Chapter Text
“Are you trying to court the Elf King, da?” Small fingers grasp at his cloak, and Bard finds his brows furrowing as he looks down at his youngest daughter, her bright and questioning eyes staring up at him.
For a few painstaking moments he attempts to both think of an answer to her question, and understand why she was asking it, as he simultaneously tries not to shift uncomfortably on his feet. Eventually, all he manages is a faint; “—What?”
“The necklace,” She releases his robes in favour of pointing at the box that’s poking out of his pocket, and her tone is so matter-of-fact that he wonders for a moment if everyone was having the same idea about his impending visit to the Woodland Realm. “They’re really pretty, and I saw you smile when you were putting them in the box this morning. Are you giving them to the king so that you can be a couple?”
Bard presses his lips together, and he can feel heat rising up his neck without his permission, the tell-tale signs of an impending blush—something he hadn’t experienced in many, many years. But before it can raise to his cheeks and make itself known, Bard clears his throat and drops a kiss to Tilda’s head, ruffling her hair affectionately. “You have a fine imagination, Tilda. I will see you in a few days.”
With another kiss to her forehead and two more to the heads of his son and eldest daughter, Bard picks up his bag and exits the building, thanking the powers that be for the cool air as it hits his heated skin. He had thought about how the king’s lips may feel upon his own many a time since their first meeting, since before the battle and the discussions they’d held briefly afterwards regarding the trade between their kingdoms. He’d often found himself drifting into his own thoughts, forgetting entirely whatever it was he found himself doing, and it was only made worse when actually in the presence of the king himself.
Whether the Elvenking knows the affect he is having on Dale’s newly appointed ruler is unclear, but if he is doing it deliberately he is doing it very well. Bard can hardly concentrate whenever they’re in the same room, finds himself focusing on the way Thranduil’s lips form the words that he speaks, the way his voice is deep enough that it feels as though it rumbles straight through Bard’s own chest whenever he addresses him. Even the way Thranduil’s fingers dance across the parchments they pursue in their quest to make arrangements for future trade and meetings.
It’s as he’s riding through the trees towards the gates, escorted by two elven guards and three of his own, that he begins to question whether this meeting was a good idea. He doesn’t wish to make a fool of himself by getting caught in his admirations of the king, especially not so soon after his coronation. But the thought doesn’t linger long. It doesn’t linger, because it’s swiftly taken over by the image of Thranduil’s face when he’s given the jewels, to the potential smile and crinkled eyes of a king who doesn’t seem to smile genuinely very often.
And so it’s with a private smile to himself that Bard steels himself and sits straighter on his mount, his gaze fixing itself on the gates and the guards waiting to take their steeds when they arrive. He attempts to look more kingly than he ever feels, managing to gracefully dismount behind his elven escorts. He moves to reach for his bag, but is assured it will be taken to his chambers for him, and instead slips his fingers down the front of his coat to ensure that the box is still present. Satisfied that it is, he follows the guards inside, his eyes widening subtly at the true beauty that greets him. It’s remarkable, truly, to be one of very few humans that have been granted such a privilege.
And a privilege it is. The halls that greet him, with their spiralling branch-staircases, take his breath away for a moment. He understands suddenly just why Thranduil can act so regal so effortlessly—when one rules over a realm as beautiful as this, one can be excused for acting as though all should be bowing before him. Not that that changed anything, of course—Whilst Bard showed him the utmost respect, he often caught himself speaking to Thranduil as though he were a friend, making comments that one should not make toward such an ancient being.
Thankfully, such comments had not resulted in a falling out between the two kings—on the contrary, they seemed to somewhat amuse Thranduil, if the twitch of his lips and raise of his brow were anything to go by.
Before he can truly realise just where he’s been led, he finds himself looking up to where Thranduil lounges lazily yet gracefully upon his throne, his long fingers tracing invisible patterns against the arm rests as he surveys the arrival of his guest.
“Welcome to my kingdom, Dragonslayer.” Uncrossing his legs, Thranduil leans forward, a welcoming smile on his lips as he waves a hand to instruct his guards to take Bard’s own to their chambers. Bard wonders for a moment if the title will remain forever, preferring to be called by his actual name, but makes no comment. Instead, he inclines his head and offers a smile.
“Thank you for your invitation, my Lord Thranduil.” He finds his eyes tracing the Elvenking’s movements as he rises from his throne and begins to descend its steps, every movement deliberate and graceful. “I hope that our realms can work together successfully, for the benefit of both our kind.”
Thranduil’s brow lifts subtly, the edges of his mouth giving the slightest curl upwards, before he stops in front of the mortal with a faint hum of agreement. “Indeed. I am certain that, should we remain favourable to each other, so will our people. Walk with me.”
It’s an instruction more than a request, but Bard finds no desire to rebel against it as he falls into step with the Elvenking, finding that he can’t quite keep himself from looking around. As they walk, they fall into a comfortable silence, before Thranduil speaks once again and captures Bard’s full attention.
“How are your people faring, now that shelters have been erected?” He questions, his gaze darting to the side to meet Bard’s as they pass through two large doors, held open by yet more guards.
“Well enough, considering. Some are still struggling with the loss of their homes and loved ones, but they are strong. Stronger than many would give them credit for, I believe.” Bard answers, and he wouldn’t be surprised if Thranduil could see his chest swelling with pride at his words. “We still have many sick and wounded, but those that have recovered and still have their strength are doing all that they can to rebuild. Dale is looking less and less desolate each day.”
“That is pleasing to hear. I can imagine there is still much work to be done to fully return Dale to its former glory, but I feel there is no man better for such a task. I know that you doubt your ability to lead your people,” Bard’s head turns a little too sharply at that, surprised to hear that the king had read him so easily, but he makes no move to deny the comment. “But you have all the necessary attributes that a king must have. Not least amongst them is the desire to care for your people, no matter the cost.”
“You pay me great compliment, my Lord, and it does much to soothe my doubts. But I have little experience in ruling over anything but my own barge; dragon slaying does not necessarily make one suitable for being a king.”
“Perhaps not.” Thranduil admits, turning from the corridor they’d been walking through to lead Bard into a beautiful stone room. He moves over to the table, and picks up a bottle which is now familiar to Bard, filled with the most extraordinary wine he’d ever had the pleasure of tasting, and begins to pour them both a goblet. On the table lie maps and documents, and Bard heads for them, aware that they need to begin making more permanent arrangements.
As Thranduil draws closer to pass a goblet to Bard, the bargeman takes it with an utter of thanks, raising it to his lips so that he may take a sip. The Elvenking’s gaze seems to linger on him for a few moments longer than is strictly necessary, before he hums and casts his gaze down to the papers. He opens his mouth to speak, and Bard interrupts, finding himself unable to resist for much longer.
“Before we begin, my Lord, I have a gift that I wish to give you.” He’s once again pinned under the gaze of older king, and the questioning lift of his brow has Bard smiling. Setting his goblet down and waiting for Thranduil to mirror him, he slips a hand into his pocket to close his fingers around the box. Once Thranduil’s hands are unoccupied, Bard withdraws the box and presses it into his hands, relishing the brief touch of their fingers before letting his hands fall to his side. “I had Dain return them to me, so that I might pass them back to you.”
The crease of Thranduil’s brow as he looks down at the box is strangely endearing, and Bard finds himself smiling as the Elf Lord lifts the box to inspect it, before flipping the lid open carefully. And when his eyes land upon the jewels within, Bard instantly knows he was right in assuming he would enjoy seeing the king reunited with something so precious to him.
Thranduil’s gaze seems to light up, his brows raised in surprise for only a moment before his lips curl into the most genuine smile Bard could possibly have hoped for. It’s instant, really, the relief that seems to wash over the elf’s features, the way he seems to forget for a moment that there is anyone else present. And when he does, his gaze flicks up and locks on Bard’s, that distracting smile still on his lips.
Swallowing a sudden lump in his throat, Bard speaks once again. “I thought you might appreciate them. Think of them as a gesture of good will, of a promise that we will prove generous allies when we have regained our strength.”
“Generous, indeed.” Thranduil nods, and Bard’s gaze is drawn to the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips before retreating back into the mouth that he so wishes to taste. His eyes widen subtly when he realises how inappropriate his thoughts are trailing, and he quickly returns his gaze to meet Thranduil’s. “You truly are a remarkable man.”
It seems to be stated more to himself than to Bard, and he finds himself being studied by the elf, his gaze tracing over him in a way that makes Bard feel like a teenager again, and suddenly it’s very difficult for Bard not lean forward and kiss the elf. To distract himself, he reaches for his goblet and takes a large gulp of the sweet liquid, letting it linger in his mouth for a moment before he swallows it. He can feel Thranduil’s gaze burning on his skin, and can feel the heat spreading up his neck once again, slowly but surely working its way up to the inevitable; reaching his cheeks to bring a blush to his features.
Searching for something to distract himself with on the table, he sets his goblet down once more and traces his fingers over a map to examine the possible trading routes. When he moves to speak, he feels eyes still on him and looks up to find that Thranduil has placed the box down and instead holds the jewels between nimble fingers. “Put it on for me.” Once again it’s a command, and he hands the jewels to Bard before turning to face away from him. Bard watches in stunned silence as the Elvenking reaches up to brush his hair aside, and just knows that the elf will hear the way his breath hitches.
Taking a moment to compose himself, Bard reaches up and places the necklace around his neck, and takes his time in clasping it in place. His fingers brush against his skin, and he releases a soft breath, watching as it wafts a few strands of the king’s hair. For a moment, he swears Thranduil shudders faintly, and his nails scrape lightly against the back of his neck as he finishes clasping it in place. He withdraws his hands, giving him an unobstructed view of that gorgeous neck, and he finds himself leaning in before he can stop himself.
He’s mere inches from pressing his lips to his skin when Thranduil turns suddenly, leaving Bard staring at his chin with a slow exhale of breath. “I apologise, I was—“ He tilts his head up to look him in the eye, and all his words die on his tongue when he notices that Thranduil seems amused. But there’s something else there—His pupils are ever so slightly dilated, and if that means the same in an elf as it does in a human, Bard isn’t alone in his desire here. “The jewels suit you perfectly, my Lord.” The smirk that finds its way onto Thranduil’s lips is completely inviting, and Bard takes it as just that—an invitation.
Without another word he leans forward, closing his lips over Thranduil’s in an experimentally soft kiss. For a split second he fears that Thranduil won’t return it, that he’s misinterpreted the situation and overstepped his mark, but that fear dissipates quickly. The Elvenking’s head tips forward to get better access to the Dragonslayer’s mouth, and he feels the warm press of a hand at the small of his back. The kiss is as graceful as he’d imagined, the slow shift of lips against lips enough to make Bard sigh into his mouth as he reaches up to cup the back of Thranduil’s head in the palm of his hand. His fingers tangle in stands of hair that feel like silk, and his rough lips capture Thranduil’s soft lower lip between them, sucking gently and producing a hum that resonates through his entire being.
In an attempt to earn more sounds like that, Bard breaks the kiss to trace his lips along the Elvenking’s jawline, where he nips gently at the skin. As he reaches the spot beneath his ear and presses his lips to the man’s neck, however, Thranduil apparently decides that he no longer wishes to relent the control of the situation and turns them sharply, pressing Bard back against the table behind him. One hand remains at the small of his back whilst the other braces on the table, and Thranduil seals their lips together again, this kiss much firmer and more insistent than the other. A tongue teases over his lips, and Bard willingly parts them, welcoming the invasion of the Elvenking’s tongue with the softest of moans.
Apparently this pleases Thranduil, because he can feel the smirk where their lips meet, and he grips tighter at the elf’s hair to keep them anchored there for fear that he’ll pull away. But apparently that isn’t on Thranduil’s to do list, because he presses in closer, fingers biting into the small of Bard’s back as he tangles their tongues together once again and brings his free hand up to angle the Dragonslayer’s head back and gain better access.
As Bard reaches up to curl the fingers of his free hand into the front of Thranduil’s robes, there’s a knock at the door that startles him and almost makes him jolt in the other king’s arms, but Thranduil keeps pressed in close to keep him grounded and only very slowly draws back from the kiss with a look akin to serious irritation. Wetting his lips, his gaze lands on Bard’s features for a moment, before he drops his hand and straightens up. Reluctantly, Bard untangles his fingers and manages to smooth out the king’s hair so that he doesn’t look like he’s just been passionately kissing their guest, and drops his hands to grip the edge of the table behind him.
With an infuriating smirk as he surveys the flush skin of the mortal king standing behind him, Thranduil turns and swiftly exits the room to go and see what his council is required on, and leaves Bard standing there staring after him with a slow exhale of breath that leaves his lungs in a long whoosh.
“Oh, bugger.” He mutters, attempting to smooth out his clothing and regain his composure as he grasps his wine and drains the goblet in one large gulp. And then swiftly drains Thranduil’s as well. He’s in for a long visit, it seems.