Striking true

♔ The Lord of Silver Fountains. The King of Carven Stone. The King Beneath the Mountain. Shall come into his own. And the bells shall ring in gladness| at the Mountain King's return. But all shall fail in sadness| and the Lake will shine and burn. ((Independent Bard the Bowman LoTR blog, the mun is of age, so expect there to be NSFW under cuts. I track #dragonslayerofdale. Please read my guidelines before contacting me to play, and tag me or shoot me an ask if you're interested in starting something.))

[breniarchive-blog]

          And there lies the snare amongst the high grasses of respect. Though many generations removed of his forebears, Thranduil need not look upon Bard again to find Girion’s proud nobility and unprecedented level heart in the fulcrum of his jaw and lever of his voice. There is no magic to the blood of Men save this; the spirit descends, and if there was weight to its truth, so was it passed on. Shining gunmetal in the light and coal-black in the shadow, Thranduil’s train twists about the soundless patience of his feet, calves, and thighs as he shifts his weight to the side of the desk, refusing to meet Bard’s eye again.

          “As you like, Bowman. Though I would caution you thus: it is simple to trust the word of one who means well, but quite another to trust it in war.” From its esteemed ( if crude ) position upon the center of the desk, the Arkenstone hurls its mighty seduction into the iris of Thranduil’s nearest visible eye, bleeding it opal, iridescent, and white-hot. “For the sake of your ignorance and the welfare of your people, I do pray my expectations of the dawn go unmet.”

[dragonslayerofdale]

    “It is not ignorance that moves me, Thranduil, but hope. I know very well what darkness hearts may foster-- I am no young man, however my years might fall to your shadow.” Studying the Elvenking’s profile is always a dangerous prospect. Those piercing, knowing eyes averted, but his guard, in all the ages that remained, would never fall. Beauty was no proper sheath for a blade that was ever drawn, but as always, Bard could only stand before him bare of any real defense. 

Bravery, he thought wryly, was not always overt-- if Thranduil could look beyond his own, he might appreciate the irony.

     “War is what we must do-- it is not what we are. If we allow that to change, we have lost something far more dear than land or gems can ever be.” 

[breniarchive-blog]

          “Wisdom?” The soft stress of the word curls under the heat of Thranduil’s still-living aggravation, as paper held just shy of the ember’s wrath. It is an expression of body more palpable by far than any physical expression, as proven by the odd stiffness in the posture of the Elf that has come to hand deliver a missive. Thranduil accepts it with a flick of the wrist, grasping it between his fingers, and the footman vanishes as swift and silent as she had come. “Who was it, do you suppose, to propose this journey to a bitter band of Dwarves? What name could possibly lead a campaign such as this?” Thranduil turns to make way for his desk, pinning Bard with a lancing gaze in passing. “You disappoint me if your first thought of any wizard is untried wisdom.”

[dragonslayerofdale]

    “My expectation of anyone who lives to such an age is wisdom, wizard or not.” Meeting those pale eyes unflinchingly, Bard’s brows rose, just slightly, parrying the edge in the Elvenking’s tone. “It may not be so, of course, but better disappointment than never to trust at all.” An idealistic view, even Bard had to admit, but it was his way. Perhaps a king could not afford such optimistic indulgences, but for Thranduil, he would bear that burden instead. 

“There is much to be done, wherever the blame is placed-- If you know him to be false, as you say. My first thoughts of you have proven fair enough.”

[dragonslayerofdale]

Brontide - The low rumbling of distant thunder.

word prompt meme || open selectively

An easy life. Bard had never known such a thing, nor his children, however he’d fought to shield them from the burdens that poverty and conflict could so easily bestow.

There were periods of contentment for them all, of course. As the wizard would have said– and probably far more long-windedly– there could be no shadow without light. There were those rays of illuminating happiness escaping from the clouds that ever shielded the sun, a marriage, the birth of a daughter, a son. The bright speckle of spring’s regard filtering between the leaves, another summer child painting long, lazy days of timeless beauty atop the unforgiving soil until it was something that could nurture more than crops alone.

And when that happiness was inevitably stolen, when the rumbling storms returned to wash away much of what they’d worked for, there was always enough remaining to firm his resolve. Always enough to care for that he could not surrender to regret, or despair. If he would not stand for them, beside them, then who would?

The sun would always return, that dazzling revolution offering gifts that eased his battered heart with their generosity. And Bard knew, regardless of what silken web gentle words might spin, what promises they might whisper in the brief interludes of gentle night, that he was not worthy, and would never be.

He valued them all the more for that awareness, the knowledge that one day that cruel thunder of fate would surge once more and this, too, would end.

The final storm had come upon a different wind, upon the searing heat that preceded a dragon’s wrath, betrayal, and Bard had known with the panicked clarity of a parent, of a lover left aching and bereft, that he could not shield all that he cherished.

That too-familiar feeling of helplessness was never easy to accept, and from this loss, when the storm finally retreated, he knew he would never recover.

Certainty, however, had a way of turning a man like a top, leaving him dizzy, exhilarated, and when they somehow still lived whilst the bones of his village cooled, when the clouds of ash drifted and finally settled, silver snow concealing battlefields and the scars left behind alike, beneath the weight of his grief, Bard knew only relief.

Perhaps this time, whilst they recovered and healed and found themselves once more, the sun would stay a while longer. He, for one, thought they’d earned it.

[dragonslayerofdale]

@breniatham

    “Is he one easily given to alarm?” The tent and the camp beyond had fallen quiet after Gandalf’s disgruntled departure, and Bard had remained so as well for several long minutes, aware that Thranduil had not been pleased by their visitor’s request. 

“I know nothing of wizards, as you said, but I did not find my years by discounting the wisdom of those who walked them first.”

[breniarchive-blog]

                                           “The temerity of Men knows no pledge.                              You will have your hour to prove yourself… as all Men do.”

As all Men must. Honor and fealty are dubious matters, and the Elvenking will accept neither without due discourse. The Master of Laketown, however… though he makes good on their mutual exchange, is worthy of none of it. He will have his hour, too —- and this is assured. 

Passing his fingertips along every crease, Thranduil’s gaze holds fast, longer than any mortal may find of passable comfort. Slow, slow; time has no meaning here and the reminder is loud, even as it remains unspoken. He is in no great hurry to rise, but when he does, it is with far less obfuscation than his words —- and it is only then that he breaks their fixed mutual interest.

             “Let us see you fed, warmed, and rested. When the dawn swells                           above the trees, we will send you on your way.”

[dragonslayerofdale]

    “Then, as you wish.” Bowing shallowly again, his gaze held fast until Thranduil himself chose to release it, Bard found himself exhaling slowly as the weight of that ageless awareness lessened, his heart thrumming too quickly, as if he’d ran all the way down the shore of the river instead. “I can only hope my hour speaks differently for you, when it arrives, and that you’ll know my words as truth.”

The Elvenking rose, then, to descend his ancient throne, and Bard did not think to conceal what wonder shone in his eyes, dazzled by more than the flickering of witchlight on pale hair, or the winding threads of gold that gleamed along his ornate robe. It was in that moment, bemused by his own enchantment, that the bargeman realized the true peril of their kind, and of Thranduil in particular. Drawn too close to the flame, the faint wings within his chest fluttering of their own accord, Bard would have denied him very little else indeed, had he asked.

Afterwards, he would long remain uncertain if it was fortunate that he had not.

[dragonslayerofdale]

"GRANDDA!"

   “Well! I see no dragons nipping at your heels... What brings you in such a hurry, my boy?”

[thuragal-archive]

“Ohh… Now that you mention it, that sounds really fantastic.   — But no.  My preferred restitution involves wine,           Chinese take-away, movies and even more wine.”

[dragonslayerofdale]

    “I might question your definition of fantastic. Or perhaps your motives... are you looking to get me drunk and have your wicked way with me?        You must know that’s a waste of perfectly good wine.”

[breniarchive-blog]

             “I don’t want him dead, I want him clean.”

[thuragal-archive]

     “I said I’m not here to—  — Будет один из вас бросить башмак уже.”

[dragonslayerofdale]

      “Well he wouldn’t have to drink it. Though he might choose that option to escape at this point. And if it’s any consolation, at least Theron’s not insisting we do this outside with the hose.”

[breniarchive-blog]

     “Oh please. It’s still the most binding and delicate word there is beneath this roof, remember that. If there’s something you want, ask for it.

                                 — No more fucking spiders.”

[thuragal-archive]

     “This is about—”

     “It’s just a turn of phrase.”

[dragonslayerofdale]

       “Logic won’t get you anywhere but sleeping in your car... you know how he is. Come on, let’s get this over with. Do we even have any bleach?”

[thuragal-archive]

     “I don’t know, I think you’ve gotten your way once or twice with a well timed please and a bat of your eyelashes.  

           That won’t work here, though.  You’ll definitely have to make it up to me.”

[dragonslayerofdale]

     “And I think you credit me with far more charm than a modest man could rightly claim. 

But I’m willing to indulge you anyway. Feel free to reassure me that your preferred restitution doesn’t involve a toothbrush and several hours of quality time detailing your gear.” 

[thuragal-archive]

 “— You’re such a pushover.  I suppose I can’t blame you.   I haven’t been ganged up on, but Tilda does have a way of saying please that makes it difficult to say no.”

[dragonslayerofdale]

      “Doesn’t she? I have no idea at all where she got it from. Probably her mother. Hmm. I suppose this would be where I contritely offer to make it up to you?”

[breniarchive-blog]

     “Beg me all you like. You’ll be waiting a while.”

                    “And in my defense, Bradley, that end table was an atrocity.”

[thuragal-archive]

     “——- What in the bloody hell are you both on about?”

[dragonslayerofdale]

        “Good intentions, apparently. I never made any claims regarding refinement. We all have our strengths. Mine apparently involve bondage and trampling on delicate sensibilities.”

[thuragal-archive]

     “It’s insidious.  It would be easier to move than try and clean it all up. And I can hardly blame the little fairies when the great, big king of the fairies bought it for them.”

[dragonslayerofdale]

       “Okay, okay. Maybe that was a bad call on my part.  But I dare you to do any better when they pull a tag team. Two sets of those eyes... it’s brutal.”

[breniarchive-blog]

     “— Don’t say a word. Get me a bar of soap and hold him down.”

[thuragal-archive]

         “I beg your pardon.”

[dragonslayerofdale]

   “Begging probably couldn’t hurt at this point. Can we discuss this rationally? I’d prefer to keep the furniture intact this time.”

[thuragal-archive]

dragonslayerofdale

[thuragal-archive]

     “—- Why is there glitter on literally everything I own?”

[dragonslayerofdale]

    “Is it too early to play the supernatural intervention card? Because I’m pretty sure fairies were involved.”

[breniarchive-blog]

thuragal & dragonslayerofdale

[breniarchive-blog]

     “——— Come again?”

[thuragal-archive]

     “———— Come again what?”

[dragonslayerofdale]

                “......”

    “There’s literally nothing I can say that won’t make this worse.”

[thuragal-archive]

     The smile on his face at Bard’s jest about his own ego fades as the king of Men continues to speak. He finds the praise that he had sincerely heaped upon the Man far easier to give than to receive, though between the compliments he heard truths.  Any and all would agree that Thorin Oakenshield is stubborn to a fault.  And his wrath was something to be feared in the worst of times.  He is rarely if ever afraid to offer his honest opinion, with little thought of the consequences.

     Bard had been on the receiving end of this, and though he had not been in his right mind… it oft kept him awake at night, thinking of how easily he had dismissed the suffering of Lake-town when he knew how much it hurt to be denied help in the darkest of times.

                            “As I said, you are most forgiving.”

     This is not a position he thought he would ever find himself in.  To not only be welcomed warmly by Bard and Thranduil both, but to be a part of their lives and gladly so.  

                                                                      “And I am grateful.”

[dragonslayerofdale]

-

Whatever had passed between them, it would have moved Bard to be considered so, to have earned that regard of one he so earnestly respected. That it was Thorin only rendered the emotion more bittersweet and complex, a reminder that the ties that bound them all, however willingly, could as easily have become tangled, anger as quickly roused in a heated moment as affection.

The Dwarven king may have forgiven them, but Bard doubted he would ever forgive himself, whatever thoughtful consolation he or Thranduil might offer. The crown would always be a burden, and Thorin had known that weight for the whole of his life. Bard could only hope that he lived for his own people so, as long as he endured, and that he might leave such a legacy behind him.

         “As am I.” 

He would have made a gift of something much more dear than his pride to chase those shadows from Thorin’s eyes, and he reached out, boldly for what had gone between them beyond the privacy of their own hearts, his fingers curling over a scarred, capable hand, that weathered stone made flesh somehow more honest for the flaws it bore. 

    “But words are only words. I will spend what years are left to me proving them true.”