Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author Note: Set after the trilogy of films.

TOO MANY YEARS

"Da!"

Tilda rushed to grasp him round the waist, Bard rumpled a hand through her hair, glad of her touch. He always felt cold these days. As usual his gaze checked her once, twice – she was fine. Sigrid straightened out from over the stove, tiredness and a particularly bright kind of happiness mixing in her expression. She was fine too. Bain was eating something, his hair as dark as his father's.

They were all fine. Another day had passed. Another day of being called sir, or Your Highness, Your Majesty. Another day.

Sigrid pressed a hot drink into his hands; it didn't hit the coldest parts of his marrow though it tried hard. There was so much work in Dale, rebuilding and reforging, not just foundations and physical buildings but people's lives. There never seemed to be enough room to bury the dead.

And there were some waiting for Bard to fail.

"The Dwarves were near again," Bain told him, "Working on the smithy and carpenters."

Because to rebuild such places would mean much more work could begin on much more rebuilding. It was a good idea. Bard nodded, "They've been good at sparing so much time for us, they've got their own home to make right."

Erebor hadn't been destroyed but it hadn't been lived in by anyone but a dragon for many years. And the royal family had almost been wiped out. Now they were recovering – the two princes, Fili and Kili, were in charge while King Thorin healed from his grave injuries. And...

Bard's thoughts were diverted by the rich smells he'd only just realised were rising from the stove. Sigrid smiled over her shoulder and Bain finished off what turned out to be an apple. How? Tilda tugged at her father's hand.

"Look, Da!"

There was a wooden box on the table in the kitchen and it was full of fresh good food. There was meat, fruit and herbs; the smell was pretty staggering after the stench that Bard had been surrounded by all day. Bard touched a hand to the box as Sigrid approached, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Elves brought it," she told him, which explained Tilda's excitement. "They said it was on their King's orders."

Surprised and with something twisting inside of him that he pushed firmly aside; Bard took another look in the box. This didn't look like Elf food, the fruit maybe but meat? He'd heard they stayed away from it. So this food had been chosen specially for Bard and his children. But why? It was true that Bard had spent much time with Thranduil when they had been attempting to deal with the Dwarves holed up in Erebor. And now Bard was often sat beside Thranduil at regular council meetings that took place with the Dwarves. The Elf King had always been sardonic, cutting and remorseless with a beauty that he wore like armour. He spent most of his time insulting the Dwarves and making demands for owed gold. He was often infuriating. Was this Thranduil trying to buy Bard's assistance in leveraging more from the Dwarves? That sounded right. There was not time or space for any other possibilities.

His kids were clearly happy though and Sigrid had put some of the gift to good use. The smell was a very good one. Bain went to grab another apple but Bard shook his head.

"We'll be making this last."

"But it'll go bad if we wait too long," Bain pointed out.

True, but most of Laketown and Dale didn't have even this much to live on; the battle and the dragon had made sure of that. The Dwarves' gold wasn't much use until crops had been replanted and a lot of hunting and fishing had been done. Bard's duties as King – a thought he determinedly shoved past each day, thinking of himself as only a governor which itself was heavy enough – meant organising the rebuilding as well as the food problem. So far, the balancing act was taking some work but progress was being made. So far, people weren't asking for payment for their hard work because they got repaid in other ways – their belongings being recovered, their home being repaired or completely rebuilt, food provided.

Bard's stomach rumbled. Of course he made sure his people ate before him, he took what he could for his children. He ate last. No doubt Thranduil had heard from the Dwarves about the state of Dale. Bribery or not, it was a very kind gift. That was all.

Sigrid ladelled out bowls of thick hearty stew and there was even some bread for dipping. They all ate well – Sigrid knew how to make the best of ingredients and make them last – and Bard was glad to see his children with full bellies that night, dropping off to sleep easier than they had done in too long. Their home was still rich with the smell of good food cooked well. Sigrid had too many years practice, taking care of Tilda and Bain, taking care of Bard too.

Bard sat at the fire, gazing at the glowing embers, his own belly full but his skin and bones cold, his thoughts turning around the foundations that still needed to be laid, the problems the fishermen were now having, the coronation that people kept talking about, Thranduil. Already it all felt like too many years.

When Bard next saw Thranduil, he made sure to speak to him quietly before the council meeting began.

"Thank you for the food, it's been too scarce for the children."

Thranduil nodded, "And for you."

That was true. Bard dipped his chin in acknowledgement. "Then I thank you from all of us."

Thranduil eyed him for a moment. His expression seemed blank at first glance but Bard had been to many of these meetings, and others besides with Thranduil when Dwarves had been behind angry stone. He'd learned how thoughts and emotions actually showed in tiny changes in Thranduil's expressions. Reading people was useful, Bard had learned that early on in life – that way, he knew who was likely to try not paying him a fare for him taking them across the river, who'd aim for him, for his children. Now, he learned that Thranduil was pleased. He learned that he liked how it looked on Thranduil.

Thranduil didn't attempt to draw Bard into siding with him when disagreeing with the Dwarves, no more than he usually did anyway. It was a mystery. One of many occupying Bard's thoughts, there was still so much to do.

Later that week, a couple of bottles of spiced wine were delivered to Bard's house. He opened the door to two Elves, both warriors, both of whom bowed slightly. Bard almost bowed back but he'd found that wasn't received well from him anymore, seeing as people were insisting on calling him the King of Dale. So he nodded instead.

"How can I help you?" he asked.

One of the Elves handed him the bottles, "From King Thranduil of Mirkwood for Bard, King of Dale."

Bard looked down at the bottles for a moment. So perhaps the food hadn't been a singular gift. This really was a mystery. What did Thranduil want? What was he trying to say? This felt like more than a tiny change.

"That's...very kind of him. Tell him I thank him."

He wanted to ask them just what their King was doing, why the gifts? What did he want in return? But by the time he opened his mouth to begin his questions, the Elves had already walked away, their missions fulfilled.

Inside, Bard uncorked a bottle. The smell was fragrant and strong. He'd make sure the children didn't drink any, accidentally or otherwise. He sipped a bit direct from the bottle, the flavours were rich and many, warm too. Something kindled under his skin. He sipped a little more but resisted all urges to drain the bottle. He'd heard tales about Elvish wine. Was Thranduil trying to addle him?

Bard pressed a hand to his shoulder – still cold. But there was warmth within now, down his throat, curling in his belly. The thought of coming home to that after another long hard day of negotiating and physically helping rebuild Dale was a motivating one.

He secured the bottles in the tiny room he called his own, in the cupboard the children knew not to touch. That night he dreamt of warm pale skin, of liquid gold forging crowns and chains, of a mouth that tasted of Elvish spiced wine.

Bard was able to look at Thranduil without colouring, though his thoughts remained full-blooded. He boxed them up tight though and wouldn't let a bit of it pass his lips. Wine usually made him maudlin, thinking of his passed wife, Elvish wine had unlocked something else instead. Bard wasn't fool enough to think he'd been bewitched, some thoughts he had pushed away because he was King, no matter how his jaw tensed and stomach rolled at the thought, and he was always a father and some things there was no space for. They were only to be foolish dreams.

"The wine was unnecessary but thank you."

The polite gratitude was always needed because Elves, Bard had noticed, did not take any hint of a slight well.

Thranduil looked arch, "Unnecessary, for a king to be warmed enough to survive the night and hold court."

A court. Bard refused to even think about that, a fact that Thranduil apparently read because he continued, "You meet with the same men and women of Dale each day as you organise necessary work. You trust them to carry out your orders and to advise you. What other name would you give that arrangement?"

Friends. Yes, Bard trusted them and they were all bright with their views but he was only leading them because otherwise the Master, said to have been seen recently, would find a way to lunge back into power and Bard might hate all eyes and the heavy mantle of responsibility on him and his family but he hated more the thought of that selfish bastard grabbing a crown, ruling his children's lives.

Laketown had helped raise Bard's children. And they were willing to listen to him, to follow him. Most of them anyway. Perhaps it was the blood in Bard's veins but he knew a duty, a responsibility, when he saw one. He would not see more harm come to Laketown and Dale, not when they had done so much for him, not when they needed him and his children rightly couldn't imagine him letting the Master fill that void. For who else would?

So a court. He had a court. Which Thranduil apparently knew about, he knew about Bard's daily activities. Thranduil was looking at him keenly, Bard nodded as though accepting or thanking or both. Thranduil reached for one of the goblets placed on the table for those called to council. His sleeve – a dark jewel tone, lightweight and silky – touched Bard's arm.

When Bard went down to the shoreline, to where so much was still being cleared, he noticed, to his surprise, a group of Elves among the Men and Dwarves. One detached from the group and moved gracefully towards Bard. He bowed, a sword on his belt and bow at his back. The Elves never seemed to be unarmed, perhaps because of the constant presence of Men and Dwarves.

"I bring greetings from King Thranduil," the Elf intoned. "We're to assist in your labours here."

Elves, helping Men and Dwarves, not on the battlefield (which had been strange enough) but in rebuilding their lives. This was a great gift, an even greater gesture. Bard swallowed and inclined his head.

"Thank you, if any speak against you, inform me."

The Elf looked at him for a moment and then nodded back before returning to his work. Bard watched for a moment more, at Elves, Men and Dwarves working for a common purpose, at the command of King Thranduil. Bard still didn't know why Thranduil ordered such things to happen, why he continued to give gifts to Bard.

"Your Majesty!"

There was a shout from down the beach. Bard folded away all thoughts of Elves for now.

Sigrid was quiet. She was bathing her hands after a day spent digging through rubble for what could be mended or preserved. She spent many days like that, refusing to be pushed aside from such work simply because she was Bard's daughter. He was proud of her, and sorry for how differently people now treated her. But Sigrid had seemed to take to it, she didn't stop people from bowing to her and she made sure that Tilda and Bain did not behave differently now.

Sigrid had always been older than she was, perhaps even before her mother's death but Bard found it hard to remember her before that time. She had taken on so much and now more was being heaped on her as the whole family was looked to for guidance and assurance.

Tilda and Bain were asleep and Bard was sipping at the Elvish wine. He had told Sigrid about it, she hadn't asked for a taste. She had looked pleased though.

Bard turned to her now as she finished bathing her hands, rubbing something into them. Sigrid noticed him looking with a question in his eyes.

"A Dwarf offered it to me; one of their healers uses it for hands sore from work."

It was a kind gesture. Bard took note; he would thank Crown Prince Fili for it at the next council meeting. He also took note of how Sigrid smiled quietly at the sight of the Elvish wine bottle as she nibbled on the last of the gifted meat; she had cooked and salted the rest. Then she reached for a pile of mending, there was more than ever these days.

Bard had seen Thranduil in armour and silk, wearing a crown and holding a sword. He'd always been elegant and his words incisive, frequently hard, relentless. He was one of the most striking figures Bard had ever laid eyes on. The Elf King, it seemed from Bard's frequent thoughts, was as intoxicating as his spiced wine.

"King Thranduil says I have a court now," he mentioned aloud, the words aiding by the potency of the wine and his own maudlin mood. He did not curse himself.

Sigrid's smile widened as she threaded a needle, "That's good; they can help you with the work and decisions."

Bard nodded and sipped more wine; the warmth was especially welcome that night, it seemed like his scars went deeper than usual and his veins were deepest ice. It accounted for his mood. That day he'd looked forward to the wine's taste.

He wondered about Thranduil's mouth.

He noticed that Sigrid didn't ask about Thranduil and his gifts. Did his wise little daughter, though not little for many more years, know more than him? It was possible. He couldn't think of how to ask her, of how to make himself feel even more of a darkening fool, when there were so many other thoughts to focus on. He had the question of the rest of Smaug's remains tomorrow and a meeting about roofing.

"Da."

Sigrid's voice was almost gentle, like she knew she was breaking into a storm of thoughts. The mending was still heaped beside her. Bard realised he'd been frowning at the wine bottle.

"King Thranduil, they're really nice gifts."

"Aye," Bard agreed, smiling briefly because of course Sigrid had seen a glimpse of what was on his mind. The rest he hoped remained silent and his.

"Tilda loves talking to the Elves. They're very patient with her. And with Bain, he asks about their swords and bows."

Bard couldn't imagine Elves indulging any children, let along his, when there was so much still to be done. More orders from their King? That was a thought too strange to contemplate.

Maybe Bard could assist in levelling the balance, help from Men in gratitude for the help from Elves. Sigrid smiled that smile again and began talking about the mending that was happening on a grander scale amongst the women of Dale. Sigrid had been trying to ensure that few wanted for good patched clothing – she had organised groups who worked just on breeches and others on shirts and so on.

Bard set aside the bottle for now and listened to his clever daughter's triumphs.

The next day, Bard sent a group of Men to the Elves camp, to offer their help. They could be refused but he doubted that Thranduil wouldn't understand the gesture. Bard refused to be nervous. He settled on pitching in as the remains of the dragon were to be moved. Dwarves had brought good strong weapons and were hacking at different parts, parts that might be moved more easily. Some Men wanted to feast on the remains, to truly enjoy their victory. But the scales were too hard and Bard wouldn't have the effort wasted when so much else needed to be done.

He had a headache, a deep painful chill in his marrow, because people were talking to him again about a coronation. There had been visible progress in Dale and in Laketown and people were starting to turn their eyes and thoughts to other things. He was willing to lead them now, but to actually wear a crown? To be coronated in any way, it ground under Bard's skin. It made the cold seem worse.

Tauriel joined him outside his rebuilt house – when work had begun, it was decided that Bard's would be rebuilt first, once the places where the healers worked had been mended. Bard had insisted on that. But he had been unable to stop the people from repairing his house next; he could not argue that his children needed the shelter and warmth. But so did so many other children. That was work continuing in earnest now.

Tauriel had braids amongst her long red hair, braids tied off with detailed metal fastenings. Bard had seen her run her fingers over them more than once. She visited Bard and his children when she could; Bard had made sure she knew that she was welcome. She spent most of her time in Erebor now, the younger prince Kili was courting her and intended to marry her. He hadn't been quiet about it. He was still healing from his injuries and Tauriel was helping him exercise and stretch his body again. She was also guarding him against several attempts on his life and training with Dwarves and Men. Thranduil had not lifted her banishment.

Tauriel took one look at Bard's face and smiled ever so slightly, "They speak of your coronation."

Bard groaned and rubbed a hand across his face. But Tauriel continued, "They want a celebration, after all that's fallen."

Bard sighed, that was the crux, wasn't it? What his people wanted. "I know."

Before he could speak further, there was a whisper behind them and an Elf stood waiting, very carefully ignoring Tauriel who did not attempt to break such a decision. It was painful to watch.

"With King Thranduil's greetings," the Elf informed Bard, handing him a bundle of thick fabric. "For you and your children."

"Thank you," Bard replied, not sure what he was holding, only that it'd made Tauriel's eyebrows arched slightly higher. "I'm obliged to you and your King."

The Elf departed with a bow and Bard concentrated on the gift that for once he didn't recognise. Tauriel touched the edge of the fabric, a strangeness tinting her expression, especially once Bard began unfolding the material.

"These cloaks will keep you warm and dry," Tauriel told him. "I've not known the King give them to any beyond Mirkwood."

There was a twist inside of Bard and he gazed at the thoughtful gift, there was often rain and winds like winter's breath in Dale. Thranduil had thought of Bard and of his children. Bard didn't know what to say, how to gather his thoughts.

Tauriel touched his shoulder. Her eyes were curious and sad and knowing in a way that made the twist inside of Bard more painful than ever. How could he ever repay this gift? How could he ever repay Thranduil for all he had done?

Tauriel did not attempt to tell him but she stayed with him and visited his home that night. The children were thrilled with the cloaks – Tilda wore hers immediately, it flew out behind her like wings as she ran through the house. Bain wanted to know how Elves fought while wearing them and if Legolas had a cloak too. Sigrid touched the carved wooden clasp on hers and smiled at Bard, the same smile she'd worn when he'd been drinking and she'd been mending. Bard kept his own cloak folded in his lap, under his hands.

Tilda was thrilled to see Tauriel and Sigrid smiled and Bain was very happy when Tauriel told him about the training she had been doing with her swords and how she had beaten many Dwarves. She was a true friend.

For the next several council meetings, Thranduil was absent, due to especially destructive skirmishes now occurring in Mirkwood with enormous spiders that the Dwarves who had travelled with Thorin had described more than once. Bain had loved those stories. With a deep cold ache that made Bard's throat clench, Bard wondered if this was Thranduil beginning to pull back towards his home. It would ever be his priority and now that he had the gold he had wanted, would he stay longer to help two races he had verbally looked down on, even as he'd helped them?

It was something more for Bard to press away, deep in his mind, not to be examined, unless the wine knocked it loose again. He understood responsibility and duty. Still, the cold hurt as he held his cloak and wondered if it had been a goodbye gift. Bard couldn't allow this to dominate his thoughts and actions. Thranduil had never given any sign he even thought of Bard as...Bard's thoughts, the desire that had come to influence his dreams, it was more than foolish.

Still the pain increased and the cold wrapped tight around Bard. He had run out of spiced wine. Laketown and Dale were being rebuilt; Elves, Dwarves and Men were working together. His children were well. That was what mattered.

He wished for more spiced wine.

If he pressed his nose to the cloak he often wore, he could believed he could smell the faintest hint of Thranduil's silks.

It had been weeks since he'd seen Thranduil. Tauriel, who was still banishment but who knew how to forage out news, kept Bard as apprised as she could. She never offered false reassurances, only what she had heard. Perhaps her Dwarf prince was helping her.

Bard tried to lose himself in the rest of the restructuring and rebuilding work. Sigrid was still leading the mending groups while also running the house and dealing with all enquiries being laid on her as a Princess of Dale, apparently this meant she should provide all answers when her father could not be found. Bain and Tilda were helping with fishing when they weren't badgering the Elves still helping in Dale and Laketown. Thranduil's generosity hadn't run out yet.

Bard was still cold.

There were firmer plans being made for his coronation – there would be representatives present of Erebor and Mirkwood, Bard was very carefully not thinking about that. And Dale and Laketown were invited, to watch as Bard was crowned their King. He had seen Thranduil's crown, an arrangement of elegant strong branches. They had borne no jewels but their purpose had never been in doubt. It had suited him.

Sigrid cast worried expressions towards Bard now and hugged him tight each day but she didn't talk about Thranduil. She was still his clever daughter. Bard feared he leaned on her more than ever but he threw himself into his work, trying to use it to fill the coldness that only seemed to increase now or encompass more. Bard had no wine left but his dreams were still filled with images; of molten gold, sharp eyes, fire and ice.

All things that did not matter. They could not. Bard was King, he could think that clearly though his stomach still rolled, people still depended on him. He had a strong council, Tauriel had pledged to stand among them, as an Elf and a Dwarf Prince's betrothed.

Bard knew some people had asked why he wasn't living in a bigger house, why he wasn't living like the Master. Those sorts of questions came from people that didn't know him. He was staying in his home, the one that was a comfort to his children and to him as well. Maybe he'd bathe that night, there was enough of a fire to warm the water. Anything to keep his mind from wandering back to the space that the lack of Thranduil's gifts had left, the lack of him at meetings, the lack of his gaze on Bard, the chill that only seemed to be growing in Bard's bones. Everything that shouldn't matter.

Bard had heard stories, about the hobbit, Bilbo, staying in the Mountain despite his banishment. He'd spied him once or twice, Bilbo's eyes had been bright and he had been talking to Dwarves without seeming cowed or afraid. Bard had plainly seen Bilbo's love for Thorin Oakenshield but Bilbo had still gone to Thranduil and Bard, he'd still faced Thorin's anger and the banishment that had cleaved right through him. Perhaps Bard might speak to Bilbo soon, share an ale and stories and a bit of understanding silence.

There was a knock at the door. An Elf handed him a box. Bard's mouth dried, the Elf was one who had delivered before and didn't seem upset by the duty.

"From King Thranduil."

Bard stared down at the box for a moment and then remembered to look up, "Thank you."

There was a touch of warmth about the Elf's eyes as she left, moving elegantly through the still-incomplete streets. Bard went back into the house. The children were with Tauriel. He put the box on the table and looked at it for a moment. From Thranduil.

From Thranduil.

Bard had heard that Thranduil still lived but this felt like a weight lifted off him and something hammering through him, hotter and rawer than dragon fire. Thranduil.

Bard touched the box, skimmed his fingers over it before lifting the lid, not being able to bear stewing any longer. He had brooded enough, he could imagine Thranduil saying so. Inside the box was a neatly folded heap of fabric, Elvish in make, like the cloaks Thranduil had already sent. Bard frowned and carefully lifted the fabric from the box, it was long, another cloak? This one was more elaborate though, it was a deep blue and there was fine stitching at the collar with gemstones embedded amongst the thread. There was a faint shimmer to the colour as well, it was simple but beautifully made. And from its size alone it was obviously for Bard.

Bard breathed out, his heart running and lifting, the heat still coursing through him. It was dizzying. It was a cloak fit for a King. When would he ever wear something this fine? Bard's heart thudded harder. Fit for a King. His coronation.

Was this...was this a promise?

Bard's heart felt as though it might reach up his throat, choking him. His fingers clenched in the fabric and he brought it to his face.

The next few days felt like a blur. There was another gift, from the Dwarves this time. Tauriel brought it – a crown, only it was a circlet, a simple gold band, studded with jewels. She assured him it would fit and swept it away to ensure its safe-keeping for the ceremony.

She spied the difference in Bard's manner though and stayed for a moment, her gaze steady, concerned, on him.

"What's happened?"

Bard opened his mouth to speak but instead unbent enough to nudge a hand through the cloak, folded on the table. Tauriel's keen gaze inspected it, her expressions were always subtle but Bard knew her now and she seemed taken aback. His expression asked her a question.

She touched a hand to the embroidery. "Elf friend."

Elf friend. Bard looked down at the threads, at Tauriel's hand there, then up at her careful expression. She was surprised by the admission, by the allowance of Elves to Bard. Did she know it was from Thraundil? Her banishment hadn't been lifted. Was she hurt by the gift?

Elf friend.

Bard didn't know what to think. He knew what he wanted to think.

He could feel the chill and the dreams and desires he never spoke of. He could feel Tauriel looking at him, her questions and opinions going unsaid. But she did not leave or gainsay. He was grateful for that.

The day of the coronation came quickly. Tilda was excited and Bain wanted to know if he could wear a sword and Sigrid wore her quiet knowing smile as she made sure Tilda didn't get her clothes dirty. The coronation itself happened outside – the streets seemed full of people, they were happy for Bard and Bard tried to remember that. He tried to smile enough for them to know he pleased to speak for them, to do what he could in their name.

They were here for him. And Elvish archers and Men of Dale and Dwarven warriors were watching carefully, to ensure no one tried to end the reign of King Bard before it had truly begun.

Thorin was still not well enough to attend so the Crown Princes Fili and Kili did instead, both dressed in what was apparently Dwarven finery, consisting of swathes of heavy furs, impressive gold broaches and lots of weapons. It was unlikely they were ceremonial. Tauriel stood beside Kili, dressed simply by comparison but with that slight smile that told Bard she was pleased. It was always good to see her steadiness.

There were many Elves present but Bard could not pick out Thranduil's distinctive visage. He was cold, even now, even as his children beamed and his people stood waiting, and he hated himself for it. So he focused instead on the circlet being placed on his head and Kili and Fili leading the cheering and the mantle that'd been placed on Bard was permanent now. The circlet fitted him well.

Such a sea of loud cheering people and they were so happy. Bard recognised many of them and drank in the sound, the roars, the release no doubt after so long in darkness, after so much suffering thanks to Smaug and then the battle. There were so many lives Bard wished he could have saved, guilt eating at him amongst the cold, and the children were so happy, their faces shining and Thranduil...

Thranduil was there. Bard had not mistaken that glimpse of white-gold hair or the graceful movement, the shimmer of clothing in shades he had sat beside many times. Even among the ranks of Elves, their King stood out. But he was there only a moment it seemed to Bard's eyes and then gone.

Bard felt warm and cold and could not move because there was more expected and his children were waiting. Thranduil was a bastard to appear, to disappear so suddenly in the first place, and now and now...

Sigrid touched his shoulder, returning him to the present, to the people cheering as Bard stood before them, his feet on stone and Men, Dwarves and Elves gathered together without a battle, council or angry words between them. He could not think of Thranduil, he could not be distracted..

By Thranduil, here in Dale, returned from Mirkwood, his eyes on Bard in an Elven cloak and Dwarven crown. Thranduil was here. Here.

Bard's thoughts were slipping but he drew them back continually, talking to Elves and Dwarves and watching as his people ate together, an outdoor feast provided by Dale's allies, and Tilda was eating a pie and Bain was talking to Legolas and Sigrid was touching his arm, her gaze moving to the side, telling him to leave.

"Da," she said, softly, simply when he went to protest, her mouth curled upward in mirth and such understanding.

She understood too much, she was still a child but she was a princess now too and her family and Laketown looked to her for answers, for leadership even and more. He was proud of her and so sorry for the weight she bore so well. She knew what her father needed and it was okay for him to seek it, their world was greatly distracted. Tauriel, her hand entwined with Kili's, was looking at Bard and gave a tiny nod. She would watch the children. Bard likely didn't have long before someone came looking for him but what could be more important than talking to Mirkwood's King? An important ally of Dale, to whom they owed so much?

He left the crowds and walked towards the street corner where he had last seen Thranduil. His heart felt too fast to be his own but he continued on and then, under a great stone bridge, close to more houses that were half-built, was Thranduil, dressed in Elven finery, wearing his crown and an Elven cloak much like the one he had gifted Bard. He was stood as though waiting. Bard's steps slowed, his eyes taking in Thranduil, truly there, a figure of shadows and sunlight, so composed and present.

Thranduil gazed at him with such a look, a quiet as ever but heated look that Bard could discern, stoking up the feelings, the dreams, that Bard had so carefully, determinedly held back. Now they flooded him as he feasted on the sight of Elven King, his every line, his beauty that dropped a stone in Bard's guts. The space that'd lingered, sore and wanting during Thranduil's absence, it wasn't there any more.

Thranduil was examining Bard's cloak, his expression showing how pleased he was, the heat still present in hi eyes "It suits you well."

Bard didn't glance down at how the cloak fitted him, the regal sweep of it as loud a declaration of his status as his crown. He knew it'd drawn comment from many, just as his crown had, for the symbols they were – he was held in good stead with Dwarves and Elves. Now Bard was very aware of the cloak being Thranduil's gift. His fingers twitched against the fabric.

"It's a fine gift," he said at last, wetting his lips before continuing, giving something of his insides a voice, unable to stand under stone, in shadows, the sound of the crowd echoing softly around them, unable to keep this back any longer, not when Thranduil was there, stirring everything so strongly even though Bard was still King, his responsibilities, everything that needed his attention had not lessened at all. "As is your presence here."

Thranduil's gaze sharpened and he stepped forth, his sword shining on his belt, his crown seeming to reach higher somehow. Bard was close to him now, he could see even clearer how Thranduil was eyeing him, as though Bard had been missed. Bard felt a strength of gladness at that, at being missed.

Was he cold? He didn't think he was, at all.

"Mirkwood stands victorious," Thranduil informed him. "As it ever did, until the next incursion."

"It's well you have allies to call on," Bard pointed out.

It was. Thranduil inclined his head. Would he ever accept help away from the battlefield? He had accepted Men of Dale when they had gone to him on Bard's orders, to repay the Elves' assistance. It was more to build on. To work together, such disparate races, alongside the Dwarves, it was never going to be simple. But, Dale would rely on their allies greatly as the rebuilding continued, as trade was enhanced and routes further mapped out and decided on. They would all rely on each other, they had to. Thorin might not have seen that, and perhaps wouldn't once he was well again, but Fili had shown that he saw more of it and Thranduil had to as well.

Thranduil seemed even closer now and his gaze was so warm. Bard was drawn to him, to heat that could banish any cold he'd felt for so long. Thranduil was here. Bard's dreams could have just been dreams, the fevered imaginings of a man who'd faced hopelessness and difficulty in increased amounts until he wore a crown to make it more so. But here was Thranduil, his expression as close to not being still as Bard had ever seen.

"Bard..."

The word was a breath on Bard's face and it was hard to recall who moved first but there was movement and Bard found his arms around Thranduil who was drawing Bard into a kiss. The crowd sounds were around them still and Bard should have felt so cold in the shadow, surrounded by stone. He'd been cold for so long until, until...

Thranduil's mouth was hot. It could have tasted of spiced wine but Bard had thought that for so long, he couldn't believe himself. He pressed closer, dimly aware of how awkward it wasn't to kiss when both of them were wearing crowns, at how firmly Thranduil was holding him as though Bard might slip away and how his fingers were drawing patterns through Bard's clothing to his skin.

Bard held him just as firmly, his mouth determined to drink and pour, his hands bunched in Elven fabric, not knowing where his or Thranduil's began. Not knowing much at all.

It was like drinking spiced wine again, that feeling of letting go, of letting words and sighs pour forth when no one was around to see or judge or whisper, when so much depended on him being strong and wise and decisive. He didn't know and under this bridge, in Thranduil's arms, it was fine.

He was warm, so warm, and it was fine.

-the end