And in 150 years, my love, my love, I will still ache for you
Day 31: Moving forward
Thranduil rode at full gallop toward Dale, murmuring encouragements in Elvish to his horse so it would not falter, so it would not slow. He had left the moment he received the message from Bain, Bard’s son.
“The king is gravely ill. Come and pay your last respects.”
They had lived decades of complete happiness, despite war, despite the distance that had grown between Bard and his son after the last decisive victory for Dale, Greenwood, and Erebor. Then the One Ring had been destroyed, and all had been peace and prosperity for everyone. But today, Thranduil was terrified of losing precious minutes that might prove crucial. When he reached the gates of Dale, his horse was covered in foam, breathing so hard Thranduil feared it might collapse on the spot. He dismounted, spoke softly to calm it, to thank it for carrying him so faithfully. The banners still flew high in the sky. The king was still alive. A young squire took hold of the reins.
“Feed him and give him water. I may be staying several days.”
The squire nodded and led the horse toward the royal stables. Thranduil’s gaze, meanwhile, was already fixed on the windows of the king’s chambers.
He tried to steady his racing heart as he followed a path that had become painfully familiar over the years spent at Bard’s side. He recognized the feeling that had seized him the moment he read Bain’s message: fear. More than that — a dull, voiceless terror that clung to his mind.
In the corridor leading to the chamber, Thranduil saw Bain, Sigrid, and Tilda. The daughters held children in their arms — Bard’s grandchildren. He paused, then chose to greet them. Tilda and Sigrid welcomed him warmly; Bain remained cold. Thranduil did not linger. Two guards stood before the king’s door.
“Will you announce me to the king?” he asked — though the real question was Is the king still speaking? Can he still see me?
One of the guards opened the door. Thranduil heard himself announced, then Bard’s voice, sounding furious. Immense relief washed over him. The guard left the door open, and Thranduil closed it behind him. He had not expected this. Bard was standing, dressing himself. He was cursing his son aloud when he noticed Thranduil.
“Come help me.”
Thranduil stepped closer, helped fasten his clothes — a simple task that seemed to require a tremendous effort from Bard. Then Bard let himself fall back onto the bed.
“So you got a message too?”
Thranduil gave him a confused look.
“Why? Who else?”
Bard let out a joyless laugh and swept his arm around the room.
“They’ve been parading in here since yesterday! Dáin, Gondor, Rohan, the Iron Hills! All of them coming to pay their respects! For what?! I’m not dead yet!!”
Thranduil knew the outburst was meant more for the family in the corridor than for him.
“I can see that you’re not dead. Then why announce this?” he asked quietly. Did Bain realize the shock he had caused? Or had he done it deliberately — to hurt him, even after all these years? Bard sighed, suddenly weary.
“I don’t know… I felt unwell a few days ago, but I’m better now.” Then he turned to Thranduil with his familiar crooked smile.
“You came quickly. Were you worried about your old Bard?”
“Of course,” Thranduil answered, making no attempt to lie.
Bard clearly hadn’t expected such immediate sincerity. He studied him for a long moment, then placed a warm hand on his cheek, stroking his skin.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured.
Thranduil placed his hand over Bard’s, pressed it, then brought it to his lips.
“You too.”
“Stop,” Bard said with a sigh. “I look like a mess. Damn it, those idiots irritated me so much I feel dizzy.”
“You should lie down. I’ll stay with you.”
“You can go back, I’m fine,” Bard insisted, but Thranduil shook his head.
“I’m staying. My kingdom is in good hands.”
Bard lay back on the bed and returned his smile.
“Is Legolas here?”
“For now. He’ll leave with Gimli once I return.”
Thranduil looked around for a chair. Bard chuckled.
“Oh, come on. What are you doing?” He patted the mattress beside him.
Thranduil hesitated, glanced at the door.
“What if someone sees us?”
“No one enters without my permission.”
He hesitated a moment longer, then removed his boots, set them beside Bard’s, and lay down next to him. Instantly, the familiar post-lovemaking caresses returned — natural, loving. That was when the truth struck Thranduil: as he ran his fingers through Bard’s hair, he noticed how the black had given way to white. His hand drifted to Bard’s face, felt the lines, the softened skin — still beautiful, still pleasant to touch and behold, but unmistakably aged. His back was slightly stooped, his shoulders hollowed. His eyes, though, were unchanged — that deep green, that spark whenever they met Thranduil’s gaze. Yet his movements betrayed him.
“Do I look that old?” Bard asked with a smile.
“No,” Thranduil murmured. “You’re beautiful, my love.”
A pleased smile curved Bard’s lips as his eyes slowly closed.
“Mmm. You always know what to say. I’m going to rest a little, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. Sleep.” Thranduil kissed his hair.
“You’ll stay?”
“I’ll stay. Of course. Don’t worry.”
Bard nodded faintly, almost imperceptibly, then whispered:
“I love you, Thranduil.”
“I love you too.”
Thranduil rested his face close to Bard’s, continued stroking his hair in time with his breathing, took his hand and squeezed it before kissing it. Soon, he too drifted into sleep.
Violent shivers woke him.
Thranduil sat up, ready to stoke the fire — but the flames burned steadily, logs piled high to ensure warmth. He didn’t understand at once why he was so cold. He adjusted the blanket over Bard, his hand brushing his cheek. He froze. The skin was icy.
“Bard?” he called, frowning, hoping he was merely ill.
No response. Thranduil placed two fingers against his neck, searching for a pulse. He waited. One second. Two. Nothing.
His breath caught in his chest, as if his own heart refused to continue without Bard’s. He pressed a hand flat to his chest, hoping to feel the breathing he knew by heart — that slight irregular rhythm he loved so dearly.
There was nothing.
“No…” he whispered, without realizing it.
He shook Bard gently once, then again, more awkwardly, as though refusing what his body already knew. Bard’s head lolled slightly to the side. His features were peaceful. He was still faintly smiling. Thranduil remained frozen. A brutal, absolute emptiness crashed down on him.
He sat unmoving, Bard’s head resting on his knees, for a long time. At last, his gaze lifted toward the door. He straightened, arranged Bard into a more dignified position, then opened the door. The children were there. Not the youngest ones. Sigrid understood first when she saw Thranduil’s expression. She cried out and fled into her sister’s arms. Bain’s face crumpled — he had just lost his father, and with him had inherited the greatest responsibility of his life. Thranduil knew it. He bowed slightly.
“Long live the king,” he said, his voice unnervingly calm.
Bain did not return his salute or his gaze. He pulled his sisters into the chamber and slammed the door. Thranduil was left alone.
His presence was merely tolerated at the king’s funeral.
They came in great numbers. The Men of Dale, of course — soldiers, craftsmen, entire families. The Dwarves of Erebor, Dáin at their head, grave and silent. A few Elves of Greenwood, discreet, kept to the back, as though they already knew they had no place in the front ranks of a Man’s mourning. Legolas and Gimli accompanied him. But, more astonishing, Men from Gondor, Rohan, Elves from Rivendell, Lorien; everyone wanted to pay respects to Bard, King of Dale.
Bard’s body was laid out according to human customs. Torches burned day and night. The songs were simple, deep, carried by broken yet proud voices. They spoke of his victories, of Smaug, of Dale risen from the ashes, of the man he had been to his people. Thranduil stayed apart — always visible, never truly invited. Bain never spoke to him. Not once. Nor did he drive him away.
Thranduil listened to the songs of glory, but what returned to him were the quiet, happy moments they had shared: the clearing he would never walk through again without thinking of Bard; the countless times they had watched for each other from their chambers; the laughter, the stories, the pride they held for their children; the rides through the forest.
The mourners remembered the king. Thranduil remembered the man.
When the coffin was sealed, when the heavy stone finally settled over the wood, Thranduil felt something close within him forever — like a door shut with the certainty it would never be opened again. He did not stay longer. The memories were too painful. Legolas and Gimli left on their own. He left Dale without looking back. His horse walked at a steady pace, docile, almost reverent. The road to Greenwood was so familiar he could have followed it with his eyes closed. This time, he did not gallop once. There was nothing waiting for him anymore.
Then he felt moisture on his cheek. He looked up at the sky — not a cloud, not a hint of rain. He stopped, perplexed, raised a hand to his face. His fingers were wet. He frowned, studying the water on his skin as though it were a strange, misplaced phenomenon. He brought his fingers to his lips, tasted cautiously, as if it might be poison. It was only salt water. He understood. Thranduil halted his horse and remained perfectly still. He did not panic. He did not give in. He simply waited, upright in his saddle, for it to pass. Elves do not weep. Never. And yet…
When the dampness finally faded, when the tears dried upon his skin, he drew a deep breath and urged his horse forward again.
Greenwood welcomed him in its eternal silence. The trees asked no questions. The forest judged nothing. It was unchanged — immutable, indifferent to time and to the fragility of mortal love. Thranduil returned home alone.
There would be no one else after Bard. He had loved a woman. He had loved a man. He had lost them both. Now he would close himself to all else. He would allow himself only memory — and eternity to learn how to live with it.
He moved forward. There was nothing else to do.
Challenge by @monthlywritingchallenges
