitched. "They must have set up a steam room somewhere. It's customary in winter, a way to pass the time and keep clean."

"Of course, the Elvish fascination with baths, how could I forget," Bard said with a roll of his eyes. He appreciated being clean, he wasn't going to lie about that, and the Elves had left a generous supply of soap much finer than anything that had ever been available in Lake-town. But there was being clean, and then there was the Elvish obsession with bathing twice a day that Thranduil exhibited. Bard had been a little bemused at that despite the opportunity it had afforded him to watch that graceful body all wet and relaxed.

Tauriel tilted her head to the side. "Not everybody likes being dirty."

"It's not so much a matter of liking dirt as disliking cold water in winter," Bard said. "But it explains why the Elves are so concerned about fixing the baths. I'm not going to ask whether it's more because they miss it, or because we all smell bad."

"You might not like the answer," Tauriel said, and there definitely was a smile on her face now.

"Elves," Bard muttered. "But truly, if you are in need of something to do, I could probably use someone who keeps Imrahil from killing me and who can explain the strange ways of Elves."

She nodded. "Important tasks."

"Until someone needs a roof fixed somewhere."

"You're the Lord of Dale, you should have a guard."

Bard shrugged. "Doesn't help much when it rains into your porridge while you sit in the kitchen." Still, it would give her something to do and it would hopefully shut up Imrahil, at least for a little while until he found something else to be irritated about.

Tauriel shot him a disapproving look. "Appearances matter," she said. "I have to agree with Lord Imrahil on that, even if his methods may be a little strange at times."

"That's one way to put it. So, interested?"

She was honest enough to take a moment and consider it, then nodded once again. "I will be honoured."

Bard gave her a lopsided smile. "Don't worry, that won't last long."

Bard had climbed the heights of Ravenhill a few times when the Dwarves had permitted it. The hill was their territory, and ever since Thorin and his nephews had died there it had taken on something of a mythical air for them. They'd never suffer a dragon there and yet here Smaug was, the fire in his breath melting the ice that covered the River Running's source. His claws left deep gouges in the rock and the ground shook when he stalked forward, wings spread and that huge head held high on the curving neck.

"Tell me, Dragonslayer," Smaug snarled at him, the words dripping with mockery, "how will you slay me twice?"

"I've done it once, I can find a way." This time Bard didn't waste his strength on struggling against what held him still. Fear still made his heartbeat surge, but it was edged with anger. He'd slain that dragon, that was supposed to be enough when it had come at such a cost. "You aren't here. You are at the bottom of the lake and nothing more than a rotting carcass. The Mountain's lost to you."

"The Dwarves think the Mountain is theirs," Smaug growled, long tail lashing out like a whip. Behind him, the watchtower crumbled with a deafening rumble of falling stones. "But there's only one King under the Mountain, and mine is the crown. The halls know me. The rock knows me." He swung his head around, showing his teeth in a grin that sent shivers down Bard's spine. "The gold knows me. They may call it dragon sickness when it twists their simple minds until they cannot judge friend from foe. Perhaps I'll wait until they tear each other apart in their greed."

"They won't!" But he'd seen what the gold had done with Thorin. Dáin might be more resilient than his cousin, but could they ever be sure?

Smaug's head came level with Bard's so one enormous golden eye could watch him, unblinking and uncaring. "Will you take that risk? A whispered thought in the false king's mind would be all that's needed to turn them against each other, and then against you." He chuckled, a terrifying grumble deep in his throat. "I'll wait. Anger and hate makes them taste all the sweeter." Another snarling laugh, then Smaug raised his wings and Bard saw Tauriel kneeling behind him on the rocky ground, head bent and buried in her hands. "I'll have her until then, homeless and friendless. It might be a mercy."

"Never," Bard growled, and for a moment he felt his hands curl into fists. "She's got a home. She's got friends."

"Are you so certain about that?" Smaug asked, tail lashing out. "Where are they? Who'll defend her if she won't do it for herself? You, Dragonslayer? When you bring me with you?" The leathery wings spread again, blocking out all light. "Fool. You will never be rid of me, in sleep or when you’re awake."

Bard couldn’t have said what it was that woke him at that point. But in the darkness of his room, it took him almost until morning to be certain that no dragon was lurking in the shadows.

Snow continued to fall throughout winter, even as the days grew longer again. The road between Dale and Erebor turned into a narrow path framed by snow walls higher than a man's head, and parts of the town were inaccessible for weeks at a time. Despite the limitations and complications it also felt peaceful and enforced a focus on their immediate surroundings. When there was nowhere to go, people had to deal with what was right in front of them.

They ended up with plenty of arguments and even physical fights throughout the winter, but fortunately for all of them, none were truly catastrophic. A few more lines were quietly drawn, a few more relations rearranged, but they all came out of the winter a stronger community than they had been before.

Bain kept growing over the winter, a small but constant confusion for Bard, who imagined he could watch his son become taller by the week. In the autumn, Bain had come up to Bard's chin if he stood straight; now he was barely a hand's width shorter. He had also gotten caught up in a small fight of dominance between Elves and Dwarves quite by accident once word got out that Imrahil was teaching him swordplay. Apparently it was inconceivable that the heir to Dale should be taught only by the pointy-ears, or so the Dwarves claimed. Therefore Bain now divided his time between Dale, where he practiced with Imrahil, and the halls of Erebor to learn more Dwarvish ways of fighting. It was an odd quirk of politics that Bard would never have expected to intrude in their lives.

Another bit of diplomacy had a more sudden impact on him when the first Elves from Mirkwood managed to get through to Dale again without having to walk the entire distance. Supply carts were not possible yet with the roads as muddy as they were, but Feren and his handful of riders carried plenty of news from those who'd spent the winter with the Elves.

"I'm to tell you that your daughters are well," Feren told Bard once the official greetings had been dealt with. "King Thranduil has grown quite fond of them."

"He'll still have to give them back," Bard said, gratefully accepting a letter from Sigrid and itching to open it here and now in the square. They'd sent a few birds back and forth lately, but there was a limit to how much information their feathered brains could retain. And while it was marvellous to have birds as messengers, there was something to be said about the solidity of paper. Bard kept his daughters’ letters safe, little reminders that they were well and protected. With messages carried as nothing but words repeated by a bird he couldn’t do the same. "Has he said anything about when it's going to be possible for them to travel?"

Feren nodded. "That is my second message to deliver to you. He requests your presence in his halls and suggests that at this opportunity you can bring back at least some of your people."

Bard frowned. "Why not all?"

"That is for the king to say, but I believe not all of them may want to leave immediately." Feren paused. "King Thranduil wishes you to appear before his council."

"His council? Why?"

A faint look of impatience settled on Feren's face. "That is for the king to tell you."

Bard had dealt with Thranduil's war council in the autumn, but those had been his generals. The worst among that bunch had been Imrahil, and even he was someone Bard felt he could handle by now. But he suspected from what rumours he'd heard that the regular council that assisted Thranduil in ruling his kingdom would be a bit more complicated. Once more he wondered what he'd done to deserve having to handle these kinds of matters. Not run quickly enough for the hills when the people had decided to settle him with this sodding lordship, probably.

They left for Mirkwood two days later, as soon as Bard was reasonably certain that he could leave the people of Dale to their own devices for a few days. They'd be fine, he knew that, but he still felt as if he were abandoning his duties and it didn't sit well with him.

"You're doing this on behalf of Dale," Percy told him just before he was supposed to leave. "It's not like you're in for nothing but fun and pleasure while we're breaking our backs here."

Bard had been harbouring certain hopes about the reunion with his children and the Elvenking, so he kept his mouth shut.

"And to be honest," Percy went on, either truly or deliberately ignorant about certain matters, "I'd much rather keep an eye on Dale for a week or two than go and face a council full of Elves. Our Elves are all fine and good, but they're normal ones, not posh ones. You're good with the Elvenking, you'll handle the other ones. And Bain and I'll just keep things running here."

So Bard rode off to Mirkwood that day, surrounded by Feren's company as a guard. It was a slow journey; at times they had to walk the horses when the ground turned too treacherous, and often enough the animals sank hock deep into the mud where the road had turned into a swamp with the melting snow. It became easier once they reached the edge of the forest, where the path had been maintained by the Elves and was more suited to swifter riding. They passed the small loading dock where Bard had anchored so often, delivering goods to the Elves or waiting to collect empty barrels from the river. A past life now, though he still spotted a few lengths of rope and a half-shattered crate he'd left behind that last time he'd been here before the winter, when he'd hoped to earn some more coin by smuggling passengers.

If only he'd known what would come of that.

The sun hung low in the sky when they reached the gates to the Elvenking's halls, still as grand as Bard remembered them from his only journey here so far. That had been more than twenty years ago, when he'd been brought here to negotiate the continuation of his father's ferrying contract with Galion. He hadn't warranted the Elvenking's personal attention then, so this was the first time he saw more of his halls than just the small chamber right off the entrance where he'd stood all those years ago, feeling scruffy and unimportant.

Once again it struck him how bright and airy the halls were. He'd seen much of the Dwarves' halls in Erebor over the last months; those were impressive and almost awe-inspiring with their massive columns and monumental arches, the light from lamps reflected off the dark, polished rock, the ceilings so high that they were shrouded in darkness. The Elves, too, had carved their halls underground, but they were as different from those of the Dwarves as the two peoples were.

Bard followed Feren along the length of the vast cavern and tried not to be too obvious about looking around. Beams of daylight made the space almost as bright as the outside, and the curving pillars were like the roots and branches of a forest. The floor matched that impression, rising and falling, twisting and turning like a pathway through the trees, and the lingering scent of clean water, leaves and earth completed the sensation. He even caught the murmur of brooks somewhere below the arched walkways, and small waterfalls cascaded down the walls.

Elves. Small wonder they weren't particularly concerned about leaky roofs when waterfalls in the bedchamber were what they were used to.

They climbed low, winding stairs up to a wider platform surrounded by slender columns of stone shaped to look like wood. Another set of stairs wound its way even higher, up to the throne of carved wood and antlers from where Thranduil watched them approach, sprawled on his seat with his legs crossed at the knee, the very image of regal, haughty amusement in his robes of blue and gold.

"My Lord," Feren said as he stepped before the throne and bowed. "Lord Bard of Dale, as you requested."

"Da!"

Bard's head snapped to the left where a few Elves stood on a raised dais, and with them two shorter figures in colourful Elvish clothes.

"Tilda! Sigrid!"

They threw themselves at him before he could do more than take a step forward and reach out, holding on to him. He threw his arms around them and hugged them as tightly as he could, pressing kisses to the crowns of their heads while he whispered their names.

"We've missed you," Sigrid murmured, her face buried against the crook of his neck. Bard drew her even closer, unwilling to let them both go again. His girls in his arms after long months; he couldn't care less about the Elves around them. They were immortal, they could wait while he made sure his daughters were well.

"Da," Tilda sighed happily, her fingers tugging at the collar of his coat and he bent to lift her up even though she was getting too big for it, her weight so reassuring to him.

"They must have been feeding you well," he told her with a smile before pressing their cheeks together.

She wriggled a little until she settled against his hip. "The Elves are nice," she said. "And kind."

"They've been good to us," Sigrid confirmed her little sister's words. "But I'm so glad you're here, Da."

Bard just held them, so happy to have them back. He knew it had been for the best to send them here for the winter, but it had been so hard not to see them, not to know if they were healthy and well. He became aware of someone stepping close to them but didn't take his attention off his daughters, not yet. After being away from them for so long, anything else could wait, diplomatic mannerisms be damned.

"Tilda," he heard Thranduil say her name, followed by some quiet words in Sindarin.

Tilda straightened and twisted away from Bard, happily chatting back in the same language. It gave him pause, though what had he expected? Of course she was bound to pick up more than a few words over the winter.

"We'll show him the way," Sigrid said, also straightening to glance at the Elvenking. "And we'll bring him for dinner."

"Do so," Thranduil told her.

Bard carefully set Tilda down and met his eyes. "Thank you," he said and didn't have to work on letting his voice show just how grateful he was.

Thranduil quirked an eyebrow at him. "I bid you welcome to my realm, Lord of Dale. We shall speak later."

Bard simply raised his eyebrows right back at him, Sigrid and Tilda leaning against his sides. "We shall."

The hours until evening passed in a blink. His daughters showed him around, excitedly telling him about the months they'd spent here and all the small and large adventures they'd had. Seeing them happy eased the guilt in Bard's heart he'd felt all winter about sending them away. They clearly had missed being with their family as much as he and Bain had, but they hadn't suffered for it. And they looked to be in much better shape than they would have been after a winter on the lake, when those grim, cold months had always left them all pale and lean until spring. Thanks to the Elves' help, even the winter in Dale had been easier in comparison despite the chaos and constant need for improvisation, and sending their more vulnerable people off to Mirkwood had clearly been the best they could have done.

They had changed, both of them. There were the obvious differences: just like Bain they had both grown, and Tilda now wore her hair in Elvish braids to match her new clothes. They moved with a different balance to their steps, perhaps due to the training with sword and daggers they had been given during the winter. Apparently Imrahil wasn't the only one who considered it necessary to make sure even children could defend themselves. Clearly the Elves, too, were no strangers to hard lives.

There also were smaller, less visible changes. Sigrid had always been quiet, but now she carried herself with more consideration and more than once Bard could tell she was deliberately thinking about her answers' effect before speaking. Tilda, on the other hand, had only grown bolder after what quite possibly had been the most carefree months in her young life.

It was also hard to miss that the Elves had been ready and willing to spoil the two of them. Bard was just thankful that his daughters were level-headed enough not to take such gifts for granted, since there was no way he'd be able to keep up. Children - and girls at that - were rare enough among the Elves that apparently half of Thranduil’s court had seized the opportunity to present them with all sorts of little tokens and tales. At least most of them knew to remain moderate, which clearly was a concept their king didn’t quite comprehend.

"I thought that when I asked you not to let Tilda sleep in the stables, it was implied that you weren't to give her a horse," he told Thranduil when they met for the evening meal.

"It's a foal, that hardly counts as a horse," Thranduil replied. "And she has only slept in the stable once."

"When the foal was born," Tilda agreed happily. "But I didn't sleep that night, so it doesn't count."

Bard attempted to imagine his youngest after a sleepless night, all excited over her own horse. He didn't feel sorry at all for what she'd probably put the Elves through the next day.

"Doesn't it have a name yet?" he asked.

Tilda shook her head. "I have to wait a few months so I know what's the best name for him, it's how the Elves do it."

Bard shot Thranduil a look that was blithely ignored. A horse, what were they supposed to do with that? She would hardly spend enough time riding to need her own. Well, at least there was plenty of space in Dale if she decided to bring it along at some point which, knowing Tilda, was practically a certainty.

"Do you know yet when we'll leave for Dale?" Sigrid wanted to know. She'd been quiet for most of the meal, letting her sister tell most of their shared tales.

Before Bard could hazard a guess, Thranduil turned towards her. "It will have to wait for a week or so. There is another storm coming that won't carry much snow, but will make the ride uncomfortable for those susceptible to the weather."

"So there will be time for another visit with the weavers?" she asked. "Almiel said they'll begin with the new tapestries and I wanted to watch."

"We shall have to call you Vairë one of these days," Thranduil said, then glanced at Tilda and added, "the Vala who remembers and weaves all the tales in Arda."

Bard sat back as his daughters asked for details and Thranduil answered them with an ease that spoke of many such shared hours. It was reassuring that they'd been so well cared for and that Thranduil had taken the time to do so personally. Sigrid and Tilda were comfortable enough around him to ask their questions and even complain when something was not sufficiently clear, and he showed them plenty of patience in his answers. Had he been like this with his own children when they had been small? Bard had seen his interactions with Imrahil and found it difficult to imagine, though mostly because casting Imrahil as anything less than a sodding annoyance in his mind was hard.

He was just mopping up crumbs of roast boar from his plate when the discussion shifted into Sindarin for a bit and he could no longer even pretend to follow it. At times his daughters clearly sought for words, Sigrid more so than Tilda, but they were proficient enough to carry a conversation about, from what words he understood, herd of deer they'd been shown a few days ago in the forest.

Thranduil briefly glanced at him as if to gauge his mood, then refilled both their cups with the light wine they'd been served. Bard met his eyes and cast him a swift smile, then gestured for them to carry on while he focused on the last bites of his meal. It deserved the attention; even before their current lembas-based diet it had been a long time since they'd been able to afford anything this rich, and he'd didn’t even know what some of these spices were.

The talk moved back to more understandable territory and eventually wound down when Tilda's energy began to flag. She'd always been an early riser, something that apparently hadn't changed; Sigrid and Bard shared knowing looks before she prodded her little sister upright and herded her to Bard's side of the table for a last hug before they both left for the night.

"You taught them Elvish?" Bard asked when the girls were gone, leaning back in his chair and toying with the last bit of bread on his plate.

"Most of my people don't speak anything but Sindarin. It would soon have become boring for your daughters here, and at their age they learn quickly." Thranduil drank from his wine, then set the cup down again. "They have been very interested in our ways."

"Tilda's always liked Elves. She stowed away on my barge a few times when she knew I had business upriver, just in case she'd be lucky and see one of your patrols. We saw Legolas once on the riverbank, not that we knew who he was at the time."

Thranduil chuckled. "I do hope that was as she expected."

"Not really, he was trying to shoot arrows while hanging upside down from a branch. Then he fell off." Grinning, Bard shook his head at the memory. "I think it's given her a somewhat odd idea of what Elves are like. Hopefully she's changed her assumptions a little by now."

"I don't think she believes we Elves fall out of trees anymore." Leaning on the armrest of his chair, Thranduil shifted into a sprawl, and Bard took a lazy moment to appreciate the sight. "On the other hand, it has been difficult to dissuade her from the idea that we bathe in wine for some reason."

Bard laughed. "That might be my fault, it's how I explained your need for that many barrels of the stuff. She sneaked a taste once when one of the barrels was damaged, and she decided it's not drinkable."

"Young palates," Thranduil said with a shake of his head and a fond smile on his face. "Will you take them back to Dale with you?"

He took a moment to consider his answer. "Should I not?"

Thranduil shrugged. "It is for you to know."

Bard leaned forward. "If there is any reason why I shouldn't, I want to know," he said firmly. "I know you think clear answers and advice are a terrible thing to give, but these are my daughters. I'm not going to guess."

Thranduil raised his hand in a placating gesture. "That was not my intention to imply," he said. "There is no more danger to them now than before. I meant merely that I wouldn't be averse to hosting them for longer."

"I think I'd like them back," Bard told him. He'd leave them here if it was a matter of their safety, but otherwise he wasn't going to abandon them for even a moment longer. Not when the winter had already been unbearably long, and when Dale now was safe enough for them again. "You can have Imrahil in exchange."

Cocking his head, Thranduil cast him a quizzical look. "Has he not fulfilled his duties? That would be very unlike him."

"Oh, he's been good about his duties, that's not the problem," Bard said, absently rubbing a hand across his thigh where he still carried a bruise from Imrahil's latest practice attempt, which fortunately had been cut short by Tauriel once again. "I just wish he weren't so determined to kill me."

Thranduil's expression darkened. "He tries to kill you?" he asked, his voice hard at a sudden.

Perhaps that hadn't been the best way to put it. "Just for pretense. He's convinced someone's going to try for real one of these days and so he…" Bard waved his hand a little helplessly, "wants to show me that I need to be careful. I think." He paused. "He's also getting a lot of fun out of knocking me down on my arse. So he's not really trying to assassinate me. And he's not always successful anyway."

"I may need to have words with my son," Thranduil said, his frown deepening.

Bard reached for his wine. "Because he tries to stab me, or because he doesn't always manage?" he asked, taking a sip. Either this was a better vintage than the ones Thranduil had brought to Dale or the stuff was beginning to grow on him. It still wasn't a proper replacement for ale, but he wasn't going to complain.

"Both, naturally. If he has to make such foolish attempts, he should at least succeed."

"How reassuring," Bard muttered, though he could sense the lightening mood and was happy to go along with the shift.

"I do expect him to leave you unharmed. It would be such a shame if something happened to you."

Bard raised his eyebrows. "Would it, now?"

"Of course." Thranduil very deliberately looked him over, smirked, then rose from his chair in one fluid motion, settling his gold-threaded robe around himself with a practiced shrug. "Come. I wish to have a look at your knee."

Bard looked up at him, then got up as well, because why the heck shouldn't he. "Is that some kind of odd Elvish flirting? I wasn't aware my knees are that attractive."

Thranduil glanced at his knee, then slowly let his gaze wander upwards again. "We shall see."

He followed Thranduil back to what he figured were the private quarters of the king and his guests, as much as it could be called privacy when half the rooms were open to the wide halls. Perhaps it was a matter of habit; the Elves in Dale certainly didn't seem bothered about sharing space even though there was plenty of room to be had.

"This is all just a ploy to get me naked, isn't it?" he said when they stepped into a smaller hall that was presumably a bath and explained why Imrahil's Elves hadn't thought twice about using the fountain basins for a quick dip. Bard had considered lugging a bathtub onto a battlefield preposterous when he'd encountered one in Thranduil's tent. Now he had to revise that opinion - clearly the Elvenking had suffered much hardship and deprivation if this was what he was used to. The basin was easily wide enough to swim a few strokes, even if it seemed almost sacrilegious to do something so mundane when surrounded by that much elegance. Intricately carved columns rose up like trees to the ceiling, crafted with more detail than Bard could really see in the soft, warm light from the lamps along the walls that were covered in murals finer than anything he’d seen in his life so far. In Bard’s experience, a bath meant an old barrel with lukewarm water - here he felt almost worried that he might get something dirty.

Thranduil stopped at the side of the pool, plainly amused at Bard’s astonishment over something that had to be normal for him. "It is a ploy to discover what makes you limp," he said, then came back to Bard's side in a few flowing steps, his hands tucked into the opposite sleeves of his robes. "It needn't be more."

Bard watched him approach. "Can it be?" he asked, eyebrows quirked at the almost concerned tone of voice.

"Perhaps."

Bard rolled his eyes. "Elves," he growled, letting his amusement colour his voice, "why did I expect anything else?" Then, before Thranduil could say anything in response, he reached out to cup his face and draw him into a kiss, and with that he could feel them shift back into alignment.

"Do not think that this will dissuade me," Thranduil told him, hands settling lightly against the small of Bard's back, trailing slow circles he could feel through his tunic. "I'll see that knee."

"My knee is fine." It was the bruised thigh that was the issue, but he didn't intend to point that out just now. Instead he claimed another kiss that was eagerly returned, humming contentedly when they moved closer, and he could feel the warmth of Thranduil's skin even through their layers of clothing.

Thranduil leaned back far enough for them to look at each other comfortably. "I shall be the judge of that," he said. "Off with your clothes."

"I've got the feeling that we've done that once already."

"This time I won't threaten to burn them, you should be pleased with that." Thranduil tugged at the back of Bard's tunic. "Off with them and into the water with you."

"Does it change anything if I tell you that I washed properly this morning?" Bard asked, only half serious about it. "Behind my ears and everything."

Thranduil moved in for one more kiss, which made it only more tempting to skip that whole idea of bathing in favour of looking for a more suitable place somewhere. "No," he murmured against Bard's lips and reached for the hem of his tunic. "But I'll check."

Bard took a step backwards, not quite certain whether to draw this out or be cooperative. Thranduil followed, a predatory glint to his bright grey eyes, and Bard kept moving out of sheer principle.

Then his foot came down on nothing and before he could shift his weight to his other leg, he was already stumbling.

For a moment he felt himself in the air with nothing of his body touching the ground anymore. Then he hit something hard and soft at the same time that his startled mind figured out to be water, and he barely had time to draw a sharp breath before he went under.

He came up again a moment later, sputtering and flailing until his still booted feet found the ground. Experimentally he stood up straight and found that the surprisingly warm water reached up to his chest. Pushing wet strands of hair out of his face, he glared up at Thranduil, who was watching him without even bothering to hide his amusement.

"It is customary among Elves to take off all clothes before bathing," Thranduil drawled. "Is it different among Men?"

Bard didn't dignify that with a response and instead gave in to the inevitable, raising his hands to tug open the fastenings at the collar of his tunic before the leather strings could become unworkable in the water. He wriggled out of the soaked, clinging garment with some difficulty, then tossed it at Thranduil, who casually sidestepped the missile. It landed on the stone floor behind him with a wet slap.

"You'll find a ledge carved into the pool over on that side, by the steps," Thranduil told him with a wave of his hand. "It may be easier to take off your boots there."

Bard glared up at him, then reached for the pool's wall to steady himself and stepped on the heel of his left boot with his right to try and slip out. It didn't budge; instead he lost his balance and almost went under once more before he could steady himself. This wasn't going to work, he knew that from past experience, but he'd be damned if he admitted defeat so easily.

A smirk on his face, Thranduil watched his next few attempts, then shrugged off his robe and set it aside on one of the low benches along the wall. His kaftan followed, leaving him bare-chested, and by the time he bent to unlace his knee-high boots, Bard had given up all pretense and was simply enjoying the sight. It wasn't the first time he saw Thranduil undress, but so far he hadn't been afforded such a splendid view. The boots came off, then the shimmering, tight-fitting breeches, and Bard decided that perhaps he wasn't quite that irritated by Elvish obsessions with bathing anymore. Clearly aware of his audience, Thranduil gave him a slow, lingering look and swiftly tied his long, pale hair back in a loose braid, twisting it up at the nape of his neck in the kind of effortless knot Bard had never managed for his daughters when his assistance had still been required.

Stepping into the bath in a considerably less dramatic fashion than Bard had done, Thranduil once more gestured for him to take a seat.

"You aren't going to toss me into your bath every time you want my clothes off, are you?" Bard asked as he hoisted himself up on the underwater ledge. Around them the water rippled in small waves, lapping at the basin’s edges.

"It's hardly my fault that your balance is so poor," Thranduil countered, reaching into the water to lift Bard's leg. A few firm tugs and his left boot finally came off with a splash of water, followed by the right. "Now show me that knee."

"Is that all you're after?" Bard asked, attempting a leer that was blatantly ignored.

"For now, yes." Thranduil made swift work of Bard’s breeches and deposited them at at the edge of the pool in a puddle along with his poor, soaked boots, then frowned down into the clear water.

"I told you my knee is fine," Bard said.

"Is that why it's such a lovely shade of blue?"

"That's not my knee."

Thranduil shot him a look full of exasperation. "Are you truly going to argue that detail?" he asked and grasped Bard's thigh just above the bruise, firmly enough to make him flinch away in an instinctive attempt to protect the injury. Water sloshed around him at the abrupt move, disturbing the pattern of little ripples on the surface. "Or would you rather I leave this as it is?"

Bard sighed. His thigh did ache, and the hours in the saddle today hadn't made it any better. He wasn't going to refuse this out of sheer pride. "Do we need to get some kingsfoil?"

"We are in my realm, in my halls. It won't be necessary." Again Thranduil touched his leg, his grip gentler this time, and Bard felt heat spread along his thigh from where the Elf's hand rested. "What happened?"

For a moment Bard considered his answer, then opted for the truth, or at least part of it. "I slipped and fell against a pile of bricks. Bad luck, nothing more."

"And why did you fall?" Thranduil asked as he traced the edge of the bruise, his fingers even warmer than the water.

Bard briefly looked away, then met his eyes again and grimaced, in part because he didn't want to pursue the topic, in part because a muscle in his thigh decided to launch into a cramp that was soothed away again almost immediately, along with the last traces of pain. "Imrahil and I had a scrap. He didn't intend this."

Thranduil frowned. "I will speak to him."

Raising his hand from the water, Bard caught Thranduil's chin, leaving wet traces behind. "Don't. I don't want you to talk to him. And right now, I don't particularly want you to talk of him either."

Thranduil cocked his head, his fingers now drawing lazy, highly distracting patterns on the inside of his thigh before that hand drifted away again. "Is that so? In that case, what would you have me do?"

In lieu of a spoken answer, Bard reeled him in for a kiss that was more deliberate, more demanding than before. "I may have a few suggestions," he murmured as Thranduil nudged his knees apart to crowd him against the wall at his back, "they might be against Elvish bathing etiquette, though. If there is such a thing."

Hands braced against the edge of the bath on either side of Bard's shoulders, Thranduil narrowed his eyes. "There is," he said, leaning in to whisper in Bard's ear, "and you broke it already when you hopped in with your dirty boots on, so I'd say that it's too late anyway."

The reply that had been on the tip of Bard's tongue turned into a gasp when Thranduil sharply nipped the sensitive juncture of his jaw and throat, lingering until he'd raised a bright spot of heat that was bound to bruise. Bard briefly wondered whether he'd manage enough of a beard until the morning to hide it, then got distracted entirely when Thranduil moved in to kiss him in earnest.

For a little while Bard let himself sink into the simple pleasure of that kiss, the heat of Thranduil's thighs against the insides of his knees, the quiet splash of water, the way his wrist was caught and held firm when he began to let his hand roam. He'd missed Thranduil's company over the winter, but he'd be lying to himself if he denied that he'd missed this physical side as well.

Eventually he became bored with holding still when it was far more tempting to keep on exploring; he moved his wrist against the restraining grip until Thranduil let go and drew back far enough to cast him an inquisitive look.

"I could grow to like baths in this fashion," Bard reached out to trace Thranduil's collarbone from his shoulder to the dip at his throat before following the downward line of his sternum. Briefly he lingered, palm resting against the smooth chest to feel it rise and fall a few times, faster than Thranduil’s usually calm breathing. He experimentally let his fingers brush across a nipple, teasing briefly, and grinned at the gasp he managed to draw.

"Scandalous," Thranduil told him. "First the boots, now this... such a violation of proper bathing manners." He wasn't too bothered by it, though, if his deliberately wandering touches were any indication, first at Bard's knee, then lingering further up his thigh where the now healed bruise had been.

Bard shot him a look that was half amused, half impatient. "Stop fussing about that knee, that's dealt with and really not something you need to be concerned about right now."

The glint in Thranduil's eyes turned downright predatory. "Is that so?" he drawled, then moved his hand higher, sending underwater currents whirling along Bard’s thigh, along with a shiver of anticipation. "And what might you be concerned with?"

Bard's mind was suddenly a lot busier with possibilities than with coming up with a coherent answer, so it took him a moment to string a sentence together. "I think you're on the right track."

Humming in agreement, Thranduil drifted closer and leaned in to rub their noses together, fingers rising up to stroke Bard's cheek in slow, wet patterns, an unexpectedly restrained counterpoint to their growing arousal. For a few moments Bard let him before tilting his head for another kiss, and all restraint was soon left behind.

The water dragged at his arms as Bard smoothed his hands down along Thranduil's back, tracing the lines of his shoulder blades and feeling the shift of muscles under his skin before dropping lower to grip his arse and try to bring them even closer together. He'd missed this over the winter, these simple opportunities to touch and be touched. Just as he'd missed the pleasure that came from these touches, and to finally be able to do more than just delve into memories. Now it made him grumble with impatience when their surroundings were turning out to be more hindrance than help. As enticing as it might be to have Thranduil's hips rock against his own, it just wasn’t enough to really get them anywhere. Which could have been interesting under different, more patient circumstances, but after long winter months with just his imagination and his hand for company, it wasn't nearly enough.

"This isn't working," Bard muttered flatly and leaned forward with a splash to almost desperately try for more. He managed to find a position that seemed reasonably promising, but it didn't do much to alleviate the more pressing matters.

"There is a bed available that is perfectly suitable," Thranduil suggested, but allowed Bard to push him backwards towards the shallower part of the bath, perhaps more out of curiosity than anything else. Bard harboured very few illusions about his ability to move an Elf who didn't want to be moved.

"I'm not going to be thwarted by your glorified bathtub," Bard growled as he stood and stepped forward, though it was hard not to smile at the ridiculousness of it all. "I'll figure this out."

"By all means," Thranduil drawled, the beginnings of his own smile in response creeping onto his face. He deliberately leaned closer again, the way his cock brushed against Bard's thigh a frustrating tease. "Do as you please."

In the end it wasn't too hard to work it all out. The physical proximity was what Bard really wanted, along with the opportunity it awarded him to let his hands roam freely as they leaned together, Thranduil’s head bent so Bard could claim his mouth. It wasn’t entirely perfect - though Bard figured that practice might help, if they ever got to it - but it was just enough as they shifted closer together, balancing each other. A bed might be more comfortable indeed, but that would require climbing out of the bath, drying, dressing, and probably an hour’s walk along those annoyingly curving raised paths that made every way thrice as long as it had to be. Bard’s patience definitely wasn’t up to that right now, not with the rising urgency in his blood.

"Elves, you just have to make everything complicated," he murmured against the hollow of Thranduil’s throat in mock complaint.

"There are reasons why certain activities are not to be pursued in the baths," Thranduil countered, a hiss escaping him when Bard trailed lower across his chest, teasing a nipple with tongue and teeth until the hiss turned into a breathy moan.

Bard grinned up at him. "You're the king here. And I've never been good with rules. I'm sure we can handle it."

Under his lips the muscles of Thranduil's stomach tensed as he made his way down until he felt the water lap at at his chin. For a moment he speculated about using his mouth, then discarded the idea as something that definitely belonged into surroundings with less risk of drowning. He couldn’t resist entirely, though, and ducked his head for a swift lick along Thranduil’s cock, tasting water and the faintest hint of something else he couldn’t name but recognised from their past times together. Before the need for air could ruin the mood he came up again, smirking at the murmur of pleasure that Bard took as definite encouragement, just like the hand that wound its way into his hair, perfectly balanced between pain and pleasure.

"I'm not certain I should allow such a... such a violation of rules and manners," Thranduil murmured, reaching to draw him up again so they could share a kiss that just added to the growing heat between them, an almost feral glint in his eyes. Along with his long hair gradually coming loose and his chest glistening with water droplets it made for a splendid sight, for once almost ruffled rather than polished and proper.

Bard smirked up at him and batted his eyelids. "Let's see if I can't convince you," he said as he leaned in to nuzzle at the underside of Thranduil’s jaw and pushed his hand down between them to grip their cocks and finally give them both what they wanted.

He was fairly sure they broke a few more rules about bathing afterwards, but he definitely wasn't going to complain.

He was also fairly sure that the small, freezing cold waterfall Thranduil later shoved him under to rinse off was a vague kind of revenge. The Elf certainly looked far too smug at all the gasping and sputtering.

Eventually they ended up in Thranduil's bedroom, where a few braziers had been lit to combat the bite of cold the air still carried even inside the halls. Bard didn't ask why, when Thranduil wasn't bothered by the chill. Just as he refused to wonder about the guards he saw along the way and what they might think of seeing him follow their king to his private quarters, wearing a borrowed robe that was so obviously of Elvish make.

It was a comfortable robe, soft and surprisingly warm despite the lightness of the cloth; not that he was ever going to admit that if he ever wanted to see his own clothes again. But he liked the sensation of the smooth fabric against his skin, cool to the touch but at the same time not cold. Just like the sheets on Thranduil's bed, though Bard was still happy to move close to him for the shared body heat. There was something about Elves where that was concerned. Bard could have sworn they were just a little warmer to the touch than Men, hardly noticeable but enough to make the difference between a cold bed and a wonderfully warm one.

"I'm a little surprised your bedroom has a door," Bard said when they'd settled into bed, facing each other amid the cushions which were naturally decorated with far too many tassels and decorative stitching for any normal person. Comfortable, of course, and far softer than any cushions Bard had ever experienced, but still far too elaborate. In this they matched the room itself, from the pillars carved to look like trees to the finely woven rugs and perfectly embroidered tapestries on the walls. There even were plants growing within glass spheres, and if he hadn’t been curled up against Thranduil’s side already and reluctant to move, Bard would have taken a closer look at that.

Thranduil gave a brief huff of laughter. "You shouldn't be. Elves dislike drafts just as much as you."

"Then why don't you have walls half of the time? Your halls are beautiful, I'm not going to deny that, but from what I've seen today seen today, privacy has to be hard to come by. No doors, no walls… It's strange."

There was a brief pause while Thranduil considered his answer, his hand drawing lazy patterns up and down Bard’s side under the robe. "Habit, perhaps," he said eventually. "It's different in the settlements aboveground, you'd find them more like what you are accustomed to. But here in the halls, life has always been lived out in the open." Again he paused, not commenting upon Bard moving to entangle their legs, but letting him do so without protest. "This started out as a military outpost to shelter the realm against the north, so there was no real need for separation. And later there never was a need to adapt it."

"When was that?"

"Almost two thousand years ago," Thranduil said, then seemed to notice Bard's attempts to place this in what he knew of the land's past. "Close to the time of your King Vidugavia."

That name was familiar, though a little unexpected. "He was real?"

Thranduil chuckled. "Very much so. If you listen closely, you may still hear the echoes of his iron-soled boots as he stomps along the paths of my halls. He was ever welcome here, but he was very unlike us. Very… loud."

"I can sympathise," Bard said and thought of Dwarvish table manners and Elvish frolicking in the fountains. He liked them all well enough and was glad to have them as allies, but at times their different customs were simply baffling.

Reaching out, Thranduil brushed warm, smooth fingers against his cheek, tracing the line of his beard. "You and your people are much closer to us in your ways. Vidugavia was a prince of the Northmen of old, and they still kept many of their old traditions."

"My grandmother used to tell stories about him. My favourite always was the one about his oldest daughter Vidumavi, his most fearless warrior, and how she sailed her winged ship into battle for him on the Long Lake."

"A winged ship?" Thranduil asked, clearly amused at the thought.

Bard mock-scowled at him. "I'm sure it would have been very useful. When you spend half your days fighting the river currents with rows and sails, a winged ship sounds simply too good. I may have been a little bit smitten with her when I was nine."

"Vidumavi liked bold company. If there hadn't been sixty generations between you, who knows what might have been."

"A warrior princess? I'm not sure what I'd do with one of those."

Thranduil leaned in, brushing their noses lightly together for a moment. "Perhaps it is good that I am not a princess, then."

Bard laughed, then closed the remaining distance between them for a brief kiss, no real intent behind it just now beyond a show of affection. "I can attest to that. Though I'm definitely interested if you have a winged ship. That would have made the trips upriver so much easier."

"The only such ship I know of is Vingilot, and she hasn't sailed the waters of Middle-earth for a long time now." Thranduil slowly exhaled, briefly looking lost in thought, and seemed almost startled when Bard shifted closer and slung an arm across his waist. Lifting a hand, he threaded it into Bard’s hair to comb through it. "But if there is another one built, you may be able to stake a claim as one of the princess' blood. Vidugavia was among Girion's ancestors."

"Sixty generations away, that's hardly something I'd base an inheritance on." It was strange to once again be aware how far apart they were in years, when Thranduil could talk about men and women as though they'd crossed his path only days ago while they had lived in a past when neither Lake-town nor Dale had existed yet. "How much else of the stories is true?"

"What stories are Men telling to their children these days?"

Bard thought back to those long winter evenings when he'd listened to his grandmother's quiet voice. She'd been too frail already at the time to do much more than entertain children with her tales, and it had been her way to stay useful. "That there was a stable boy at his court who really was a prince of Gondor in disguise, and that the princess fell in love with him. Together they led their warriors to reclaim his throne, and then ruled together."

Thranduil gave a quiet hum. "Not entirely accurate, but kinder than history has been to them and thus a better tale."

"Tales are supposed to be better than what happened," Bard said, scooting a little more towards Thranduil and making himself comfortable against his side. "You should hear Percy's stories one of these days. Or perhaps you shouldn't, they're outrageous. He's not allowed to tell them anywhere except in the tavern, and the tavern's sunk now. Probably for the best, too."

"So my ears won't be sullied by such terrible stories?"

Bard pushed himself up to lightly nip at one pointy ear and got a pleased gasp for his efforts. "As I said, it's for the best."

"Is that so?" Thranduil dragged him back down and drew him into a kiss that started out almost chaste but quickly deepened. Bard happily went along with it even if it felt almost decadent after their earlier bout, and let himself be pushed back against the frilly cushions. He wasn’t sure he really was up to this again so soon, but he was certainly tempted enough to give it a try.

Elves and their ways, he thought as he tilted his head and bared his throat to Thranduil's exploring lips. He might just get used to them.

The Woodland Realm's council to the Elvenking was a new concept to Bard.

Lake-town been ruled by a Master and a handful of advisors for as long as Bard could remember. Some of them had been better, most of them had been worse, and none had been what the people had deserved. But there'd never been much of a choice about it, though the Master was nominally elected in what was supposed to be a honoured, hallowed process that had been thoroughly corrupted over the years.

They hadn't figured out yet how it was supposed to be in Dale, except for Bard's vain attempts to talk everybody out of their crazy idea that he was supposed to be their sodding lord. Bard was the one to carry out negotiations and make the kinds of decisions someone had to take responsibility for, and those who'd been respected in Lake-town dealt with whatever his attention couldn't cover. Percy had grown into something like his advisor where trade and other financial matters were concerned, Hilda managed their supplies, and while neither of them liked to admit it, Imrahil was acting as the leader of the Elvish warriors and Dale's makeshift militia. It was all about improvisation, and probably would stay like that for a while yet.

"I'm still not sure what they want of me," he said as he walked with Thranduil along one of the many raised paths to the council's chamber. "You could tell them the same about Dale that I can. Or Sigrid could have done it."

Thranduil cast him a glance from the corner of his eye that said he was being very patient while listening to something ridiculous. "They wish to have an introduction to the Lord of Dale. You're our newest neighbour, you're an ally at the moment and your realm borders mine directly. They want to have your measure."

Bard rolled his eyes. Diplomacy. Always such fun. "In that case they could simply have come to Dale and look around themselves. I promise I won't put them to work if they do."

"A very reassuring notion." Their path joined with another that rose from a lower level, and Thranduil slowed at the junction to make them both wait for an Elf to come up and join them. Judging by her fine clothes that rivalled Thranduil’s own, she probably was one of the more important ones.

She gave a perfunctory nod of her head that probably was intended as a bow, and proceeded to ignore Bard entirely. "Lord Thranduil."

"Lady Tiriwen," Thranduil returned the greeting as she fell into step with them, the short train of her robes sweeping the floor behind them. It was a sight that never failed to faintly irritate Bard, because it seemed such a waste of clean clothing, though in the halls at least the ground was practically spotless. Probably from being constantly polished in this way.

She looked on ahead, hands tucked into her sleeves in what Bard was coming to recognise was an ingrained Elvish gesture whenever they wore those impractical robes that could double as blankets for an entire family."The council will have assembled already. They don't expect their king to be delayed."

Thranduil's expression was hard to read. "There's no reason for them to expect it."

"Just so," she agreed. "And they'll have been there early today, out of sheer curiosity over your guest."

Bard didn't even want to begin to guess just how many layers he was missing in this brief conversation. He just leaned forward so he could get a better look at her face, rather than just her dark hair and blue court robes, and aimed for a smile somewhere between polite and friendly. "I hope I'm interesting enough."

She gave him a measuring look that was clearly unimpressed. It made him feel like he was a measly insect she’d found under a stone she’d turned over. "We'll see, Lord Bard."

"The Lady Tiriwen is not so easily excited," Thranduil offered, reaching to briefly rest his hand against the small of Bard's back and steer him to the left at the next crossing. They stepped through a wide gateway framed in stone-carved trees, and the birds in the branches were so finely carved that Bard had to look twice and still wasn't certain that they weren't real after all.

The gate opened into a hall carved deep into the rock, the walls solid and without gaps and windows to the caverns surrounding it. An unusual sight for Thranduil's halls, where Bard had come to expect to be able to freely look into every room. But this place felt different, older and more forbidding. The thirteen Elves seated in a circle in finely carved, high-backed chairs - each with shining circlets on their heads - only added to that sense of secrecy. It didn't help that at least half of them looked at Bard as though his mere presence here was faintly offensive.

Thranduil had explained the overall rules to him, how the council's decision making process was handled and what impact those decisions then had on actual policies. It was something that had had time to grow and be adjusted for millennia, and by now it sounded like something that should never work in practice. The council had the right to recommend decisions, but not demand them. Thranduil had the right to ignore them and do as he pleased, but didn't. The council's members were chosen by the king, but only after they'd been put forward as their settlement or tribe's choice. Any of Thranduil's decisions could be vetoed by the council indefinitely, but that right was never executed because neither he nor the councilors ever let it reach that point.

It was all so delicately crafted, with so many unspoken rules, that Bard felt a headache coming at the mere thought of maintaining balance in this system.

Squaring his shoulders, he struggled not to say anything as he took his own seat, not quite as fine as the ones of the assembled lords and ladies. Thranduil hadn't given him a lot of advice this morning; most of what he'd said had boiled down to a recommendation to simply be honest and truthful about whatever questions might be asked. There had also been stern reminders that as the Lord of Dale, Bard was on equal footing with these representatives of the various settlements and tribes within the Woodland Realm, and that he didn't have to accept any disrespect.

He wondered if that meant he should demand a nicer chair.

"Councilors," Thranduil greeted them as he swept across the open space in their midst, today's red and silver robe trailing behind him. They bowed their heads as he passed, and Bard watched appreciatively as he settled down with his usual flourish and slowly looked around at the assembled group. "At your request the Lord of Dale has joined us and he will answer what questions the council may have. "

Tiriwen had remained standing, though she'd moved to the half of the councilors' circle to Thranduil's right. "My Lord," she said, "we thank you for fulfilling our wish so swiftly."

"And thus has Lord Bard made the journey to my halls," Thranduil looked at her, then across the floor at Bard. "I thank him for doing so when there are many other matters which require his attention."

"As do we," Tiriwen said swiftly, then sketched the barest hint of a bow in Bard's general direction without truly looking at him. "I do believe that our concerns warrant a quick response."

"We appreciate the co-operation from our new ally," another dark-haired Elf from the left side of the circle said. She had the sharper features and larger ears Bard had grown to recognise as Silvan rather than Sindar, though the lines were too fluid between the two groups for him to be certain in some cases.

Bard gave her a quick nod in acknowledgment, though he didn't believe for a moment that this was mere friendliness.

"Do you wish to speak first, Yávien?" Tiriwen asked. "I'm willing to yield the circle to you in that case."

She shook her head. "You were the one who demanded this council meeting, we should hear you first. As far as I am concerned, this isn't necessary."

"These matters should be examined diligently before any more permanent decisions are made," Tiriwen said, then turned towards Thranduil. "My Lord, I ask you to consider our worries."

"I will listen," Thranduil told her calmly. "As I will listen to the Lady Yávien, and any others who have something to say." Leaning back in his chair, he crossed his legs and propped one elbow up on the armrest, then gestured for them to go ahead.

Tiriwen exchanged swift looks with a group of Elves on her side of the council chamber, then glided to the center of the floor. There were interwoven ribbons carved into the flagstones and she followed the pattern for a few steps before coming to a stop in front of Bard. "This won't take long, Lord of Dale. I'm aware that you'd rather spend the time with your daughters."

Bard gave her his best harmless look, the one that had gotten him into trouble with the Master so many times, and out of tough spots on so many more occasions. "I'm sure I can handle this, and that they'll be patient. After all, I've been told that this is important."

"It is." Tiriwen watched him for a few breaths, then her gaze sharpened. "I wonder, how important are the Elves who currently guard your town?"

The question wasn't what he'd expected, and it left him cautious. "They keep us safe from marauders," he said. "There have been a few attempts over the winter to raid us."

"So Lord Imrahil has been fighting for you?"

"There wasn't much fighting to be done in most cases. Usually the bandits turn tail when they see that we've got Dwarf-built walls and plenty of Elven fighters to guard them."

Tiriwen cocked her head. "The Dwarves don't add to your defense?"

"They rebuilt our walls."

"But they don't send any of their own?" Tiriwen asked.

Bard frowned at her. "King Dáin, King Thranduil and I negotiated this in autumn already. It's hardly a secret. The Dwarves make sure Dale's got walls without holes and the Elves deal with the rest."

"And your own people?"

He snorted. "Do what they can, but if we had to rely only on ourselves, we might as well abandon Dale now and look for a town somewhere that's got room for a few hundred people. Lake-town wasn't a garrison, in case you weren't aware of that. Only a handful of those who made it to Dale really know how to fight, and it's going to take time to train the rest."

From the glint in her eyes, he could tell that he'd misstepped. On the other hand Thranduil looked faintly amused from where he was listening, the same expression he usually wore during talks with the Dwarves when he knew he'd have the upper hand.

Bard had the growing suspicion that he'd gotten caught up in a disagreement among the Elves, and his people along with him.

"So you need our host," Tiriwen said, turning away from him and towards the other Elves. "Our troops fight on behalf of a barely functioning settlement, while the Dwarves sit inside their mountain and watch as Elvish blood is being shed. I know myself not to be the only one to question whether this should continue. What good is this to us? The Woodland Realm will endure, as we have done before."

Yávien stood up as well, though she remained right in front of her chair. "War has come to their borders, and it would not have stopped there," she said to the assembled councilors. "We have allied ourselves with Men before, and even with Dwarves."

"And much good has it done us." Tiriwen folded her arms and stood straight as she turned back to Bard. "The council asks what you want, Lord of Dale. We ask what you will do."

Fourteen Elves watched him with those disconcertingly blank gazes they could manage. Only Thranduil was studying his councilors instead, the hint of a sardonic smile on his face. For some reason it was a lot more irritating than Tiriwen's aggression.

Bard drew a slow breath, then released it again. What was he supposed to tell them? That he wasn't looking further than the coming weeks right now? They didn't even know yet what to do about the planting season; there was no way to tell yet whether the land between Dale and the gates to the Lonely Mountain was still arable after getting baked by dragonfire for two centuries. Right now he did the best he could, they all did, and it was barely enough to let them see the next few days.

"What I want?" he repeated and saw Thranduil lean forward slightly. "What I want? That's simple. I want my people to have a decent life. We've lost everything when that sodding dragon came, and we didn't have much to start with. I don't even know how many died that night, you'll have to ask downriver how many bodies they fished out of the river."

"There are easier ways to give them this life you crave for them, and the Woodland Realm might assist you in this," Tiriwen said. "We are not heartless, we wouldn't want your people to suffer. It honours you that you strive to give them another start, but why in Dale, where so many resources are required? Where Elves will have to guard you for a decade or longer when those warriors could be of use elsewhere?"

Yávien stepped forward into the circle now. "A few hundred won't make a difference to our strength, but in Dale they secure our eastern flank and help an ally."

"Who has fallen twice already, and who may fall again," Tiriwen countered. "Do we want to see whether the third time does the trick, or should we help them find a future in another place? Lord Calemir could settle them downriver. Let them grow wine, not catch fish."

"They fell to the dragon, not an enemy host." Yávien shook her head. "Unique circumstances that shouldn't factor in a decision. Just because someone cannot withstand a dragon does not make them defenceless."

"I killed the dragon. By your reckoning, that must make us formidable enough to be useful." His hands gripping the armrests of his chair, Bard drew a slow breath. When he glanced at Thranduil, all he got in response was a small wave towards the center of the floor that was probably meant as an invitation.

He squared his jaw and got up from his chair; when he stepped forward, Tiriwen held her position and the sleeve of his coat brushed against her robes when he walked past her to the middle of the council chamber, highly aware of the eyes on him.

"I'm going to do whatever is necessary to give my people a chance," he went on, and it was an effort to keep his voice even. "And I can't tell you much more than that. I don't know what we'll need in the summer, or in a year or ten years. Right now we need the Dwarves and the Elves, and we'll repay our debts.”

Tiriwen didn’t even bother to turn her head and face him; instead she kept looking at Thranduil. “And how will you do that? With your share of the accursed treasure in the Dwarves’ mouldering caves? Why should that be of value to us?”

“It’s been valuable enough to make you dispatch an army!”

“That was not a command the council supported unanimously.”

On his chair, Thranduil managed to settle into an even more dismissive posture. “I should yield my place to you, Lady Tiriwen. Perhaps that will cause you less displeasure.”

Bard couldn’t see her face, so he didn’t know whether the smile he thought he heard in her voice was really there. Somehow he had his doubts. Perhaps she was baring her teeth in a snarl, that seemed more likely. “And why should I be fool enough to accept such an offer?”

“I see I shall have to keep you as the thorn in my side.”

Clasping her hands behind her back, she bowed her head in what was probably the barely acceptable minimum. “I serve my king,” she said, then finally turned around to let Bard see her expression. It wasn’t a particularly kind one. “Which is why I must ask questions, Lord of Dale.”

"Then ask them," he said, struggling not to let his irritation at the situation show. "Whatever you're trying to prove, I don't appreciate it that you're turning Dale into a toy for you to play with. Do you know how many lives depend on this? Have you bothered to ask?"

Tiriwen regarded him, her face now pleasantly blank.

"More than three hundred,” he went on. “And each and every one of us has fought with all we've got to get this far! Maybe we aren't as strong as you Elves, maybe we aren't what you're looking for in an ally. But I'll be damned if I let you make us seem worthless!"

Around him, the council's attention was rapidly sharpening. Absently he wondered if anyone had ever raised their voice in this chamber before. Elves could be bloody confrontational, he knew that, but they didn't strike him as the kind that grew particularly loud about it.

"Do you even have a reason for your questions, or is it just a game? I know what my people need. What I don't know is whether you'll be willing to give it to me." He drew a slow, deliberate breath to try and calm himself a little. "So it's probably me who should be asking about what you want, because you're the ones who'll need to figure that out. Let me know when you've got an answer to that for me."

With that he turned around and left.

"You could have warned me," Bard growled an hour later when he'd been taken to see the Elvenking in his study.

From where he stood at the small, round… pond, or whatever it was, Thranduil turned to look at him, his face blank with infuriatingly calm contemplation. "About my council?"

"The questions they'd ask!" he snapped back. "What was I supposed to tell them, that right now our greatest concern is that we need a new roof for the cowshed? I don't think that's what they wanted to hear!"

"They don't know much about the situation in Dale, so it might have put things in perspective for them." Thranduil tucked his hands into the wide sleeves of his robes, the fabric shimmering in the muted daylight that lit the room along with the lamps. "They have their agendas, but they are wise enough to ask questions and listen to the answers."

Bard moved forward sharply and thought he saw Thranduil straighten in response, though he made no move to retreat. It still left him with a small, dark pang of satisfaction. "In that case, get them to explain to me what answers they found, will you? Because I haven't got the foggiest idea about anything beyond the next few weeks, and I really didn't need to have that rubbed in right in front of your bloody council!"

"You did rather well, all things considered." Thranduil looked back at the mirror-smooth surface of the pool as if it weren't completely ludicrous to have a pond in the middle of his study.

"I did well? At what point did you arrive at that conclusion?" Exhaling sharply, Bard shook his head and ran a hand through his hair in an attempt to calm himself. "That's not going to inspire a lot of confidence, is it? If that's even what this travesty was all about. What did they even want? Or is that another moment of Elves being their mysterious, sodding annoying selves? Was I just there to provide some bloody entertainment?"

Thranduil didn't turn back to look at him even when he began to pace. "They needed to see the Lord of Dale."

"What for?" Bard demanded to know. "To ask me about my intentions? You could have told them that, you probably know better than I do right now. Or did they need to see for themselves that the Lord of Dale is nothing but a bargeman?" He banged his fist against one of the carved rock columns, almost relishing the blunt sting of it against his hand. "A former bargeman, because I bloody well don't even have that sodding barge anymore!"

"It hardly makes a difference what you did. Now you lead your people." Thranduil did shift to face him at that point, his expression stern. "I had hoped that we'd be done with this particular conversation by now. They have put their faith in you, and I agree with their choice. It's long past due for you to accept this and move on."

Bard stalked towards him, though having to look slightly upwards detracted some effectiveness. "This isn't about me accepting it! I still don't like it, but I'll do this for as long as the people want me to."

"So what is it?"

He became aware that his hands had curled into fists and forced himself to stretch his palms flat. "I've been born on the lake, I've grown up there. I know every current on the River Running, I know where sand banks and shallows are and I know the best ways through the old ruins that are so narrow that nobody else could sail them without running aground. You want someone to safely get your cargo up and down the river even in the worst storm, you can look at me because I've got enough sense to figure out whether I can still sail or need to find a safe spot along the shore. Those are things I know, and I'm damned good at them, because I've grown up doing them! But I don't know the least about running a city! Until those bloody Dwarves set a dragon loose on my people I've never even had to think about it!"

Thranduil watched him, completely and utterly still, and he felt the anger rise inside in response to that indifference. It was easy for the Elvenking to consider this a minor issue; he'd probably seen far worse over the centuries, and he'd also had centuries to work out what to do about it. Bard had been given mere weeks for the same task.

"The people in Dale listen to me because I had the guts to stand up to the Master whenever his politics became unbearable, much good as that did me," he went on, growing tenser by the moment. "But that's not going to turn me into someone who knows how to turn a refugee camp into a functioning city, is it? Half the time I've got no idea what I'm doing and believe me, I'm bloody well aware of that! So why can't anyone else finally bugger off and accept that I don't know a damn about this? I don't need a council of bloody Elvish wankers to remind me of it!"

Thranduil's eyebrows rose, though he didn't voice any objections at having his councilors thus insulted.

"If they want to be all high and mighty about us needing Elves or Dwarves or sodding mermaids to just make it through the winter, I'm open for suggestions!"

The corner of Thranduil's mouth twitched. "I don't believe mermaids exist."

"That's not my point!" Bard practically shouted, taking another half-step forward and straightening so he didn't have to look up so much to defiantly meet Thranduil's eyes. "Do you think I don't know I need to learn? The last thing I need is a sanctimonious Elf lady to rub it in! And don't think I didn't notice that they're using me in whatever game they're playing. I don't believe for a moment that they're actually concerned about Dale!"

Thranduil calmly held his gaze. "They are, although perhaps not in a way you would endorse. There are some who would prefer to see Dale as a strong ally."

"And some who don't?" Bard almost snarled. "So they're toying with us? Do they even care what happens to us, or are we just a few scraggly Men to them who'll soon die anyway?"

"The fate of Dale matters, as you very well know. We are allies in this."

"Because you decided to be! But your council doesn't agree, do they? So what's going to happen, are they going to make you withdraw the Elves from Dale?" Bard glanced up at the ceiling to escape those far too knowing eyes, then sidestepped when Thranduil's unmoving presence so close became too much. "I can't- What's going to happen to us then? There's no way we'll make it, not when we are half a year away from any harvest we manage to have. If we have one, and nobody knows the least about that."

Thranduil didn't say anything in reply and merely continued to watch him when Bard risked a glance, his face unnervingly unreadable in the muted, warm light. Bard turned his head and averted his eyes to look at the pool set into the floor instead, and absently wondered what the point of it was when it looked too shallow to be truly useful.

"What am I going to do if we can't grow enough food?" he asked, not sure whether he expected an answer. "We can't rely on you forever. There isn't nearly enough game to feed a few hundred people, and fishing's not going to be good either anytime soon, all the boats and gear are gone. I suppose we could always use the gold from the Lonely Mountain to buy supplies from somewhere, but why bother transporting it so far?" He drew a slow breath to steady himself, then another. "This has to work. We've got to make it work, or we might as well abandon Dale after all. I just don't know how."

The hand on his shoulder startled him enough to make him flinch under the light grip. "What is needed will be done," Thranduil told him, still calm as if they were discussing a minor matter and not so many futures. "I promised you and your people aid, and I don't give my word lightly."

"I know." Bard raised a hand to his face to pinch the bridge of his nose, then let it drop again in sheer frustration. He tried to cling to his anger; that was far easier to handle than the despair that was creeping up in his throat and threatening to choke him. "That, I know."

In acknowledgment of his words, the hold on his shoulder tightened slightly. He held himself stiffly distant in response, unwilling to give in to that comfort.

Thranduil’s thumb slipped into the collar of his tunic, the barest point of contact. For a little while neither of them moved further, then Thranduil began to trace minute circles against his skin, innocuous and yet so draining on the anger that kept Bard’s back rigid. He shifted into the touch, then turned in and leaned closer. When there was no discernible objection, he slipped an arm low around Thranduil's waist to bring them together, his cheek settling into the crook of Thranduil's neck. For a few heartbeats he simply held on and breathed, the warmth of Thranduil's skin almost tangible through his elaborate high-collared tunic.

He was still focused on regaining his equilibrium when he felt Thranduil complete the embrace, hands carefully coming to rest just below his shoulder blades. The Elf didn't say anything, he simply held still and waited, the slow rise and fall of his chest against Bard's the only discernible movement.

It was the calmest moment Bard had had in months, and he gradually forced his mind to stop spinning with thoughts of risks and dangers and almost insurmountable problems. Instead he focused on the finely embroidered fabric under his cheek and the faint scent in his nose, almost like the Forest River on a sunny day, which was a notion ridiculous enough to make him chuckle.

Thranduil gave an inquisitive hum, slightly tightening his hold but not moving beyond that.

"Just an irreverent thought," Bard told him, his voice not much above a whisper. Those Elven ears would hear him anyway, and as long as they weren't talking properly, he wouldn't have to straighten, square his shoulders and step back again.

Something like laughter rumbled in his ear. "Naturally. I can't picture you thinking anything else. Irreverent to the bone."

Bard heaved a sigh and closed his eyes, letting Thranduil take his weight just a little longer. "And still getting into trouble for it."

He felt Thranduil's cheek coming to rest against the top of his head. "You enjoy it."

It was hard to entirely deny it, so Bard didn't. "I'd have had fewer troubles in my life if I didn't," he said instead.

"You also wouldn't have seen the look in Thorin's eyes when you toyed with his family heirloom as though it were a turnip."

When he closed his eyes, Bard could still feel an echo of the rush of that moment when he'd thought that they'd won the battle with Thorin's warning arrow the only one to be fired. "Sounds like you enjoyed that, too."

"It certainly was memorable." Thranduil slowly trailed a circle on his back, then lifted his head to brush his lips against the rounded tip of Bard's ear. It felt like punctuation to the calm that had settled around them, and Thranduil's next words confirmed that. "It's a good trait in a leader to question what happens and what you're told."

Bard took a last slow breath, then leaned back far enough to meet his grey eyes. "In that case I'm going to have to find lands to rule for my children, they're taking after me where that's concerned." And he was proud of them for it, even though it was bound to get them into just as much trouble as it had so often landed him in. But if the alternative was to see them scraping and bowing before someone like the Master, then trouble had to be worth it.

"I daresay there's going to be enough for them to do in Dale," Thranduil said.

"Am I doing them a favour?" It was a honest question; like all children, his had played at being princesses and princes, but reality was a different matter altogether. "From what I've seen so far, I'm not sure they'll thank me for it."

Thranduil's hands flattened against the small of his back, his hold loosening. "Hardly anyone who becomes a ruler is ever grateful at the time," he said, and the tone of his voice made it plain that he didn't consider himself an exception. There had always been tales in Lake-town about the Elvenking, but Bard couldn't remember hearing one about how he had come to the throne. Now, however, wasn't the time to ask about it, if it ever came.

"Bain's helped all winter already and he's doing well," he said, allowing himself one last moment of closeness before he dropped his arms and moved back, bringing a half-step of distance between them. Thranduil let him go without comment. "And the girls… Tilda's still so little, but Sigrid's pretty much been running the household since my wife died." He felt the familiar pang of wistfulness at mentioning Kari, the reassurance that she hadn't slipped from his heart even after all these years.

"You should think about how you will involve them," Thranduil said. "It may be best for them if you begin to teach them now."

Bard watched as the Elf went to pour them two cups of wine from the carafe set out on one of the low chairs along the carved wall. "I'm open to suggestions."

"Let Bain shadow you whenever possible so he can learn from your example. He should grow familiar with your duties, and in time you may want to put him in charge of smaller matters." Thranduil returned to his side, cups in hand, and Bard automatically accepted one of them and raised it to his lips to take a cautious sip when he noticed that the wine had been heated. With the added spices and honey, it was a considerably more pleasant taste compared to the usual stuff, not that he'd ever tell Thranduil that.

"We've been doing that already, and I think he's also been getting lessons from Imrahil, though don't ask me on what." Bard had another mouthful of wine, then made himself lower the cup. By now he knew how to handle Elvish drinks, but at this time of the day it was better to err on the side of caution.

Thranduil shot him a fleeting smile. "Imrahil knows what is expected of the children of a ruling lord."

"Just in case you'd forgotten, I'm not an Elf and neither are my children. I'm not sure the same rules apply."

Thranduil waved his hand dismissively. "The differences in this case are not vast, I assume. But Imrahil is familiar with these matters as they pertain to Men, too."

"How so? I didn't get the impression that he likes us that much."

"He has shown an interest in the Princes of Dol Amroth far down in the south. I have never quite discovered the reason for it, but he has journeyed there often ever since the founding of their house." Thranduil paused, looking at the wine in his cup. "At times I wonder whether he had something to do with the hint of Elvish blood that flows in their veins, but I don't dare ask."

Bard's eyebrows rose. "Perhaps that's for the best," he said and tried to imagine Imrahil as a guardian spirit or, even worse, an ancestor. It was a terrifying idea. "Should I ask him about instructing Sigrid as well?"

"If you wish, I can give her a few suggestions for tasks that might suit her interests and talents." After a sip from his wine, Thranduil set down the cup and took Bard's as well when it was offered, their fingers brushing briefly. "I must return to my council, I fear."

Bard waved his hand. "Don't let me keep you. Are they always that…" he trailed off, not quite sure what word to use, then eventually settled for, "sneaky?"

"They'd make for a poor council otherwise." Thranduil turned to leave, red and silver robe trailing behind him, then came to a halt again before ascending the steps. "You should accompany me. Dale will need a council sooner rather than later, and this way you can see how such an institution can be put to good use."

There were very few things Bard wanted less, but he couldn't deny that Thranduil had a point. "Won't they object if it's not about Dale?" he tried.

A wolfish grin settled on Thranduil's face for the blink of an eye before being replaced by his usual cool expression. "I'm their king. I'd like to see them try."

The handful of days in the Elvenking's halls passed swiftly, filled with activities as they were. Mornings were reserved for council sessions, some of them dealing with matters concerning only the Elves, while others touched upon the Woodland Realm's relations with Dale. No treaties were negotiated, and Bard wasn't asked any more questions by the councilors - something he suspected was due to Thranduil issuing orders to that effect. It was a relief since there wasn't much he could have debated with them anyway. Nonetheless he attended the sessions; he wasn’t blind to what they could teach him.

Much more productive were the afternoons he spent in Thranduil's study, where they went over the necessary next steps for Dale together. Food was the main issue; for the winter they could rely on the stores they’d received from the Elves, but by spring they needed to have concrete ideas about which crops to plant and where, and how to arrange the labour necessary so the thousand other matters that had to be dealt with wouldn’t be neglected either. The topics soon blurred in Bard's mind: tithe levels and trade agreements, payrolls and land division, buildings to repair and Dwarves to insult, though he was fairly certain that Thranduil hadn't been entirely serious about that last matter. On the other hand, he'd given Bard a list of names and suggestions.

Bard belonged to Sigrid and Tilda in the evenings, well aware that these few undisturbed hours might be more than he'd be able to give them once they were back in Dale. They’d both thrived over the winter, and it made his heart ache to see them so content here when their time in the Woodland Realm would soon come to an end. They both wanted to return to Dale with him, but Bard could see that they’d miss Thranduil’s halls. Tilda already looked devastated at the idea that she’d have to leave the marvellous stables behind, though her foal would be brought to Dale eventually.

Sigrid had found so many things to hold her interest that Bard was surprised she slept at all. The weavers and the incredibly detailed fabrics they wrought, the minstrels and their tales … and the Elvenking’s library, of course. Bard had seen the vast rooms and still found it hard to believe that there were so many books in the world. Sigrid had been given free reign, and though only a fraction of the books were in a language she could read, she’d been soaking up knowledge all winter.

The nights, once his daughters were safely in bed and hopefully asleep, were happily shared with Thranduil, whose persuasive skills when Bard was distracted otherwise weren't helping.

"I'm not sure why you want me to address your sodding council again when they’ve finally stopped giving me those odd looks," Bard complained a day before he and the girls were to return to Dale, tugging down his sleeves to make sure his tunic sat right. He'd firmly protested robes, but the rest of his outfit had been commandeered by Elves once more, which was ridiculous since the clothes he'd arrived in had been of Elvish make already. If this continued, he'd end up with as many spare clothes as Thranduil, and the Elf had a special room for them.

"Because you want them to remember you favourably," Thranduil told him and reached out to straighten his collar, presumably to make him more presentable before they left the study and headed for the council chamber.

Bard just raised an eyebrow at him.

Thranduil’s hand brushed against his skin in what might have been admonishment or encouragement. Bard decided it was the latter. "And because it will be simpler if you tell them of your plans in person, that way they won't question them."

Bard's expression didn't waver.

"Besides, you enjoy irritating authority figures, so it should prove to be an entertaining afternoon for you," Thranduil finished, the hint of a smirk on his face.

"I wonder what it says about you as a king that you want me to go and bother your high and mighty councilors."

Thranduil's look turned into one of pure innocence. "It will be good for them. Keeps them on their toes. It's been centuries since anyone dared to raise their voice at Tiriwen's questions."

Bard sighed at the mention of that particular name. "From what I've seen in the past days, anyone who tries needs to have a spine of steel to stand up to her once she makes up her mind. I'm not sure it's a good idea."

"At times she needs to be reminded that she is but one voice on my council. But she has the realm’s best interests in mind, even if she can be rather direct about it." Thranduil reached for his wood-carved crown, wreathed with hellebores and snowdrops, and settled it on his head with a practiced motion. Not for the first time Bard wondered whether he added the flowers personally or if someone was in charge of decorating the crown according to the seasons. And as before Bard resolved that he didn't really want to know, and that it was good he didn't have to bother with crowns as a lord. Small favours. It was bad enough that the Elvish tunics came with embroidery on the collar.

"If she's going to growl at me like she did at Yávien yesterday, I'm not sure what I'll do." He really wasn't. Threats from Alfrid had always thrown him firmly in the direction of sarcastic replies, but while Tiriwen was an advisor just like that bastard, she was a damn sight scarier. One week had been enough to make Bard firmly aware that this was someone he wasn't going to cross if he could avoid it. "Is she always like that?"

Head tilted, Thranduil briefly considered the question. "She's one of my longest-serving and most loyal councilors, and over the years she has mellowed considerably. In her early years, she was considerably more direct. Almost scandalously so, but in those times she was not yet convinced that the crown should be mine and not hers."

Tiriwen with a crown on her head? Bard didn’t even want to think about that. "It's hard to imagine anyone's ever thought of her as scandalous," he said, grinning when he saw the hint of a smile on Thranduil's face. "Terrifying, yes. You should have sent her after Smaug, I'm sure she could just have looked at him, rapped him on the nose and told him to leave."

"Fortunately for us all, you have rendered that unnecessary."

Bard shrugged and watched Thranduil pluck at the folds of his elaborate court robes to settle them properly. Dark green this time, shot with strands of golden thread, and yet another set Bard had never seen before. "I wouldn't have minded. Slaying a dragon isn't an experience I'd care to repeat if it can be at all avoided."

"I doubt you'll need to exercise that particular talent again in your lifetime." Apparently satisfied with his clothes at last, Thranduil reached out to rest a hand at the small of Bard's back in a light touch to steer him towards the stairs leading from the study up to the council chamber.

They drew a few curious looks from the Elves they passed along the way, though not as many as during the first days. Throughout Mirkwood there were settlements of Men, nominally under Thranduil's protection and power, but they had little to do with the Elves of the Woodland Realm beyond occasional trade and delivering their annual tithe. They certainly didn't come to the Elvenking's halls or left their children here for the winter, or spent their days at the king's side and their nights in his bed.

Not for the first time Bard wondered just how much the Elves knew about what he and Thranduil did with their evenings, and then dismissed the thought has something he was happier not knowing. Elves were a damned gossipy bunch; Bard blamed their immortality for it, along with the fact that they seemed to exist in a perennial state of mild boredom.

Thranduil herded him along the winding walkways and into the council chamber, where the others were already assembled. Somewhat to his surprise, Bard spotted Sigrid on one of the benches set along the wall behind the councilors' chairs for onlookers. She gave him a quick wave and a smile, then returned to observing the Elves.

"Do you have anything to do with her being here?" Bard asked, nodding his head in her direction.

"I may have suggested to her that today could be educational." His hand still at Bard's back, Thranduil surveyed the assembled councilors. "My Lords and Ladies."

"My King," Tiriwen replied and waited for him to take his seat, then watched Bard do the same, this time on a chair in the circle rather than the side benches like he'd done for the past days. "I take it the Lord of Dale will speak to us today?"

"There are a few matters I would have the council hear," Thranduil said. "Lord Bard and I have discussed them over the past week and I deem them ready for your attention."

Bard didn't miss how the councilors exchanged swift glances, though there was no murmuring like he'd have expected. They remained silent, their eyes back on Thranduil after their brief surprise.

"We will continue to assist Dale in their efforts to reclaim and defend their land until they can do so themselves," Thranduil went on, his words slow and measured. "As of now, this means supplies of food and other things necessary until they can establish their own fields and recover their trade links."

"For how long should we expect this to continue?" Yávien asked.

Bard cleared his throat. "It takes a summer to grow a harvest, or so I've been told," he said and was rewarded with a minute smirk from Thranduil. "If there are ways to speed it up, I'm all ears."

"Galion has reported that our stores are sufficient to share," Thranduil picked up again before any of the councilors could voice an opinion. "To take into account the case that Dale cannot grow enough food in their first harvest, we will shift more of our crops towards grain and vegetables this year, mundane as those may be."

"Shift them from where?" Tiriwen asked.

Thranduil met her eyes, and she calmly held his gaze. "I believe the flax cultivation can be reduced for a year," he said.

"The weavers won't be pleased."

Thranduil shrugged. "They'll have a year to think up new patterns. We'll be able to handle a year with a reduced linen yield."

Bard eyed Thranduil's fine robes and thought of the sheer quantity of different clothes he'd seen him in so far. Perhaps he needed to be more grateful for the offer of assistance if it meant that Thranduil had to wear the same tunic twice and suffer such hardships.

"Perhaps alternative solutions can be found before the planting season," Tiriwen said, but didn't sound as though it was a major concern. "Lord Imrahil will remain in Dale?"

"Along with his troops," Thranduil confirmed, his voice brooking no agreement even as he once again settled into a deceptively casual sprawl in his chair. "Dale is our ally. Until they can defend themselves, we shall do so."

Tiriwen leaned forward. "Why?" she asked. She sounded as if it truly puzzled her.

That was what it boiled down to, Bard knew, and it was a question he hadn't quite been able to answer himself. Basic decency might cover part of it, and loyalty to an ally in war, even though Dale's handful of fighters had hardly made a difference. And while Thranduil might invite Bard to his bed these days, he was far too shrewd to let it matter.

Thranduil hesitated. Bard spotted it, which meant that each and every member of the council had to be acutely aware of it. The atmosphere in the chamber instantly turned tense with anticipation and concern.

"Leave us."

The handful of guards and attendants around them immediately obeyed their king's command, and Sigrid, too, made to go until Thranduil looked at her and motioned for her to sit down again.

"Stay. This will concern your generation more than your father's."

Sigrid sat.

Once the doors had been drawn shut, Thranduil rose from his chair and strode to the middle of the circle, his hands clasped behind his back and his posture straight. "What you hear is for the council's ears alone," he commanded, turning to look at all of them in turn until they bowed their heads.

Tiriwen was the last to do so. "Secrets are unlike you, my Lord."

Thranduil's eyes narrowed for a moment and they exchanged looks that were unreadable to Bard. "We need allies," he said, "now more than ever. The forest will secure our northern and western borders, but we're vulnerable to the east and especially the south."

"Vulnerable to what?" Yávien asked the question that had to be not just on Bard's mind.

It didn't bode well at all that Thranduil once again hesitated. "The White Council has discovered what- who lingered in Dol Guldur until they drove him out," he said eventually. "The shadow is rising in the south again."

Around the circle, the Elves froze in their seats.

Through a gap between the high backs of the chairs, Bard caught Sigrid's eye and knew that they both were thinking of the same tales told by the bonfire on the shore during long summer nights. Tales of the war between good and evil and the battles fought to keep the darkness at bay. When Bain had discovered that Mordor was a real place, years ago, he'd slept in Bard's bed for a week, too scared to close his eyes in the black of the night. But the tales themselves had always felt just like that: tales that might have roots in history but had grown and changed over time and now were a distant past.

"Are they certain?" Yávien asked into the complete and utter silence of the council chamber

Thranduil faced her and nodded. "Mithrandir spoke of it, and Lord Celeborn has confirmed it."

Tiriwen's eyebrows rose. "You asked Celeborn?"

"I deemed it opportune."

She looked genuinely surprised for a moment before she reclaimed her pleasantly neutral expression, though there was a new hardness to her eyes. "Under these circumstances, my Lord, I understand the need for allies. Though I must question whether we shouldn't look further south than at the remnants of Esgaroth."

"Remnants?" Bard asked before he could think better of it.

Tiriwen turned towards him, her head tilted to the side. "What else should we call a hundred scrawny fishwives?"

"How about you call them your allies?" he demanded. "So maybe there aren't as many of us as there are of you, and maybe we're not trained warriors. But if it comes to war, we stand to lose as much as you do. More, even, because Dale is all we've got left so you can be damn sure we'll put up a fight!"

"And you'll be overrun within a day if it comes to that."

"Then help us prevent that! We've fought together once. Was that just because we were convenient? Why have you been helping us over the winter if we aren't worth it? You might as well have left us to die of cold and hunger, then we wouldn't be causing you any more problems now!"

Tiriwen calmly regarded him. "The thought has occurred."

Yávien cleared her throat. "Not to all of us."

"Because you don't consider all angles," Tiriwen said, not bothering to turn towards her. "Dale may become an ally in a few decades. It may fade away again. Can we spare the effort? Do we want to invest resources in that possibility?"

Bard looked from one to the other and wondered whether interrupting could possibly get him into any more trouble. He decided that it was unlikely. "You do, because the fate of my people, my family, my own are all tied to yours now. "

For some reason that statement made some of the Elves perk up with sudden interest.

"My Lord Thranduil," one of the councilors eventually asked, "how should we interpret this?"

Thranduil surveyed them, radiating his customary haughty amusement. "You all are aware that I hold Lord Bard in the highest regard. I have offered him an alliance when we faced the Dwarves and Dale has stood with us throughout. At the very least we gain a counterbalance to the Dwarves in Erebor, and at best an ally who will eventually close the gap between the Woodland Realm and the lands of Lord Calemir in Dorwinion. Unless the council objects, I intend to continue this union."

In a way that seemed to settle matters. The Elves around Yávien, whom Bard had considered to be on his side, looked at ease after that pronouncement, while Tiriwen and her supporters were briefly whispering among themselves before she returned her attention to her king.

"How far will this union go?" she asked. "Are there any other measures planned beyond military support and supplies?"

Thranduil returned to his chair and settled down, shrugging off his outer robes to let them drape over the armrests in a cascade of shimmering fabric. "Those will be the main pillars for now. We'll maintain our trade relations with Dale as an intermediary instead of Lake-town, since the transport contracts have never been with the settlement but rather with individuals, as in the case of Lord Bard."

Bard nodded in agreement. "Though I'm going to have to relinquish mine, but I'm sure a replacement's going to be easy to find who's still got the time. And a boat, perhaps." He wondered what had happened to his barge; the last time he'd seen her, she'd been tied up by the main canal around the corner from his house. Most likely the barge had burned with the rest of the town, or been torn loose and was now a few hundred miles downriver.

Thranduil waved his hand dismissively. "The land route will suffice for now. The Forest River won't be navigable until early summer at any rate. There has been much snow this winter."

"What of the new settlement at the lake?" Yávien asked. "They've made overtures about contracts."

Bard felt like banging his head against the nearest wall for not thinking about this. Of course Alfrid would try the same with the Elves as he had with the Dwarves, and had probably done so before he'd even bothered to send messages to the Lonely Mountain. The Woodland Realm had been Lake-town's most important trading partner; naturally they'd try to reclaim that link when it had washed such a steady supply of gold into the Master's coffers.

"Feren has sent a few scouts past the settlement," one of the councilors said. "According to his report there were fewer than a hundred Men to be seen. Not the kind of numbers they'd need to form a sustainable trading post and have enough to spare to crew ships themselves at the same time."

Thranduil hummed thoughtfully, then looked at Bard. "Would you agree with that?"

"What, that they can't cover the transports?" For a moment he considered fudging the truth in Dale's favour. It wouldn't take much, not if he compared it all to Lake-town before the dragon had come. But it would mean lying to the Elves, and while Bard knew that he could be convincing when he had to, he'd never liked it much. Skipping parts of the story was all fine and good, and creative interpretation of the truth had been part of the game when he'd dealt with the Master and Alfrid, just like for most of Lake-town. But the Elves hadn't given him reason for deception. "It's going to depend on how they're organising the shipping. Lake-town needed more people in the harbour than on the actual barges because a lot of stuff got loaded on and off. If they're still doing that, a hundred pairs of hands aren't going to cut it."

"Would they need to?" Thranduil asked.

Bard shrugged. "I didn't always pass by the harbour when I carried shipments that weren’t for the Woodland Realm. Those weren't always entirely authorised trips." When he saw the puzzled expressions of some of the Elves, he gave them a lopsided grin. "Smuggling works a lot better when you don't take the contraband freight into the port when it's avoidable."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sigrid look less than happy at that and shot her an apologetic smile. Perhaps it would have been wiser not to mention this, but given how distant the Elves sometimes appeared from the more earthy sides of existence, it might not do too much damage. With some luck they'd consider smuggling romantic or something along those lines.

"So if we assume that all transports run along official lines, it's unlikely that they can be reliable." Thranduil waved dismissively. "We'll go with Dale, it seems the wiser choice even if it weren't a matter of honouring contracts already in place. Lord Bard has mentioned that they're already negotiating with Erebor as well, so I expect Dale to emerge once again as the trade hub it has been before."

"I hope your confidence won't be disappointed, my Lord," Tiriwen said.

Thranduil met her eyes. "Does my council object on this matter, or any others we have discussed today?"

Tiriwen looked around the circle, then shook her head. "We do not. Though I ask that proper contracts be drawn up and the details be negotiated."

Negotiations. Bard's newest least favourite word, and from what he'd gleaned so far, Thranduil's as well. Nonetheless the Elvenking graced his council with a nod at the request. "It will be done, if Dale will stand with us."

Expectant faces turned towards him, and Bard nodded firmly. "We’ll ally ourselves with the Woodland Realm."

At that point the attendants were recalled to the council chamber again and the discussion shifted to more harmless matters like guard schedules and road maintenance. In the beginning Bard listened, not so much because it concerned him but because it was reassuring to know that even a realm as thoroughly and smoothly organised as that of the Elves still required time for such minutiae. It made Dale look marginally less chaotic in comparison, though it was also worrying since Bard had hoped he'd eventually be able to cut back on the attention he had to give to these matters. If even Thranduil hadn't figured out yet how to avoid discussing snow shoveling schedules after thousands of years, Bard probably wasn't going to work out a solution in his lifetime.

When the discussion shifted into Elvish and therefore mostly incomprehensible territory, Thranduil mercifully provided him with an opening to leave, and Bard pounced at the opportunity for escape.

"You really shouldn't have mentioned the smuggling," Sigrid chided once they stepped outside the council chamber.

Sighing, Bard grimaced at the reprimand. "Was it that bad?"

Her dismayed expression spoke volumes.

"It's hardly a secret. Half the people in Dale were involved in that kind of stuff in some fashion, either because they did it or because they looked the other way. I'm not going to deny that we all did what we had to in order to scrape together enough of a living." He wasn't proud of having done it, though he did take pride in some of the ways in which he'd managed it. Outsailing the Master's patrol in the ruins was a story that had earned him plenty of free ales in the tavern, too.

"You don't have to hide it." Sigrid leaned against him a little, and he slung a companionable arm around her shoulders as they made their way back to their quarters. Even after a week it was still reassuring to have his daughter back within reach, and Bard intended to make the most of it. Tilda had already reached the point where she darted away as soon as he looked like he'd attempt a hug, and was complaining that she was too old for it. At least Sigrid was humoring him.

"As I said, I'm not going to. I expect the Elves knew of it too, or they're a lot less observant than I think."

Sigrid made an uninterpretable noise, then glanced up at his face. "They're good at catching details," she said. "That's why you shouldn't have drawn attention to it. Tiriwen didn't like you much before, and I don't think it's improved her opinion of you."

"Seems like I've got a talent when it comes to irritating Elves. Imrahil doesn't like me much either."

That earned him a huff of indignation. "It's good that you and Thranduil get along when you're annoying all the other important Elves."

He shot her a swift grin. "Surely it's not that bad. Imrahil's a prince, but other than that…"

"Tiriwen's probably worse," Sigrid grumbled. "She was the Queen of the Elves once."

Bard blinked. "Truly?"

He felt Sigrid shrug against him. "For a day, after King Oropher died. She was married to one of Thranduil's older brothers, but they were killed in battle too, so she went back to being just a member of the court. They're calling her Tiriwen Uncrowned, but not where she can hear."

That certainly explained some matters about her. "How do you know all that?"

Again Sigrid shrugged. "I pay attention," she said. "There have been a lot of council sessions about us over the winter, and I wanted to know what was going on and who's on our side. Thranduil hasn't let me sit in on the discussions until today, but he usually gave me a summary afterwards, or had Galion do it."

"Sigrid…" Bard drew her closer against his side and pressed a kiss against the crown of her head. "You didn't have to do that. You were supposed to come here so you'd have an easier winter, not so you'd find something new to worry about."

"I wanted to. It's interesting to see how the Elves handle those things and how they make decisions. I thought that as a king, Thranduil can just do whatever he wants, but he listens to his advisors quite a lot and asks for their opinions before he gives orders."

She paused and they walked in silence for a few moments, up a few steps and along a slowly meandering section of the walkway that hung freely suspended across one of the many brooks inside the halls. After a week Bard barely noticed the omnipresent sound of water anymore; in a way it was soothing and a reminder of Lake-town, though the waves washing against the buildings' foundations had held a different rush to them.

"The Master never listened to anyone, did he?" she eventually went on. "Except for Alfrid, and Alfrid only told him what he wanted to hear anyway, because he was the only one who never asked why."

Bard huffed at the reminder of all those questions that had never earned him answers, only punishment and harassment instead. "He wasn't a particularly good ruler, that way he didn't have to pay attention to what anyone needed."

"You're going to be better than that, Da, " Sigrid said, her voice so full of conviction that Bard couldn't help smiling.

"I'll do my best. I promise."

She hummed in agreement. "So you'll listen if there's something you'd better think about?"

He should have known that his daughter wouldn't occupy herself with idle talk, not when she'd always been full of purpose and had only honed that talent over the past months. "What should I be listening to?"

They came past a wider platform where a few Elves were seated on carved benches; they briefly waved at Sigrid before bowing their heads together again to continue their talk. Bard could only marvel at how well she seemed to have settled in.

"The Elves have sheltered most of the children from Dale for the winter," she said as they walked on.

He nodded. It was hard to forget when his own daughters had been part of it, and when the whole thing had been Sigrid's idea in the first place and negotiated by her with the Elves.

"I've spoken to many of them, and to the Elves who've taken them in. Some of them have grown really close, especially the children who lost their families. They don't have anyone to return to in Dale."

Bard considered this. "Do they want to stay?" he asked. It would hardly be surprising, not when the Elves had provided those children with the first peaceful home after all that destruction and chaos. He wasn't going to begrudge anyone a wish to keep away from Dale when the memories connected to it were of war and death and nothing else. The only question was how to explain that to Thranduil.

But Sigrid shook her head. "No, their foster parents want to accompany them and raise them in Dale."

That was going to take a different kind of explanation. "How many are we talking about?"

Sigrid thought about it briefly. "Forty or fifty Elves."

Bard sighed. "We might as well declare Dale an Elvish settlement in that case and ask Thranduil whether he wants to annex us. Together with Imrahil's soldiers they're going to outnumber the people from Lake-town."

"Only while the troops are still there, and they won't stay forever," Sigrid pointed out very reasonably. "And surely there'll be other people who want to come live in Dale once they hear that life isn't so bad there."

Coming to a halt, Bard turned to look at her. "Do you think it's a good idea?"

She met his eyes, her chin held high, and nodded.

Sigrid had been the one to bring their people here. She'd been the one who'd kept an eye on them during the winter and who'd listened closely enough to know of this now. It was far more responsibility than he'd ever wanted to burden her with, but she had given him little choice in the matter, just like she never seemed to do. And as always she'd shouldered it and handled it much better than he could have hoped.

"We'll talk to Thranduil, you and I," he told her. "It's too early in the year for them to return with us, so there's time to do this properly. But if you think it should be done, we will."

They spoke to Thranduil that evening and drafted a preliminary plan over dinner, or rather, Thranduil and Sigrid drafted it. Bard listened with half an ear, the rest of his attention on Tilda and her heartache over having to leave her horse behind for now, because the foal was too young to be parted from its mother. The promise that they'd bring it to Dale in the autumn was barely enough to console her, and for a little while she was adamant that she'd simply stay here until then.

"She's grown up on the water," he said a few hours later when it was just him and Thranduil in the private study, sharing a last cup of wine. "I have no idea how she's managed to become that obsessed with horses. Fish, ducks, dragonflies, that I'd understand, but the only horse she's ever seen in her life was the mean old knack they kept on the shore to plow the fields."

Thranduil treated him to an amused smile. "She simply takes after her father in doing the unexpected and then stubbornly pursuing the idea."

Bard's eyebrows rose. "Stubborn?"

"I may have heard someone call you obstinate like a donkey just today," Thranduil drawled. "Though I am sure it was intended with the best possible meaning."

"Of course." Shaking his head, Bard pretended to glower. "Elves."

"What makes you so sure of that?"

"Because otherwise it would have had to be one of my daughters. They're just as persistent as I am, so they know and appreciate it." Most of the time at least, except for those moments when they tried to get their ways and their father irritatingly refused to agree.

Thranduil's smile sharpened as he settled more comfortably in his chair, his knee brushing against Bard’s in what probably wasn’t entirely coincidental. “It has certainly served you well in the past.”

Bard’s eyebrows rose at that. “It’s also gotten me into plenty of trouble,” he said, leaning forward so he could increase the contact. Then his eyebrows rose further when Thranduil began to run his soft-booted foot up and down along his calf while looking unperturbed.

“A troublemaker? I see I should have made inquiries before entering into contracts with you.”

At that purred drawl Bard shifted in his seat, somewhere between amused and embarrassed at his reaction, and made a point to slowly and deliberately let his gaze wander. “And yet I was kept on.”

Thranduil hummed deep in his throat, then rose in one smooth move to step over to the side table and set aside his wine cup. “Someone must have appreciated you.”

"Is that so?" Bard asked, following his example, though with less elegance and an audible clink when he set the cup down with the other one. "And who would that be?"

"Not my councilors, they find your impertinence far too disrespectful." Thranduil stepped closer, thoroughly into Bard's personal space and forced him to look up to meet his eyes.

Bard shot him a lopsided grin and made it as disrespectful as he could. After years of practice, it wasn't too hard. "I apologise, of course."

"As though you regret it," Thranduil murmured and leaned closer, his mouth barely brushing the shell of Bard's ear. "As though I'd have you regret it."

"You're giving me reason not to," Bard replied in the same hushed tone of voice, focused on holding still despite the Elf's warmth against him, separated by a mere finger's width.

He heard Thranduil's quiet chuckle, felt the swift exhalation of breath against the side of his neck. "Is that so?"

"Would the Elvenking have me… impertinent?" Bard asked and leaned in just for a moment, barely long enough to nip at Thranduil's jaw and draw a swift gasp from him before withdrawing again. "Or perhaps irreverent?" He punctuated it with another bite, this time to that enticingly bared neck where he could feel the faint patter of Thranduil's pulse against his lips. "Insolent?"

His chin was caught in a firm grip before he could find another spot to tease, so he flicked his tongue against Thranduil's fingers resting at the corner of his mouth instead, smirking when that drew the hint of a pleased sigh.

"I could have you thrown into my dungeons, " Thranduil whispered in his ear, close enough that Bard could feel the soft rush of breath against his skin. "Keep you there until you learn the meaning of respect."

Bard simply smirked back and saw the grey eyes darken in response with what was becoming a rather familiar trace of arousal. "Go ahead then, my Lord Thranduil… I’ll just wait for a message to reach Master Bilbo, I'm sure he'll have me sprung from prison in a day or two."

Thranduil blinked and they looked at each other.

Then they both burst out laughing, though Thranduil managed it in a considerably more dignified fashion than Bard.

"Sorry," Bard gasped, still grinning widely, "that really wasn't where I meant to go with this."

Thranduil was making visible efforts at straightening his face and only partially succeeded; the smile seemed firmly in place for now. "Halflings are not necessarily conductive to these matters."

"I'd rather not think of them in this context," Bard agreed. "Poor Bilbo. Not that I'd want him here, mind. You and I are quite enough."

"Is that so?"

Bard winked at him, then stepped in to slide his arms around Thranduil's waist under the heavy outer robes he was still wearing and draw him close to bring them together. "How about we take this elsewhere and I show you?"

In response Thranduil bowed his head to kiss him, almost chaste at first but soon with growing interest. "A splendid idea," he murmured and turned the two of them towards his bedroom.

Bard allowed himself to be herded along - he could be acquiescent with the right incentive, after all - but eventually Thranduil's measured stride was far too slow for his taste. So as soon as they had one of those rare doors between them and potential prying eyes, Bard reached for Thranduil's wrist to draw him close, then crowded him back against that same door. It earned him a flash of genuine surprise, chased by narrowed grey eyes and a smirk that was all but harmless.

"The dungeons might have merit after all," Thranduil mused. "Raising a hand against the king..."

Bard just shot him a wry grin and leaned closer until he could feel the little silver clasps of Thranduil's tunic press against his chest. "I've done worse and gotten away with it."

"Is that so? And what might that have been?"

"Perhaps I'd better demonstrate." He rose up but held back at the last moment, their faces so close together that he could feel Thranduil's breaths against his lips, warm and coming ever so slightly faster. They looked at each other, and once again he was struck by the sheer agelessness in those grey eyes. He closed the remaining distance between them before he could think too hard about it and instead focused on kissing Thranduil, their mouths sliding together with what was almost turning into familiarity.

"A promising beginning," Thranduil murmured, sighing happily when Bard's hands found their way into his hair, fingers stroking lightly along the tips of his ears. It was curious to see the effect of such a little gesture, so Bard tried for more and was rewarded with an almost-purr when he carefully nipped at one earlobe and slowly moved higher. Absently he wondered whether all Elves were that sensitive, or if it was just one of Thranduil's quirks, then abandoned that thought when Thranduil reached to cup his chin and draw him into a kiss once more. Just the right blend of gentle and demanding, of lips and teeth and tongue, and Bard readily went along when Thranduil began to back him towards the bed they'd been sharing for the past week.

"Clothes first," Bard suggested, trying to figure out where to start. Even with practice, Elvish garments were far too complicated when his attention was focused on matters far more interesting than buttons and laces. "One day I'll convince you that a simple tunic is more than enough."

Thranduil just raised an eyebrow at that plainly scandalous suggestion, but magnanimously helped with the fiendishly intricate knots that held his robes in place. After that was dealt with, they made short work of Bard's much less sophisticated clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor. Bard almost bent to at least toss them over a chair, then got sidetracked entirely by Thranduil's smooth hands settling against his chest and trailing lower just to wrap around his hardening cock for the barest of moments before falling away again.

"If this is the Elvenking's idea of punishment for irreverence, I'm going to have to try for that more often.” He leaned closer, arms raised to wind around Thranduil's shoulders to bring them together from chest to groin. There wasn't all that much finesse behind the move, but he figured that it got the point across.

With a quiet laugh at that, Thranduil gave him a shove that sent him tumbling into the sheets. "Too stubborn for your own good," he drawled and followed him down with considerably more elegance.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Bard relished the seductive warmth radiating from Thranduil's bare skin against his own. There had been times in his life when he'd felt sure he'd never be warm again, usually at the height of winter when the sun's rays were barely strong enough to reach the ground. To lie here naked in a well-heated room was marvellous enough even if he didn't count Thranduil, who seemed intent on getting them thoroughly entangled. "I haven't heard you complain yet."

He felt Thranduil's palm against his cheek, rasping across the stubble in a slow caress. "Perhaps I believe you'll see reason," a kiss to his forehead, then the bridge of his nose, "and learn respect."

Drawing up his knees for leverage, Bard had them rolled in a heartbeat to reverse their positions, Thranduil now sprawled beneath him and looking not at all displeased about it. "Irreverent, remember?" He leaned down to nip at the tip of one pointed ear, drawing a contented gasp. "Besides, don't tell me you don't appreciate a bit of stubbornness. You'd be terribly bored otherwise."

"There are other matters I might appreciate right now," Thranduil told him, a hint of impatience colouring his voice that made Bard hold himself completely still for a moment out of a sheer need not to comply. Other needs soon won out, however, like to taste Thranduil's lips and feel the rise and fall of his chest quicken as they shifted closer together; to settle a thigh between Thranduil's and hear him sigh with pleasure.

Leaning across Thranduil, Bard barely managed to snatch the little flask of oil - whose origins he refused to think more closely about, bad enough that the guards were bound to get an earful again tonight - before he was dragged back again into a tight embrace. He let himself be caught and sank down into Thranduil's arms, irreverent thoughts gone from his mind for now.

A long while later, Bard tiredly picked up the oil flask again to put it down on the floor and keep from spilling whatever might be left.

“Should I send for more?” Thranduil asked at the quiet clink of glass against stone.

Bard just snorted at the idea. “That’s a bit optimistic tonight,” he murmured and curled himself against Thranduil's back with a contented sigh, one arm slung across his chest to draw him in close. He could get used to this, he thought and tried not to dwell on the awareness that tomorrow he’d return to Dale.

Thranduil covered Bard’s hand with his own, their fingers interlaced. “Such a pity,” he drawled and gasped when Bard bit his shoulder in reprimand. Then he drew another sharp breath when Bard dragged their joined hands down along his side, not quite awake enough anymore to really draw it out.

“You’re far too used to getting your way,” Bard said, feathering kisses against the side of his neck as he let his hand wander along the line of Thranduil’s hip to wrap around his cock, not sparing much thought to finesse. “What was it you said about stubbornness…”

The hall that held Thranduil's throne was vast, one of the largest within the caves. Pillars in shapes reminiscent of trees stretched as high as twenty men, the delicately carved latticework at the top barely visible anymore from the ground. Above them the ceiling arched even higher in places, vanishing into darkness where the lamps or the rays of daylight couldn't illuminate the shadows.

For the dragon, the arcs were barely wide enough to let him pass.

Frozen in place, Bard had to watch as the beast curled his giant body around the platform that held the finely carved throne, the tail half draped across the main walkway. The sharp smell of fire stung his nose and he thought he could feel the heat on the bare skin of his face when Smaug stared at him, the huge maw stretching into a terrifying imitation of a grin.

"Dragonslayer," he heard the mocking growl and felt it reverberate down to his bones. "Did you think I wouldn't find you here? Did you think I can't touch the Elves, with their puny weapons and airs of grandeur?"

Slowly Smaug uncurled and rose to his feet, one bridge crumbling under his talons in a crash of stone and wood. With a creak like a ship's sail in a sudden breeze the leathery wings spread out to their full span, and Bard was thrown back to another night when he'd felt the unbearable heat around himself while he'd watched that silhouette come at him, breathing fire and rage.

His hand itched for a bow, a sword, anything to defend himself, but he couldn't move a muscle. All he could do was watch as Smaug twisted past the columns, coming ever closer.

"They've hidden from me, cowering in their hovels in the hope that I won't come for them. They must feel safe from me here, burrowed underground like worms." The huge head swung around and came to a halt right before Bard, so close that he could see the scales that protected the thick hide. They glinted in the faint light, red and golden and brown. On another animal, Bard might have called them beautiful.

"You're not here," he hissed from between clenched teeth, his hands unable to curl into fists.

Smaug laughed, a thundering rumble that echoed in the empty air of the hall. "You've brought me here, Dragonslayer," he snarled. "Where you go, I go. The Elves' halls are no safer than your meagre town, and their lordling has already tasted my kin's fire in the past and fled in pain and fear. He won't thank you for inviting me in."

Bard tried not to listen. He closed his eyes and wished himself far away, onto the lake, into the mountains, anywhere without other living beings around himself. He wished for the hard grip of a bow in his hand, and for a moment thought he did.

When he opened his eyes again he saw Thranduil on his throne in a robe of silk even paler than his hair and skin. Something dark covered his cheek, and at first Bard thought it was merely part of his crown until he looked closer and recognised the deep burns that reached down to the bone and followed the slender column of his neck to vanish under his splendid clothes, only to appear again on a hand charred to almost nothing.

"He knows what it's like to have dragonfire devour his flesh," Smaug growled. "He's felt it before, he'll feel it again."

"Not while I'm here!"

"Ah, but that's precisely why I'm here too." With a sharp snap of his wings, Smaug turned away from him and towards Thranduil on his throne, and Bard felt the ground tremble beneath him with each step of the dragon.

With a lash of his tail, Smaug shattered the bridge Bard was standing on, and everything turned dark.

Bard startled awake with a half-swallowed cry and struggled upright against the blankets that were trapping him tightly, his heart pounding in his chest. In the darkness he couldn't see where he was, and he had to fight vertigo for a moment when the blackness seemed to spin around him and he couldn't find anything to focus on.

A sudden firm grip on his wrist made him tear himself away and he lost his balance, his hands flying out to find something, anything to steady himself against. He struck something soft, fabric that tapered off into individual threads, and his confused mind latched onto the knowledge that this was one of those froofy Elvish cushions, that he had to be in Thranduil's bed because nobody else would even consider using those, and that the hand that had attempted to touch him had to belong to the Elf.

Who was also saying his name, voice pitched low and even as if he were trying to calm a spooked horse.

He drew a shaky breath, then another, his his heart racing in his chest. "Sorry," he managed, raising one unsteady hand up to brush his hair out of his face, the other still clutching the pillow tassle. His eyes were slowly adjusting to the near complete darkness that was only broken by the faint light of a single small lamp in the corner, the wick turned so low that only a tiny flame was still burning.

The rustling of blankets and the shift of the mattress warned him that Thranduil was sitting up too, though he didn't attempt another touch.

"Just a nightmare," Bard said and forced his breathing to slow, though the effort made him tremble. "I know it wasn't real." He hoped it wasn't real, though he didn't say that out loud.

He caught a considering hum from Thranduil, then felt him move closer, his knee brushing against Bard's thigh as he shifted position. "I don't believe I've seen you dream before."

Bard shrugged, pushing into that small point of contact just a little. "When you sleep in the same room as your small children, you don't want to wake up screaming." Another hum, perhaps while Thranduil pictured life in such close quarters, so he went on, "Just give me a moment. I know there is no dragon in your halls."

"I should hope not," Thranduil huffed. "I have far more sense than Thrór ever did to risk attracting that kind of attention."

"Good to know." His breathing was almost back to normal and he could feel his wildly beating heart begin to calm as well. Carefully he reached out, his hand finding Thranduil's left cheek with only a little bit of clumsiness. The skin there was smooth under his fingertips, unblemished and unscarred despite what he'd seen. "I dreamt you were burnt by dragonfire," he said, stroking up along the line of Thranduil's temple and slowly back to his ear, lingering at the delicate tip in both a caress and a distraction.

For a few heartbeats Thranduil said nothing, just held still under the touches. Eventually Bard felt him move once again, an arm coming around his waist, and he was gently pushed down into the cushions again. He let himself be manhandled, not bothering with even token resistance. It felt far too reassuring to his still somewhat shaken nerves to have Thranduil solid and warm against his back, the blankets drawn up around them in a sheltering layer against the rest of the world.

"Do Elves dream?" he asked and settled into the embrace, his head on the cushions and Thranduil's arm a comfortable weight across his chest.

"At times, though not as often as Men seem to do. Perhaps because we sleep less, especially when our minds are troubled." Thranduil slowly ran his hand down across Bard's sternum, skirting the lower edge of his ribs before tracing an arch to his hip, then back up again, quietly soothing.

"But you sleep."

"Because it's pleasant, not because it's necessary."

"Of course you must like it or you wouldn't bother with such a big bed." Bard paused, his fingers toying with the tassel of one of the cushions. "Or drag one all the way to Dale just for a few days of posturing, silk sheets and poncy pillows and all."

He felt the quiet chuckle more than he heard it. "As I said, it can be pleasant," Thranduil murmured,his hand flattening against Bard’s chest, solid and reassuring.

"In more ways than one," Bard agreed quietly and caught Thranduil's hand, drawing it to his mouth to slide his lips over the smooth skin before cradling it against his chest. Missing the presence of another person in his bed hadn't vanished over the years, though the pain of his Kari’s loss had dulled with time to a faint ache he was only aware in the quiet of the night. He hadn't always slept alone in the past years, but those few times had been about physical desires, not the far more complex pleasure of simple company that was so much harder to find. To have both… Shifting closer to Thranduil, he focused on the slow rise and fall of his chest and on the arm around him, and slowly felt his heart ease.

For a little while they didn't speak while Bard tried to make himself go back to sleep, but his mind was still too awake to let him drift off. He was warmer and more comfortable than he'd been for most of the winter, Thranduil's breaths a quiet rush against his bare shoulder. Enough to let him rest, or so it should have been - but sleep escaped him, no matter how still he tried to keep.

"You asked me once whether I would bring down the walls of Erebor with a song," Thranduil eventually said in the darkness, his voice pitched low. His arm tightened around Bard, bringing them closer together.

Bard hummed in agreement. "You do realise that was months ago."

"Some matters require patience. Do you know the tale of Beren Erchamion and Lúthien Tinúviel?"

"I don't think so. One of them sang down a wall, I take it?" Bard paused, then had to grin. "Oh, isn't it the tale with the talking dog? I've got to admit I didn't pay much attention beyond that bit, but the dog was great."

He felt Thranduil's chest rise and fall in a sigh so clearly that it had to be exaggerated. "At times I wonder how you can be unaware of tales every Elfling knows."

"Because I've never been an Elfling, that's why." Reaching up to adjust the cushions, Bard settled under the blankets with a quiet huff. "But what I am is the leader of a city full of Elves and now apparently children who're being raised by Elves, so it might be for the best if I know those stories, just in case."

Thranduil shifted in response, rolling close again and entangling his legs with Bard's, hand splayed across his stomach. "I may have to supply you with books."

"Give them to Sigrid," Bard said and laid his hand on top of Thranduil’s, curling their fingers together, "and tell me your tale, I like listening to you. What's it about, aside from the talking dog and walls being destroyed by songs?"

"Men," Thranduil muttered with the same mock derision Bard always used. "It's about so much more than just that."

"Then I'll just have to listen."

"Just so." Thranduil paused briefly, and when he spoke again his voice rose and fell with the pattern of his words. "A king there was in days of old, ere Men yet walked upon the mould. His power was reared in caverns' shade; his hand was over glen and glade…"

It turned out that it was indeed about more than just a talking dog. As Thranduil told the unfolding tale of Beren and Lúthien, occasionally pausing as he sought for the words to translate it from Sindarin, Bard let himself be drawn into the story until he eventually drifted off to sleep.

The next morning they returned to Dale with most of those who'd come to winter with the Elves because of their injuries or illnesses. For now the younger children would stay in the Woodland Realm until the details about their foster parents' relocation were settled. At the same time there was no reason to keep the remaining people from going back to what wasn't their home yet, but what would hopefully become one in time.

They formed a fairly large group of travelers: Bard's people on horseback and on carts otherwise laden with food and other supplies, accompanied by sixty guards and, somewhat surprisingly, one Elvenking.

"My troops in Dale need to know that I haven't abandoned them to exile," Thranduil explained as he and Bard rode side by side just behind a handful of guards at the head of their caravan. "Imrahil has expressed some concern in that regard in his last messages."

Bard snorted loudly enough that his horse tossed its head in response to the sudden noise. "Imrahil needs to get over the idea that Dale is a barbaric wasteland. I know we can't compare to the luxuries in your realm, but it's really not as bad as he pretends it to be. How does he cope with travelling so far south to Gondor, does he take attendants along to set up a tent like yours every evening?"

Thranduil shot him a disdainful look that Bard by now knew to read as mild amusement rather than displeasure, though why the Elf would bother with even such a small deception was beyond him.

"I like your tent," Bard went on, "it probably was the most comfortable place in all of Dale in those first few days. Certainly the warmest and least wet. But it's not the most practical thing to lug around, you've got to admit that."

"Which is why none of my people burden themselves with such matters when they travel, not even my children."

"And yet you do.”

Thranduil's expression turned blank, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "The king needs to host the war council and important allies on a regular basis, it wouldn't do to welcome them in the rain and snow. I do presume you won’t deny me the pleasure of your hospitality once again?"

"Not unless the city has burned down since I left, and I'm fairly sure someone would have mentioned that in time over the past week." Right now it still took almost a day to cover the distance between Dale and Thranduil's halls, but the Elvish scouts Bard had spoken to estimated that once the paths dried out, the travel time would be cut in half on a sure-footed horse.

Time passed slowly for the stretch of the journey that led them through the forest along narrow paths that made for slow riding. Bard spent most of the time speaking to those who'd return to Dale, trying to figure out where they'd slip back into their tightly knit community. It would be good to regain almost thirty pairs of hands to help with all the tasks that still needed doing; even more than that, it would be another step towards normalcy, or whatever passed for normalcy in Dale these days.

At noon they reached the edge of the forest and came out onto the open plain that stretched for twenty miles to the flanks of the Lonely Mountain rising in the distance. From here on the journey got easier even for the less experienced travelers and they made good progress, enough that they could afford to dismount and take a break in the early afternoon without fear of losing the daylight before they reached Dale.

The attack came out of nowhere.

Riders burst forth from behind a rocky outcrop where they'd hidden. They didn't make for the main group - they were only a dozen, too few to face almost forty people - but for one of the supply carts that had stopped at a little distance from the rest, a wheel stuck in a mudhole.

Bard didn't even have time to find his horse again - let alone get back into the saddle - before the first Elves gave chase. While he readied an arrow, aimed and released, he heard Thranduil shout orders in Sindarin, saw the Elves around them drag everybody who wasn't armed back to the carts where they could be protected more easily. Most of the people of Dale were up there with the grain sacks within moments, eyes wide as they huddled down together.

Frantically he looked for his children, finally spotting Sigrid with a pair of Elves with their swords drawn. One of them shoved a shorter blade into her hands, and Bard saw the cold determination on her face as she gripped the weapon, ready to defend herself if it came to that.

Tilda was nowhere to be seen.

For a moment Bard thought he'd spotted her on one of the carts, then realised that it wasn't her. A cold shudder raced down his spine as he turned, searching for her in the chaos. "Tilda!"

Thranduil glanced in his direction, then shouted something at his troops again and sent half of them towards the attackers, their weapons ready. The cart that had been targeted was the one that carried supplies of Elf-crafted arrows, as well as lembas, and the raiders were grabbing as many bags and quivers now as they could. One was busy unhitching the two draft horses while the others circled, eyes on the approaching guards; the Elf who'd been driving the cart lay on the ground, unmoving.

"Tilda!" Bard yelled again but didn't get an answer. He froze when he suddenly spotted the horse she'd been riding among the attackers, the saddle empty as the animal fidgeted nervously where it had been tied to the cart's back. "Tilda!"

Sigrid was desperately screaming her sister's name, too, but the two Elves who were guarding her kept her from doing more than that despite her clear efforts to get away from them. Bard spared them an absent thought of thanks and ran towards the attackers together with the Elves, bow in one hand and an arrow in the other. It was almost impossible to focus, his eyes frantically searching for a sign of Tilda, but he ruthlessly quenched the panic rising in his throat and concentrated on staying calm enough to be of use.

The bandits were still grabbing what they could from the cart; the horses were loose as well now and one of the riders made off with them, followed by a few others with bags slung across their saddles. One lay on the ground, writhing and screaming with pain, his clothes soaked red.

Bard slowed, took aim and caught one of the bandits in the shoulder, sending him toppling off his horse. Ahead of him the first Elves reached the cart and the remaining raiders scattered before their drawn swords, clearly not about to risk a direct confrontation.

He heard the rumble of hooves somewhere behind him and a heartbeat later was overtaken by several Elves on horseback; after a moment he caught a glimpse of Thranduil in their midst as they chased after the fleeing bandits.

"Tilda!" he shouted again, running as fast as he could on the uneven ground.

"Da!"

It took him endless moments to spot her, and his heart skipped a beat when he finally did. One of the bandits had dragged her onto his horse, and as much as she struggled, she couldn't free herself.

Bard forced a deep breath past clenched teeth and aimed, but the moment he released the arrow the bandit wheeled his horse around and the shot missed him by a finger-width.

"Da!" Tilda screamed, kicking and biting her captor; Bard heard him swear in response and spur his horse into a gallop just before the Elves could reach him. The bandits chased their horses across the brook and scattered, clearly hoping to get away individually, and with them on horses Bard had no way to keep up. It didn't stop him from trying and he pushed himself as hard as he could, his eyes on the rider ahead of him.

Horses suddenly surrounded him and he almost stumbled into one when Thranduil reined in sharply right in front of him, sword in hand and expression grim.

"That one's got Tilda," he panted.

Eyes widening, Thranduil snapped a command in Sindarin and the Elves immediately took off in pursuit across the brook, too fast for Bard to do more than stare after them, his fist curled tightly around the leather-wrapped grip of his bow. Belatedly he spun on his heel to look for a horse, but none were anywhere near.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement, and it was instinct more than rational thought that made him raise his bow again, nock an arrow and shoot the bandit that had been sneaking up behind Feren with his axe raised to strike. The man crumpled to the ground with an arrow in his thigh; startled, Feren turned and shot Bard a quick nod in acknowledgment before returning his attention to the remaining bandits.

In the end it wasn't much of a fight. Seven bandits lay on the ground, three of them with arrows in them which Bard reclaimed absently, his eye on the copse of trees where the rest had disappeared with the Elves behind them.

Tilda would be fine, he firmly told himself, struggling to quell the rising fear in his throat. There hadn't been time for her to be hurt, she'd always been good at wriggling her way out of trouble. The bastards would be too busy trying to escape to harm her, and there was no way a horse as scrawny as those of the bandits were could outpace an Elf-bred mount with a practiced rider. She'd be fine. Even if there was nothing he could do to help her with that, and it was driving him out of his mind with worry.

She'd. Be. Fine.

He wished he were better at convincing himself.

Sigrid mercifully gave him something to focus on when she rushed to his side once the Elves deemed it safe, eyes wide when she couldn't see Tilda anywhere.

"She'll be all right," Bard told her with all the conviction he tried to make himself feel. "Remember when she stowed away on Jolf's barge and he didn't spot her until he was halfway to Dorwinion? She'll be just as fine."

The stony expression on Sigrid's face clearly said that she had a hard time believing it, but she managed a forced smile. "We'll get her back a lot sooner this time, too. I remember how worried you were."

She proved wonderfully prophetic when Elvish riders appeared from the trees and slowly made their way across the brook, herding a handful of bandits along. Bard had no eyes for them, though, only for Tilda in the saddle before Thranduil, covered in mud and leaves but looking unharmed.

"Da!" As soon as Thranduil lifted her up and then lowered her to the ground, she cast herself into Bard's arms, burrowing into his coat while he held her as tightly as he could, only easing up a little when she squeaked in protest.

"Are you all right?" he asked into her dirty hair, reaching up to pluck a leaf away.

"He grabbed me, and I tried to get free, but I couldn't," she told him, her voice more excited than scared. "But then I bit him and kicked him and I scratched him so he dropped me and tried to run away. And then the Elves were there, and they got all of them."

"You need to stay out of trouble!" Sigrid scolded as she came to join them in their hug, and Bard carefully leaned to the side so Tilda wouldn't get squished between them. "I was so worried, and Da too!"

"I believe it wasn't her fault," Thranduil said behind them. He'd dismounted by now and was holding the reins of his horse while the other Elves were corralling the bandits into a tight group. "She conducted herself quite admirably for the circumstances. We only had to catch up with them and collect her."

Bard shot him a grateful smile, Tilda's head tucked tightly under his chin.

Thranduil nodded in response. Then his eyes widened when Sigrid suddenly turned, stepped up to him and threw her arms around him, hugging him close. "Thank you," she murmured into his chest.

It was the first time Bard saw Thranduil genuinely at a loss for words, even if it only lasted for a breath's length before he raised a hand and somewhat hesitantly patted Sigrid's back. "I did promise your father that nothing would happen to you or your sister. Oaths are not lightly forsaken."

Knowing more now about Elvish history than he had been aware of before his brief stay in Thranduil's halls, Bard had to agree. He also had to wonder what would happen if Thranduil ever failed to uphold a promise he had made.

There were hints to be seen in the way the Elves dealt with the bandits at their king's command once they'd taken care of their own injured. Nobody had died this day, but two of the guards had been wounded in the fight, one of them badly enough that Thranduil's own efforts were required to heal him. Bard's people were badly shaken at finding themselves under attack the moment they left their safe haven where they'd found shelter for the winter. It didn't put Bard into a friendly frame of mind, and the Elves clearly took cues from their king where their attitude towards the bandits was concerned.

"The laws have been clear since the first Edain settled here." Thranduil surveyed the the bandits huddled together on the ground, one hand on the pommel of his sword as he addressed them. Feren stood by his side, equally watchful. "Harm my people or those under my protection and you will suffer the consequences."

"Are we to take them back with us, my Lord?" Feren asked.

Thranduil shook his head. "Why burden ourselves with keeping such rabble in the dungeons?"

Several of the bandits gasped at that; one raised his hands in supplication. "Please, my Lord," he begged, "please."

Thranduil looked down at him, his expression hard. "You attacked me and my people. You attacked those I swore to protect. You captured the Lord of Dale's daughter, and it was sheer luck that she came to no harm. Why should I be lenient?"

It was difficult to just stand by and watch, but Bard forced himself to remain quiet for now. He couldn't protest this, not when he still couldn't quite quench the urge to hurt them for daring to lay a hand on Tilda. These men had been the ones to attack, they had been ready to injure and kill in order to get what they wanted. And yet Bard saw the difference between them and his own people in the clothes so badly suited to the weather, the beginning of hunger on their faces.

But he'd gone hungry more often than he cared to remember. He'd worn garments so threadbare that they were more patches than anything. His children had shivered in the cold during the worst winter nights when what firewood they'd scrounged up hadn't been enough to warm even one room. Even then, robbery hadn't crossed his mind.

"We were only on patrol," the bandit tried. "On orders of the Master."

Bard saw Thranduil's eyes narrow at that and shook his head at the questioning glance. "You're not from Lake-town," he said. "I'd know you, and I've never seen you there."

"The Master took us in for the winter, said he'd give us food if we joined the guard," the bandit hastily explained, a few of his companions nodding in agreement. "What else were we to do?"

"Find another place, one not ruled by that sodding bastard," Bard growled. "Downriver there's always work to be had."

"They wouldn't have us there anymore!"

Which said enough about the men Alfrid was gathering in Lake-town. His hands balled into fists, he straightened and forced himself to look at each of their captives before turning to Thranduil. "I've heard about the laws you've enforced in these cases."

Thranduil nodded. "As it will be done again," he said, and at a wave of his hand Feren stepped forward, his dagger drawn.

Before them, the bandits froze. "Please," one of them whispered. "Mercy, my Lords. Please."

Thranduil regarded them with his usual disdain, though this time there was less mockery and more menace about it. "You're warned. You shall not set foot in the Woodland Realm, you shall not come within sight of Dale's walls. You won't prey on others again. Go against these commands and death will be your reward." Glancing at Feren, he gestured towards the bandits. "Mark them so if they're caught again, every sentry will know that they've been given their chance."

With a grim nod Feren stalked towards the first bandit and seized him.

"I always thought that was only a story you made up to scare us," Sigrid said, her eyes wide as she watched their attackers be dragged to their feet one by one. A flash of the blade, a dab of healing and they were left with a notch in their ear that wasn't going to close anytime soon.

"To be honest, I thought so, too. Your great-grandmother used it as a threat when I misbehaved." Which hadn't happened all that often; she'd been convincing where such matters had been concerned. But he'd thought even then that she was merely making things up. It drove home the point that while Elves were graceful and elegant creatures, there was also a sharp ferocity about them that was forgotten at your own peril.

That evening, Dale celebrated the first real feast in its short existence at the return of their evacuated people. Not all might have come back yet, but it was the most visible sign they all had that there was a future for their city and that matters were looking up. The snow was almost gone, the days were turning longer, warmer and sunnier, and along with the beginning of the planting season it was as good an excuse as any to have some fun. That most of the traditional ingredients to a party - plenty of food and, more importantly, plenty of ale - were missing didn't stop anyone; they simply made up for it with more singing and dancing, which was just as well and saved everybody the collective hangover the next morning.

The Elves looked on with some bemusement at the antics around them, but a few of the more enterprising ones eventually joined in. Bard saw Feren chat amicably with a handful of fishermen-turned-militia, and a brave Elf dared approach the musicians and eventually joined when she was lent a flute, though the instrument had to be a lot more off tone than what she was used to. He even spotted Tauriel off to one side, watching carefully as Sigrid showed her the steps to a dance while singing along to the music.

Thranduil surveyed it all from a high-backed chair that had been shoved up against the wall of the great hall to make more room, his faintly amused mask firmly in place so Bard could only guess at his thoughts. But he didn't leave despite being given the opportunity to do so more than once, and once or twice Bard thought he caught at least a hint of a genuine smile slip through when the singing turned particularly rowdy.

The Elvenking certainly wasn't in a bad mood by the time the party wound down, judging by the way Bard found himself getting tumbled into his bed once they could make their excuses. A determined-looking Thranduil following him down with a devious glint in his eyes.

"I thought you'd be tired after the journey," Bard gasped as he was shoved back almost roughly, cushions scattering all around them. Reaching up, he dragged Thranduil down to him, one hand on his shoulder and the other tangled in his long, soft hair, the grip not quite as gentle as it perhaps should have been.

"Elves have no need for sleep," Thranduil reminded him with a haughty smirk, bowing his head to claim a thorough kiss that left both of them briefly distracted as they shifted together, their clothes swiftly discarded though it took Bard a few attempts to get rid of his tunic entirely.

Pushing up against the deceptively light hold quickly proved futile and just earned him a sharp bite at the base of his bared throat, then another when that drew a pleased sigh from him. "No rest, then, and looks like you don't have much of a need for patience either."

That bit of teasing got him a chuckle that sounded almost suspicious to his ears. "I assure you, I can be patient," Thranduil told him, punctuating his statement with a feather-light brush of his lips against Bard's. "Very, very patient."

Bard quirked an eyebrow at him, then managed to startle him into a half-swallowed moan when he carefully brought up his thigh between Thranduil's, giving him just enough friction. "We'll see about that."

"I don't see why you had to bring the poncy forest sprite," Dáin grumbled when they marched across the plain between Erebor and Dale the next day to survey the state of what was supposed to be arable land. Seizing the opportunity for negotiations was unavoidable, it seemed, even when all three of them weren't particularly eager at the prospect.

A lack of eagerness at negotiating with Dwarves once more certainly wasn't stopping Thranduil from sniping. "Afraid that your stubby legs won't be able to keep up with us?"

"I'll axe yours off at the knees, see what you'll do then." Dáin stopped to kick at a bit of rock that looked just like thousands of others strewn across the plain but for some reason warranted closer attention.

Bard dutifully watched as Dáin kicked the rock once more, then again, and risked a glance at Thranduil only to see the Elf with a thoughtful expression on his face. He had the growing suspicion that he was missing something here.

"Slag," Dáin eventually pronounced.

Thranduil nodded. "An unfortunate side effect of harbouring a dragon. Some of the soil from my realm will probably improve matters, but not if the ground is solid stone. Can something be done?"

"They'll be picking lumps off the fields for a decade, but the soil underneath looks fertile. No reason why it shouldn't be, there've been good harvests off these fields for centuries. They'll need proper ploughs and harrows though, none of that shoddy Elf work I've seen. Pretty twigs, the lot of them."

"We have other means of tilling," Thranduil countered, though he didn't sound particularly bothered by the criticism. "Far more elegant means than dragging tools across fields for days. Not that you'd understand, of course."

Dáin scoffed at him. "Go on then, pixie, snap your fingers and make stuff grow around here."

Thranduil perfunctorily ignored him and turned to Bard. "Have you found farming gear in Dale? They cultivated most of the land around the city, something ought to have been left behind. And with some luck it was made well enough that it's still usable, though given that most tools were probably supplied by Erebor…"

"That means it doesn't take any luck for them to still function," Dáin growled. "What we Dwarves craft endures, not like your flimsy, feeble attempts."

Bard heaved a sigh. "I'll take whatever hasn't crumbled to dust yet, and I don't care who made it," he said, chin raised to give both of them a look full of all the exasperation he wasn't bothering to hide. "We've got ploughs that look like they're in decent shape, and we've even got a few people who know how to use them. What we're missing are horses or oxen to pull them unless either of you can lend me some ponies or draft horses for a week or so."

They continued to walk along one of the ditches in the ground that looked as though it might have been part of an irrigation system once upon a time. Another matter to take care of, Bard thought with a growing sense of fatalism. That list wasn't ever going to grow shorter again, he was certain of that.

"You'll have your horses within a few days," Thranduil said, nimbly sidestepping around the remnants of a shattered Orc axe. Slag wasn't the only stuff they'd be picking off the fields for the coming years. "I've sent a request to Calemir to supply you with the beginnings of a breeding stock, you'll need them."

Bard's eyebrows rose at that. "You're making your son send me horses? Not that I don’t appreciate it, but Dorwinion’s quite some distance. Seems like a lot of effort for a few ponies." He'd expected an offer to borrow some of the larger animals that had been used for the supply carts, as well as a counter-offer from Dáin for whatever Dwarves used as draft animals because the King under the Mountain couldn't possibly stand by and let the Elves have the upper hand. He hadn't expected another Elf-lord to get involved in this, especially when Bard was currently climbing into bed with said Elf-lord’s father. He hadn’t met Calemir yet, but if he was anything like his brothers, Bard wasn’t sure he wanted to be in his debt.

Dáin looked equally surprised, though his eyes narrowed with suspicion after a moment. "We'll provide horses as well and also repair the tools."

"They'll hardly need so many horses," Thranduil countered. "Especially not Dwarf ponies when we can supply properly sized animals from Dorwinion’s best herds that will actually be useful."

"Ours will be given, and accepted." Dáin turned to look at Bard. "Won't they?"

One of these days he had to figure out a way to stop Thranduil and Dáin from being competitively helpful. There was no denying that Dale profited from the situation, and Bard wasn't about to tell them to stop, but he was walking a fine line whenever he accepted assistance from one side while the other struggled to find a way to outdo them.

"I'm not going to decline the horses from the Elves, or to the offer of repairs from the Dwarves," he said carefully. "And of course we'll pay for them."

Thranduil waved his hand dismissively. "That won't be necessary. Consider it a gift from Dorwinion to Dale."

"Didn’t think you ruled more than just your bunch of squirrels up in Mirkwood," Dáin muttered. "Giving away stuff that isn't yours, are you now?"

"I merely suggested assistance, the decision was Lord Calemir's. Dorwinion does profit from a recovered Dale, so it is only a reasonable stance for them to assume." It was hard to miss that Thranduil carefully avoided any statement about the status of Dorwinion, something Bard wasn't quite certain about yet. He knew from his barge trips downriver that it was an Elf-dominated settlement, and he'd always assumed that they were essentially independent. Of course, at the time he hadn't been aware that Dorwinion's leader was Thranduil's eldest son and heir, which had to turn the place into something like a satellite territory of Mirkwood.

Elves, trust them to make matters complicated.

"Dorwinion doesn't need Dale," Dáin stated bluntly. "They've got far more important trading partners. I've been in close enough contact with those southern pointy-ears as Lord of the Iron Hills, and Dale's nothing but an afterthought to them. But your boy's going to listen to you, and you've told him to get involved. So what are you getting out of it?"

Thranduil glanced at their attendants, who were waiting at a respectful distance while the three of them took their walk, too far for the Dwarves or Bain and Percy to be able to listen. The Elves' ears were keen enough, but Imrahil and Feren could presumably be trusted to keep their mouths shut.

"I gain the same as you will, only you don't see it yet," Thranduil said. "Which probably should be forgiven. It cannot be expected of Dwarves to make far-seeing decisions when they need to climb on a rock to see further than they can reach with their stubby arms." He graced Dáin with a smile that was full of teeth. "Would you like me to explain it to you?"

Dáin scowled up at him. "Damned Elves," he growled. "Do whatever you want, just don't think that we'll stand by and let you drag Dale into your fancy forest fairy politics while we look on and let your influence grow. I won't have a settlement right in front of my nose that's a puppet on your strings."

"We're hardly puppets!" Straightening, Bard took a step towards Dáin before catching himself at it and stopping, forcing his posture to soften again. "We need help, I'm not going to deny that, but we're working on becoming self-sufficient as quickly as we can. I'm not interested in depending on charity a day longer than we have to, but I'm also not going to give up good relations with my neighbours once we've achieved that."

Dáin huffed with a mix of humor and derision. "Good relations, eh? Might as well call an axe an axe and say that you're shagging that overgrown pixie. Or the other way round, whatever lights your torch."

Bard blinked and opened his mouth, then shut it again when he couldn't think of a reply to that. He hadn't harboured any illusions about the Elves being aware of what had been going on since that first evening in Thranduil's tent, and his own people had definitely caught on by the time the Elvenking had begun to sleep in his room. But he hadn't thought that gossip would trickle down to the Dwarves quite that fast.

He wondered whether it denoted a diplomatic incident that he was trying to maintain a balance with the two powers currently stabilising his city and at the same time sleeping with only one of them. It could probably be called preferential treatment.

"Don't look at me like a startled owl, lad. At least you won't be hatching little pointy-ears with him, not with those skinny hips on both of you." Dáin shook his head and patted his beard with both hands.

"As if a tunnel-grubber would know anything about such matters," Thranduil drawled, looking far too innocent for the entire situation. Bard shot him a glare to wordlessly tell him that he wasn't helping.

Dáin glanced back and forth between them, then gave one more huff and appeared to put the matter behind him. "So about those ploughs and harrows… You show them to one of my Dwarves tomorrow and they'll get repaired."

"At a fair price." Bard was quite proud of recovering his voice and his wits again, especially when Thranduil was smirking at him with the same bright amusement in his eyes that had so far been reserved for far more private settings. "I only wanted the gold so we could rebuild, I might as well use it and not hoard it. We'll pay for the horses as well, Lord Calemir's just going to have to accept that."

In a weird way it was like settling a squabble between Sigrid and Bain over the stuffed toy sheep they'd both adored, only they'd been toddlers at the time, not reigning kings with centuries or even millennia of knowledge and experience.. And while Thranduil and Dáin had calmed down considerably where their insults and sniping was concerned, they clearly weren't about to stop.

The rest of their trip across the future fields was reasonably productive, if only thanks to Bard keeping a tight rein on the discussion from that point on. Questions of crops were settled with Thranduil's suggestions, while Dáin promised to look into irrigation, and they all agreed that whatever harvest could be managed would go to Dale first, with any surplus to be sold to the Dwarves. Normal questions with normal answers, at least as long as they pretended not to see the occasional partial remains of Orcs still scattered across the field. Bard found it hard enough to know of all the blood that had been spilled here without a visual reminder.

"I wouldn't be superstitious about it," Dáin said when he voiced that thought, kicking an Orcish helmet aside with his steel-capped boot. "The plain's been the best soil in the past, and it's got the river, too. No point in ignoring it just because there's been a battle here. There've been battles everywhere at one point. Turn it into something useful again and reclaim it."

Thranduil looked as though he were about to disagree, then gave a minute shake of his head and remained silent. The Elves would doubtlessly remember this battle far longer than the Dwarves or Men, if only because even in a few hundred years, most of them could still give first-hand accounts of what had happened and where.

"It's not like we've got much of a choice about it," Bard said eventually, trying the taste of the idea that their food would grow on soil where blood had been shed so recently. It left a touch of unease, but he quelled that ruthlessly in favour of pragmatism. "If we farm the land across the ridge, it's going to lose us two hours a day we'd spend trekking back and forth, and there's only a small brook to use for irrigation. That would take much more work."

Dáin nodded in agreement. "Keep that for expansion in a few years, once you've got enough hands. And for now just think of it as not wasting land that's been bought at a high price. The dead won't hold grudges over seeing it put to good use. It's why they fought after all."