I just prompted this elsewhere, but now i can't stop thinking about it. So let's talk about Bard and Thranduil tending to their wounds together after the battle. They're both physically and emotionally drained, and they have lost far too many men and women in the battle, so they just sit in silence inside the tent, taking care of eachother. They work slowly, Thranduil cleaning Bard's skin with a damp cloth. (1/2?)
And when they’re clean again, after Bard has taken care of their injuries, Thranduil rests his head against Bard’s shoulder and Bard just helds him there, listening the sound of their breathing, thanking Eru and whoever there is to thank that both of them made it alive, and that despite all the loss they suffered both Legolas and his chidren are still with them. (2/2)
((this got a bit long whoops))
there’s still spatters of blood on thranduil’s cheek when he has finished gently dabbing a damp cloth against a cut on bard’s shoulder. they’ve got injuries both of them but bard is, not surprisingly, the one with the most hurts. three of his fingers are broken and have now been expertly bandaged by thranduil’s deft and unexpectedly kind hands.
his shoulders have gotten the worst of it, though. bard feels as if he’s been wrapped in bandages from head to toe and it hurts so to move that he haven’t dared change his position the whole time they’ve been here.
thranduil’s wounds seem to be more of the emotional nature, though he’s got some ugly scrapes and bruises too. the somewhat playful light bard saw in those eyes only days ago has faded into something more gloomy and sorrowful. bard heard about legolas going away, so that might have something to do with it, bard thinks, but he doesn’t dare ask.
it’s only when thranduil’s hands stop their seemingly endless cleaning of bard’s wound that he looks up. he’s been starting at the elvenking’s hands the whole time, finding comfort in the meticulous movements and their slender beauty.
"is something wrong, my lord?" bard asks simply because he feels like he has to. they have barely spoken at all since the battle ended and thranduil took bard with him to his tent.
thranduil sighs softly, his shoulders are tense and his features etched with sadness, and maybe some relief, if one looks close enough. it appears for a moment as if the elf is refusing to answer but bard knows that if he waits long enough the elvenking will speak his mind.
"it’s my son. he-," thranduil cuts himself off and in an effort to comfort this sorrowful creature in front of him, bard places his least injured hand on top of the elf’s. if bard didn’t know any better he’d say he saw a hint of relief in those pale blue eyes, and it gives him enough courage to keep it there. the silence stretches again and bard is almost sure thranduil won’t say another word until he sighs again.
"my son will not return to mirkwood with me. he said he couldn’t go back and i-, i told him that-," thranduil starts but stops again and his face sets again in a grim mask of concentration as he dabs at bard’s cut a couple more times. he won’t speak again tonight, bard is almost sure of it.
"you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, my lord, but i appreciate you trying all the same," bard says, and he’s got no experience at all with talking to thousands of years old elven kings who feels things in an entirely different way than humans do, and has been in trouble with authorities for over half his life. bard can only hope he doesn’t say the wrong things; he doesn’t fancy getting arrested and thrown into a cell in the kingdom of mirkwood for accidentally offending their king.
the only answer he gets is the barest hint of a smile. bard takes it as a victory.
"i’m glad there’s no shortage of bandages," bard says, desperate to lighten the mood, and he swears thranduil’s lips form a small smile for a fraction of a second. "we’d have to tear the rest of my clothes into strips if there was, and i don’t know if i’d think much of it since i’m already in my underclothes."
they really did have to tear up the cleanest parts of bard’s new shirt and use it for cleaning blood from their skin and wounds, only to give as much clean and fresh bandages to the more heavily wounded. both bard and thranduil are down to their breeches and boots, their shirts and robes shed and tore into makeshift cloths and bandages the second they got inside the tent.
thranduil’s hair has been tied back in a loose knot to keep away from the scratches on his colon and chest. his skin looks almost unhealthily pale in the soft candlelight, but bard knows by now that that’s just how elven skin is.
at last thranduil finishes cleaning the cut on bard’s arm and bandages it gently and neatly before sitting back against the cushions on the floor. bard slides himself down until he’s almost lying flat on the carpet and rearranges one of the pillows at his back into a more comfortable position.
he decides that what he does next is a side-effect of having fought in an extremely tedious battle all day; it has nothing whatsoever to do with how positively wretched thranduil looks and everything to do with how tired bard himself suddenly is. bard lifts up one of his arms and gives thranduil an inviting gesture, he uses his other hand to pull a soft woollen blanket from one of the chairs.
thranduil is convinced rather easily - well, it's either that, or he’s as tired as bard and doesn’t quite know what he’s doing - and settles in closely to bard’s side, who throws the blanket over them both. neither of them say a word, and eventually they both fall into a deep sleep
