Disclaimer: I don't own Tolkien's Hobbit nor Peter Jackson's Hobbit series. Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.

Authors Note #1: Set post BOFA – just after the battle while Thranduil is still in Dale with his army. This is basically me bringing my soul mate/soul script Barduil head canon to life. It is based around the idea that everyone has the name of their soul mate on their wrist. That is how soul mates find each other. Only, imagine this. You are an elf and you are born with the name of a son of man on the inside of your wrist and you are basically like – well, damn. While on the other hand, Bard is born with Thranduil's name on his wrist, only it is written in elvish and hell if he can read that. I also played around a bit with my personal head canon that Bard is actually not his true name, more of a nickname so when he and Thranduil first met Thranduil would not have recognized him as his soul mate because he used a different name.

Warnings: Contains movie spoilers, follows canon up to the final scene and is meant to show what might have happened between Thranduil and Bard after the credits rolled. Contains elements of the soulmate/soul bond/soul script/fated love universe. Expect angst, drama, and a surprisingly happy ending.

Give up the ghost (for me)

"Tell me dragon slayer, is Bard your true name?"

He started, wordless as he whirled to face him. Too thrown to question it. Caught too off guard to cover the private inside of his wrist like a virgin hanging onto her modesty by a thread-length on the eve of her wedding night. Too tired and careworn to wonder how long the Elven-King had been standing there, frozen at the entrance of his tent, silver hair glinting in the candle-light as the bloodied water from the basin beaded off his skin.

Because Thranduil was not asking.

He knew.

The creature's gaze was fixed on the inner of his wrist, expression wrecked – disbelieving - yet somehow still guarded. His eyes went instinctively to the elf's gauntlets, straining. As though he might be able to see clearly through the coquettish iron to see the name scrawled across the inside of his wrist. A band of sable-dark against the pureness of pale skin, standing out like the spaces between the stars that the Eldar so treasured.

His name.

His mark.

His one.

He chewed on the inside of his lip. Immediately hating everything about them as his free hand seized, curling around the edge of the basin as if by sheer force of will, he could stop himself from doing something insurmountably foolish.

Something like crossing the distance and taking the elf's hand in his. Something like peeling off the gauntlets, the armor and the leather underneath until he had the truth of it in his hands. Until there was no more doubt, no more questions, just truth and solace. Host to the knowledge that the gods had not forsaken him. That he had another chance. That he could have this. Something so pure and good. So far above him regardless of all the losses he'd suffered.

He licked his lips, light-headed. The dissonance was queer when one considered he felt as though he had lead weights in his boots. How long had it been since he'd slept? Days? How long had it been since the battle had guttered itself and the screams of the dying rose and fell in the fettered air? How long had it been since he'd found himself in the tent that had been set aside for him, freezing his numb fingers as he tried to scrub the blood and dirt from his skin?

Gods, he was spent.

"Tell me," the elf murmured. An order or maybe even a plead as twinned shudders of pleasure and longing rippled through them both. Like arousal on the cusp of bloom.

His body knew.

It understood.

Recognizing what his mind still struggled to accept.

That this being, this ageless mythical creature might be his. And that he might be his in return. It didn't seem possible or even fair, but when he looked up to say as much, the expression on Thranduil's face stopped him cold.

He looked…changed, like the first ray of spring after an ageless winter. It was all there, mostly in the way his eyes seemed to speak for him. Shattered by hope and all the jaded colors of the years that had come before. He lost himself in the ages. In the long years the elf had spent before his coming.

The taste of his indecision, his longing and regret was like fruit that had aged past its prime. Lush with old life and the abundance of what could have been as he watched the decades trickle past, a silent observer to a life lived in full long before his birth.

Thranduil had married, that much he knew. And like him, he'd had a child, then lost the love that had created it. The hope of the script on his wrist had abandoned him then, growing cold as the lives of men flashed before him like mayflies dancing in the evening breeze. It was little wonder the elf had turned from it, little wonder he'd spurned the very idea of him. Until-

He choked on a breath as the elf's hand closed around his palm, cradling it gently. Tracing the elegant script he'd never been able to read. Faster than breath. Faster than he could think, faster then-

"…No," he whispered, the words coming out hoarse and just shy of something that might have unmanned him as the elf brushed his thumb across the span of his wrist. Light but still enough to force the breath from him as he stuttered into the quiet. "No, it isn't."

Thranduil shifted beside him, the circlet on his brow reflecting the low light as the candles guttered – quivering in the low moan of a fast approaching winter. "I would hear you say it then," the Elven-lord whispered, voice so low he almost mistook it for the rustling of leaves. Nails pressing – ever so gently – across the inner curve of the first letter.

Thranduil.

He closed his eyes.

Gods, did it feel good on the tongue.

He might have imagined the curl of the palm that traced across the jut of his cheekbone, so light was the creature's touch. Alighting from point to point with a grace he knew full well he could never equal. Lingering curiously on the stubble before learning the softer rasp of his short beard.

He sighed, holding back the moan of contentment as his body threatened to go boneless. Suddenly wishing they were anywhere but here. Standing in the middle of his tent, with nothing but a limp tangle of blankets and furs set off to the corner for when his body finally betrayed him in its need for rest.

They had been kept apart for so long.

Like ships in the night.

Passing each other by.

Gods, his soul wept.

The ages his love had been forced to bear without him.

How could a god call itself merciful? To let one of it's children suffer so?

He couldn't deny the boldness that took him then, unsure of where the feelings came when he grasped the Elven-King's wrist in his own and brought it to his lips. Pressing a kiss across the gauntlets. Fancying he could feel the heat of him through the leather and iron-steel as Thranduil stilled – like a moonbeam reflecting off starlight – eyes fixed on his face as he met his gaze, challenging despite the ache that coursed through him.

"I want to see it," he explained, grip faltering and clumsy, as if that would somehow forgive his trespass as an expression – something like desire and distrust, need and stubbornness – flickered across the Elven-king's expression before being quickly mastered. "I need-"

The laces of the elf's gauntlets eluded him. Trapping him in triple knots and unfamiliar patterns until Thranduil himself lost patience and tore it off, tossing it carelessly aside as he bared his wrist to him - the gesture unmistakable and bold.

He almost sank into himself in relief.

Yes.

Oh gods, yes.

The first brush of his fingers across the rough script of his given name was feather-light – tenuous and true as he whispered it aloud. Arousal stirring in spite of himself as Thranduil bowed his head, leaning into him the slightest of bits, as if hearing the rolling sounds from his own tongue was almost enough to ruin him completely.

He reached up to cup the curve of the elf's face, wanting to know him like he had only scant minutes before, but was unprepared for the way Thranduil stiffened. Not breaking his hold, but leaning back far enough for him to know the gesture was unwelcome.

"There are some wounds that do not heal, dragon slayer," Thranduil cautioned. A warning lurking just behind the words like a dog that barked fiercely into the night but had no love of snapping its teeth. Making him certain that while it seemed as though the elf was referring to their shared loss, it was clear that in this case they were speaking of completely different wounds.

He let his hand drop back to the elf's wrist, tightening companionably over the black script as he waited for his one to continue. But Thranduil kept his silence, cupping his elbow – barely there and gentle – as he searched his face with an intensity that would have made a lesser man quail.

He wet his lips, thoughtful. Well aware that the gesture had not escaped the Elven-King's notice as he kept the right side of his face in the shadows. Expression conflicted, like a child with the secret, but with enough sense to keep it hidden. Safe.

He thought about the jagged hole his wife had left and believed he understood.

There would be time for that.

Time for everything.

Any other time he might have marveled on the way the words came unbidden. Easy and seamless like echoes from the soul that needed no practice or over thinking. It was almost as if they were already in tune, like his heart already knew what it had to say. Either way, the novelty of not tripping over his tongue was nothing compared to the way Thranduil's eyes fixed upon his. Fierce and desperately needy – like the last piece of ice hugging the shore on the eve of winter's melt - in a way that made him wonder when the elf had gotten so easy to read.

"Yes, but sometimes they don't have to," he hummed, offering up the words like favors to the mountain breeze. Uncertain if a strong wind might twist and tear them asunder as Thranduil looked down at him, regal in his delicate crown and bloodied armor.

"All broken things can be fixed," he remarked, clasping the Elven-King's wrist in his own and bringing it to his lips, holding him there until the taller's gaze found his. "Often they never quite look the same. They come out different the second time around. But there's nothing wrong with that," he finished, bypassing the cheek to trace the point of Thranduil's chin, brushing a calloused thumb over the plush of the elf's lower lip - reveling in the quiet, daring sort of intimacy as the elf swayed closer, eyes fluttering closed.

"We're all a little broken."

Somewhere in the distance an elf horn sounded, low with a melodious pitch that seemed to end peaceably, rather than with a warning. Something that made him picture living flesh and the tight smile of a wounded comrade found alive, rather than the latter. It sounded like hope, tenuous but there all the same. Hope for the moment. Hope for the future. Hope for something better in the hard days ahead.

"I have waited for you a long time, bargeman," Thranduil finally murmured, words wisping out like a prayer into the night. Quiet and unassuming despite the anticipation that rose ripe in their wake.

"Aye," he rasped, tipping back his head so their foreheads brushed together, pulling each other in as the Elven-King's long hair curtained around them in a sheath of shimmered starlight. "So, we best not waste it."

A/N #1: Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – This story is now complete.