Elves were supposed to be flawless.
Warnings: death :) Sorry
Pairing: Barduil :3
Fandom: The Hobbit
I'm very sorry
This kinda follows Movieverse for The Hobbit but with a smol twist.
Elves were supposed to be flawless.
That’s what Bard of Laketown was brought up to believe, what he had heard from his grandfather and the older townsfolk’s stories. The idea was cemented into the man’s brain ever since he was a child. He had never met an elf before the weeks leading to the Battle of the Five Armies, and even then- even under all the pressure and the surrounding death- the elven warriors and their blond king had fought with swan-like elegance. Even Legolas and Tauriel, only children by elven standards and captains of the Royal Guard (or so Bard believed), were more graceful than most men. Sure, some lost their composure sometimes, but it was often the younger ones (still older than him) when their friends or loved ones were in danger; Sigrid had smiled as she told him of when the red-haired elf had cured Kíli, a foreign panic evident in her face.
Elves were also graceful.
That could be proven by Legolas’ mannerisms, the warrior’s synchronised way of fighting and King Thranduil’s short range of facial expressions- a disdainful sneer reserved for dwarves, a cold but dangerous smirk for when he was threatened, and his inexpressive face for everyone and everything else. Bard found impressive that they barely bat an eyelash even when they faced an enemy as ruthless and terrifying as the orcs from Dol Guldur or Gundabad, despite overhearing Tauriel admit she was terrified when fending off the ones that had invaded Laketown trying to find the dwarrow to Kíli. The lad had managed to dodge the otherwise fatal blow from an orc and was now sitting dutifully beside his unconscious brother and uncle while Gandalf used his magic to cure them both, and even though Bard didn’t harbour any strong sentiment towards the King Under the Mountain, he could understand the family bond that held them close even after their brush with Death.
Bard admired Thranduil especially, as he was a capable and reasonable ruler (save when it came to dwarves or irritating men) who governed rationally, albeit being cold. Thranduil rarely raised his voice more than his duty as a king required, yet could still command sharp orders that everybody in the vicinity would follow. He seemed heartless to most, and Bard had to admit he sometimes wondered whether the Elvenking’s heart was actually there and there was no stone replacing it.
Elves were almost the epitome of perfection.
That is why Bard was shocked to the core when he heard the heart wrenching, primal scream tear through the battlefield. At first, he believed them to come from the dwarrow, maybe something had gone astray, but when he saw Kíli rushing out of the tent with eyes as wide as saucers and asking what had happened he discarded the idea. It could not have been a man, Bard was quite sure; still, he rushed towards the source of the sound, heart beating wildly in his chest. When he reached the clearing from which the scream came from, his breath hitched as his hand instinctively flew towards his mouth, covering it.
It was Thranduil. The ever unphased Elvenking was the source of the agonising cry he had heard earlier. He was kneeling on the ground, armour strewn aside, and cradling something in his arms; his long blond locks were somehow longer than Bard remembered was askew and dirty (Bard never thought he’d see the day when he would witness an elf’s hair getting messy) and sobs racked his body. The shock that had paralysed him was quickly replaced by an unsettling sense of urgency as he rushed forward towards the king. When he heard the man’s footsteps the blond turned to look at the newcomer, making Bard stop dead in his tracks. Tears coursed through Thranduil's otherwise pale cheeks; his eyes, those beautifully regal blue orbs, were now red and swollen; the left side of his face looked just as if it were about to turn to ashes, corroding that perfectly formed face and his jaw was clenched viciously as if to stop another sound from escaping his lips. He was crouched in a way that prevented Bard from seeing what the king was weeping about, though it was painfully obvious that it was a body- a corpse. After a few seconds of hesitation, Bard kneeled beside the king and put his hand on the other’s shoulder; the figure was now visible to him.
The man let out a choked gasp.
The king’s son, the blond prince Legolas, was lying on the ground; blood that had once sprouted from the knife wound from his stomach now pooled on the floor and solidified around his torso, forming a crust on his clothes and making a striking contrast with the paleness of his cold skin. His eyes were closed and it seemed like all the colour had drained from the young elf- even his golden hair, usually darker than his father’s, looked almost white. His lifeless hand rested on his bow, smeared with both black orc blood and red elven blood; his quiver also lay beside him, empty. He had run out of arrows and an orc had taken advantage of this and had impaled him with his sword.
Bard opened his mouth, but before any words could come out, a raspy voice cut him off.
“Don’t.”
He looked at the king, then at his dead son, then back at the king. The man sat down beside the elf, their shoulders barely grazing, and stared at the corpse. Thranduil wanted silence, and Bard could understand why- he hadn’t lost his children, but he had been told that Legolas was the only living family the King had, and Bard could not come close to imagining the pain he was going through; still, he stayed and listened to the broken words in Sindarin that fell from Thranduil’s lips. The left side of his face had finally crumbled down, allowing Bard to see burnt muscle, destroyed nerve and milk coloured eye; looking closely, he could recognise the signs of dragon fire on his King’s face, increasing the awe and the pity the man felt for him.
Bard put his arm around the Elvenking’s shoulder, almost retreating when he saw the other flinch and tense, but began to rub his arm gently as if it were to provide him with any semblance of comfort. Much to his surprise, the usually composed and collected facade crumbled as Thranduil wrapped his arms around the man’s torso and buried his face in his neck; muffled sobs resonating in the brunet’s ears and the gentle patter of the rain on the mounds of corpses that surrounded them.
Elves were supposed to be flawless but right now, and despite grief settling and the lack of words between them, Bard was grateful his King had decided to seek comfort in him.
