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In the past two days Bard had smuggled the King under the Mountain into Lake-town, had been knocked out and imprisoned, had escaped in the midst of a dragon attack, had then slain said attacking dragon, had almost drowned, almost been proclaimed king and had just woken to an Elven army in their makeshift refugee camp.

But at this moment, the most amazing thing about it all were the cabbages.

Or rather, not the vegetables themselves but the fact that the Wood-elves had bothered with carts upon carts heaped with food, and such inglorious food at that. Bard hadn't had much contact with Elves beyond occasional encounters with patrols during his deliveries, but he hadn't thought that they'd have such large stores of cabbage, beetroot and other sensible winter food. Elves, in his admittedly limited experience, weren't the kind of beings to grow turnips.

Still, the food was here and he wasn't about to question its origins, not when it would keep his people fed for at least a few days.

"You have saved us," he told the Elvenking, who was calmly surveying the scene from the saddle of his magnificent elk, because clearly a horse would have been far too ordinary and sensible. "I do not know how to thank you."

Thranduil looked down at him. "Your gratitude is misplaced. I did not come on your behalf, I came to reclaim something of mine."

And yet you bring food? Bard wanted to ask but stopped himself before the words could leave his mouth. It didn't seem smart to question the King of the Woodland Realm. At least not until they'd unloaded the wagons completely.

Some of his doubts probably had shown on his face, since Thranduil treated him to a slight raise of his eyebrows. "There are gems in that mountain which I desire. White gems of pure starlight." Apparently that was deemed explanation enough, because the Elvenking turned his elk around - Bard resolutely refused to be baffled by that sight - and followed a company of marching Elves back down in the direction of the city gates.

Bard should have known that the Elves would not show up with a few thousand warriors just to deliver potatoes. Of course there was another agenda, one that apparently had been the original plan all along. Gems… Bard had never heard of any gems in the Mountain, but it stood to reason that where there was gold, there would be other treasures that had been taken by the dragon.

"What should we do with the rest of the food?" Percy asked, drawing him out of his thoughts. "Store it or hand it all out?"

Bard shook his head and tried to focus. "Distribute it. We don't have anywhere to keep it and we cannot waste guards on that." He needed to find out whether there was a chance of more aid from the Elves. Right now he didn't want to think about the alternatives, not with what promised to be a harsh winter coming and with their food storage at the bottom of the lake or gone up in fire and flames. But the Elves didn't seem about to stay, and it would hardly take them long to win against thirteen Dwarves and a halfling. And if they slew the Dwarves over that accursed Mountain and its treasures, there would be little reason for them to return to a handful of straggling refugees.

He'd better make himself useful and give them reason.

"Wait!" he shouted, running after the departing Elves. "Please wait!"

Thranduil had halted his elk just around the corner, surveying his troops as they marched past, sunlight glistening on their helmets and their shining quivers. He turned his head when Bard approached.

"You would go to war over a handful of gems?" Bard asked.

Thranduil's calm expression hardened. "The heirlooms of my people are not lightly forsaken." Which was easy to believe; Bard had heard tales of the Elves of times long gone past and if the Elves of this age were anything like their ancestors, they were well capable of carrying grudges, especially over jewelry. They did like their shiny baubles.

"We are allies in this," he tried. "My people also have a claim upon the riches in that Mountain. Let me speak with Thorin." A fair share had been promised in exchange for the assistance of the people of Lake-town, and at least this much was owed. Whether Thorin would see any obligation to help with the rebuilding was something Bard didn't want to guess at right now. They had been promised a fair share, and certainly Dwarves were creatures of their word.

Once again he received a look from the Elvenking that hovered between intrigued and unimpressed. "You would try to reason with the Dwarf?"

Bard drew himself up straight. "To avoid war, yes," he said with all the conviction he could muster. "There has been enough death already, and negotiations are cheaper in lives."

"What makes you so certain that Thorin will listen?"

"He gave his word," Bard said simply, because there was nothing else he could offer. "If he is the King under the Mountain now, he must value his promises."

"Do not think too highly of the Dwarves and their promises," Thranduil said. "They have broken oaths before. Thorin's grandfather did, when the thought of riches turned into greed beyond measure."

"He will see reason," Bard insisted. "We helped him reach the Lonely Mountain. He is indebted to us for our aid."

"And for Dale and Esgaroth, I should think," Thranduil said. "It was the Dwarves and their greed who twice brought the dragon upon you, after all."

Bard held his gaze. "Just so," he said and tried not to recall the memories of Lake-town's last hours, the fire's heat and water's biting chill. The stench of dragon.

Thranduil was still looking at him, calmly measuring. Then he nodded. "If that is what you wish to try, then do it," he said, then called out in Sindarin to a passing captain. The command was taken up and the warriors stopped in a move so in synch that Bard absently wondered how many decades of training made that possible. "Make Thorin Oakenshield see reason."

If only it were that simple, Bard thought. But there had to be a chance to do it, a chance to avoid a battle. Certainly Thranduil would not wait if it were a hopeless cause - the Elves were here, half of them already stationed along the ruined outer walls of Dale for a fight.

"How long do I have?" he asked.

Thranduil tilted his head, then turned to look at the Mountain. "I suggest you hurry. Thorin Oakenshield is only going to grow into a more obstinate opponent the more time you give him to evaluate his position."

"What a wonderful prospect," Bard muttered, and for a moment thought he saw the hint of a smirk on the Elf's face. "I need to see to my children first, make certain they have food." He hadn't seen them near the wagons, and he had no illusions about the supplies being distributed fairly, not when people still felt the fear and loss of last night in their bones.

"Leave that to me," Thranduil said. "If you truly wish to speak to the Dwarves, do it now before they can recover their wits any further. If they had any to begin with, that is."

Bard frowned at that. "I'm not trying to trick them."

"No, but they may try to trick you. Thorin and his kin have shown little reason to consider them trustworthy for a long time now." Thranduil paused, reining in his elk when the animal began to fidget in place as if it were a horse. "I take it you have not had many dealings with Dwarves."

"There have not been Dwarves in the Lonely Mountain since long before I was born."

"Be warned, then. Thorin Oakenshield may disappoint you."

"We'll see about that. Dale has always been on good terms with the Dwarves and Elves, has it not? Perhaps the Dwarves will remember." Bard paused. "My children?"

"Of course." Thranduil straightened in the saddle and motioned towards a group of Elves mounted on white horses, who looked more like noble lords than warriors in their fine tunics, though they carried swords like all the others. "Galion!"

One of them nudged his horse into motion and approached them. "My Lord?"

"Lord Bard's children require food and adequate shelter while he fulfils his diplomatic duties."

"Yes, my Lord. Where may they be found?"

Thranduil looked at Bard, who was debating whether to argue being called a lord when he clearly wasn't. The need to see his children safe and sheltered won out.

"In the main square, two girls and a boy. Sigrid promised they would stay there." They had found a not too damaged building yesterday where the ground floor still looked inhabitable, and had spent the night huddled together for warmth, Bard wide awake while his exhausted children slept. He'd have to make sure to look for more blankets before this evening.

Galion nodded. "They will be taken care of."

"And we need a horse," Thranduil added.

Bard looked up sharply. "No, we don't."

"Would you rather walk to Thorin's door like a beggar?"

"Better than to be thrown off a horse in plain sight," Bard countered. "I'm not an accomplished rider."

Thranduil waved his hand dismissively. "On normal horses perhaps," he said. "Elven horses can keep anyone on their back who wishes to stay there."

And so Bard found himself on a pretty white horse soon afterwards, trying his best not to think about how long it had been since he'd sat in a saddle. In Lake-town, horses were affordable only to few anymore, and ever since he had sold his cart years ago, that luxury had been out of reach for him. And even then the horse had been a good-natured draft horse perfect for pulling heavy loads, but hardly suited to any kind of riding at a pace faster than an amble.

At least the Elven horse truly seemed capable of adapting to an untrained rider, and Bard suspected that the creature made him look a lot more practiced than he actually was. One less thing to worry about on his whole list of concerns.

He was very much aware of the Elves on the city walls as he rode out, their armour shining in the bright morning light. Thousands of them, all armed and ready to attack the Mountain - certainly Thorin had to be aware of this? The Dwarf was hardly a fool, so he couldn't possibly hope to withstand an attack. Even if the Elves couldn't get into the Mountain, all they had to do was blockade the way out and wait for starvation to open the gates for them. Perhaps if Thorin heard that the people of Lake-town only asked for what had been promised so they could rebuild, and that the Elves demanded only a set of jewels that apparently was theirs…

His attention was drawn to movement atop the newly constructed wall that replaced the destroyed gate into the Mountain, and Bard thought he recognised a face or two. Were the Dwarves he had given shelter in his own home up there? Surely they had to feel pity for the people of the destroyed city.

He reined the horse in when he approached, cautious not to ride onto the bridge across the moat. Dwarves were possessive of their property, everyone knew that, and Bard had no intention of antagonising anyone unnecessarily. Thorin hadn't struck him as the most patient person at any time of their dealings with each other.

"Hail Thorin, son of Thrain!" he called out when he thought he spotted the Dwarves' leader on top of the wall. "We are glad to find you alive beyond hope."

A moment of silence, then, "Why do you come to the gates of the King under the Mountain, armed for war?"

Well, didn't that sound promising. Bard wondered if he should point out that he was hardly armed and didn't carry as much as a knife, but he supposed that the thousands of watchful Elves at his back could probably be considered a form of weaponry. They were certainly deadly enough when provoked.

"Why does the King under the Mountain fence himself in?" he called up, and couldn't resist adding, "Like a robber in his home?"

"Perhaps it is because I am expecting to be robbed!" Bard imagined he could hear Thorin's bristling at that accusation. Good, that had gotten a reaction out of him, that had to be better than indifference.

"My Lord, we have not come to rob you, but to seek fair settlement. Will you not speak with me?"

The other Dwarves looked apprehensive at the question, and none of them even glanced at their leader. Bard spotted the ones he'd given shelter not just once but twice, but none of them acknowledged him in any way. So much for the gratitude of Dwarves.

After a long moment Thorin nodded, motioned for him to approach and disappeared from the wall. Dismounting, Bard stepped onto the bridge, then had to pause when the horse made to follow him.

"Stay," he told it, at a loss for what to do. There was nothing to tie the animal to; should he hold on to the reins? Hope that it would not run off? But the horse seemed to understand the command; it stomped its hooves, swished its tail and stood still, watching him curiously.

Elven horses. Bard shook his head, then crossed the bridge and came to stand in front of the wall. Above him, one of the Dwarves gestured to the left, and when Bard looked there he spotted a small hole, no wider than the span of his hand, at the height for a Dwarf to comfortably look through. Which meant that he would have to bow to look.

Bard began to suspect he was finding out why Thranduil hadn't had any intention to speak to the Dwarves on their ground.

He bent to look through the gap in the wall and saw Thorin at the other side, his face hard as the grey stone that framed it.

"I'm listening," Thorin said.

Bard drew a steadying breath. "On behalf of the people of Lake-town I ask that you honour your pledge," he said. "A share of the treasure so that they might rebuild their lives."

Thorin did not even take the time to consider the request before he answered. "I will not treat with any man while an armed host lies before my door."

"That armed host will attack this Mountain if we do not come to terms." Which was what Bard hoped to avoid, what he thought Thranduil wouldn't mind avoiding, and which certainly Thorin couldn't want either. Thirteen Dwarves and one halfling against five thousand Elves did not sound particularly promising, or winnable.

"Your threats do not sway me." Apparently Dwarves had other ideas of unwinnable odds. Bard suppressed a growl of frustration and tried another approach.

"What of your conscience? Does it not tell you our cause is just? My people offered you help and in return you put upon them only ruin and death." It was said with all the sincerity he could muster. Dwarves were good people, surely Thorin had to see reason. It was not just about the death and destruction Smaug had wrought upon Lake-town, but also the prospect the survivors faced now. Winter had barely begun and it promised to be a harsh one, and they were without enough food or proper shelter.

"Would have the people of Lake-town have come to our aid but for the promise of rich reward?"

Bard wanted to say yes, but knew only too well that the Master would have refused. Still the implication stung that all the people of Lake-town would put money above an act of simple decency. They too were good people, in their own ways, and the Dwarves had to know that. They had seen Bard's own family risk their safety and their lives to shelter them.

"A bargain was struck!" he shouted, with more force behind it than intended. His back was beginning to hurt, the bruises from the past days aching as he strained his muscles to bow and look at the Dwarf through the gap in the wall.

Thorin's expression darkened, his eyes hard with anger. "A bargain! What choice did we have but to barter our birthright for blankets and food, to ransom our future in exchange for our freedom! You call that a fair trade?"

Bard bit his tongue before he could reply with something he might regret. Right now he cared very little about the birthright of Dwarves, when hundreds of lives were on the line.

"Tell me, Bard the Dragonslayer, why should I honour such terms?"

Because I am the Dragonslayer, because I had to become the Dragonslayer when you set the monster on my people. Because you owe us homes and lives and the chance at a future. But Thorin would not care, he knew that, and it made anger boil up inside him. It seemed that for the King under the Mountain, the lives of men, women and children were worth less than the riches he had gained.

"Because you gave us your word," he tried one last time, hoping beyond reason that Thorin would see sense, would show compassion. "Does that mean nothing?"

Thorin stared at him, his eyes full of haughty arrogance, then stepped away from the wall and out of sight. Bard heard the heavy falls of Dwarven boots on stone. "Be gone! Ere our arrows fly!"

Bard hit the cold stones of the wall with his hand, putting all his frustration behind the strike. It hurt, from the impact as much as the cuts he'd already carried, but right now that was better than to let the Dwarves hear his anger. He spun around, marched back to the horse that still stood rooted to the spot where he had left it, and galloped back to Dale without any further glance at the Dwarves in their Mountain.

The brief ride did little to calm his mind. The Dwarves had to know how it stood with the people of Lake-town. Some of them had seen the devastation, they had been in the very middle of it all. They had seen the dead and the wounded, they had seen that there was nothing left of the town and that the people had escaped only with the clothes on their bodies. And yet the gold mattered more to Thorin than the lives of hundreds of innocents who had not asked for Dwarves to come into their town, who had not asked to take any part in this all.

Thranduil was waiting for him on the bridge that led across the river into Dale, a solitary, silent figure. He was also, Bard noticed, waiting out of earshot from the guards on the walls.

Bard's horse came to a halt right before the elk without the need for a signal from its rider.

"He'll give us nothing." Bard still had trouble believing that Thorin could be so deliberately blind, so deliberately cruel.

Thranduil looked at him. "Such a pity," he said, his voice even. "Still, you tried." He did not sound surprised in the least. Then again, he had voiced his doubts from the beginning.

A deep breath. Another one, then Bard forced his anger down. "I do not understand. Why? Why would he risk war?"

A crash of thunder had him turn around, just in time to see a huge statue break off the mountain face and tumble down in front of the gate, smashing the bridge in a roaring cloud of dust. They watched as smaller rocks fell and splashed into the moat until the Mountain quieted again.

"It is fruitless to reason with them," Thranduil said, still motionless on his elk. "They understand only one thing."

Bard looked at him and waited, his heart sinking when Thranduil drew his sword and raised it, the blade held up before his calm face, light reflecting from the edge. "We attack at dawn."

That voice brooked no disagreement, not that Bard truly felt like protesting. He did not want to go to war. But perhaps it would be enough for Thorin to see that they were not making empty threats to make him finally see reason. They weren't asking for anything unjust or impossible, they were only asking for what was rightfully theirs, by word given and promise upheld.

In a slow, smooth motion, Thranduil guided his elk towards the city and slowly rode across the bridge, swinging his sword in a downstroke that looked easy but spoke of more practice than Bard could hope to achieve in his life.

"Are you with us?" Thranduil asked.

Bard drew a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. He had not expected to be given a choice in the matter.

"I need to speak to the people of Lake-town," he said. "It is not my decision alone to make."

The elk stopped. "As if they won't expect you to speak for them," Thranduil told him without bothering to turn around.

Bard frowned at the Elf's back. "They have minds of their own. I cannot command them."

Now Thranduil did turn around, a hint of a smile on his face. "I beg to differ. But by all means, go and speak to them. Then come see me once they have made you decide for them."

Somewhat irritatingly, Thranduil had been right about the people of Lake-town.

After checking on his children, Bard went to the main square and called an assembly, and that the people all rushed to come should have been his first hint that matters might not be quite as he had thought.

"You talked to the Dwarves, didn't you?" Bard's former neighbour Frea demanded to know when he explained the situation. She was far from her past prim and proper self; there was a new hardness in her face that Bard couldn't remember seeing before. "And the Elvenking? So what are you asking us for?"

"He's letting us know," Kyrre the Fisherman told her. "Because he doesn't want to be like the Master, see? Much better that way, he'll listen to us if we need something."

Bard would very much have liked to have something to listen to, but all he got for his attempts at explanations were expectant looks. They all seemed convinced he had figured it out already.

"So what have you decided?" Kyrre's wife asked. "What do we do?"

"I have to speak to King Thranduil first," Bard said. He had the sinking feeling that this was not going the way he had intended.

"That's good, you do that," Frea agreed. "Make sure he takes you seriously with his crown and the pointy ears."

"Maybe we should make him a lord, eh?" one of the men in the back shouted. "Then the Elves will listen to him more, they've got a king after all. And the Dwarves too. We should have a real lord too, makes us more important."

"This is not why we are here!" Bard firmly told them and managed to keep all but a faint note of desperation out of his voice. "We need to decide whether we want to join the Elves if they attack the Lonely Mountain, that is all!"

"Sverre's got a point, we need a proper lord," a grisly old watchman agreed, ignoring Bard completely. "Nobody wants to use Alfrid!"

"Hey!"

"Oh shut it Alfrid, be glad Bard's allowed you to be here."

"Should we make him a king after all? The Dwarves got one of those and he didn't look much like it either, if we just start calling Bard that it's not like they'll notice that we just made it up."

"I am not a king!" Bard practically shouted over the animated chatter. He'd be damned if he let them settle him with that duty. He wasn't a lord, and he bloody well wasn't a king. They'd all remember that as soon as they came to their senses again.

"Nah," Kyrre waved off. "Probably not right now. Maybe later. Lord of Lake-town?"

One of the women shook her head at that. "Not much of a town anymore, is it?"

"What about Dale, then? At least it's not sunk!"

"This is not the time!" Bard tried, but nobody listened. "There are more important matters to decide!"

"You deal with those," Tora the seamstress told him. "We'll be right here, tell us when you've figured it out. Do we need a crown or something?"

At that point, Bard beat a strategic retreat around the next corner, only to come nose-to-chinstrap with a wall of Elven warriors. A moment of surprise, then they stepped aside and let him through in a way he was beginning to grow used to, in a disconcerting kind of fashion.

The Elves had clearly been busy while Bard had attempted to hold an assembly; much of the rubble in the lower square had been cleared away, and there were tents set up in several places. Wagons were being unloaded and all along the walls there were piles of food and even blankets and clothes. If this was Thranduil's idea of not being helpful, Bard could use more of that particular attitude.

He'd need to speak to Thranduil about how much more they could expect in terms of assistance, and soon. Far too much depended on that; without supplies they could not stay in Dale, not when the next growing season was more than half a year away and the roads would soon be closed to trade. If they even were able to trade for anything with almost all of Lake-town's wealth at the bottom of the lake.

Bard heaved a sigh. They needed help, pure and simple. Either from the Dwarves or the Elves, or the only choice left to the people of Lake-town would be to leave their homeland.

"Lord Bard?" one of the Elves addressed him. He looked familiar, and after a moment Bard recognised him as Galion, the one who'd brought the horse earlier.

"Just Bard," he said firmly before that nonsense could spread any further. "What is it?"

"King Thranduil wishes to speak with you. Shall I take you to him?"

When had he begun dealing with Elves and kings and all that? Life had not been much easier a few days ago, but it had certainly been simpler. Too much depended on him, too many looked to him for what to do, and it made him deeply uneasy to be aware of all those expectations.

"Please," he agreed and followed Galion past rows of armored Elves who looked like straight out of a legend. Bard had seen the patrols on his delivery trips upriver, and he'd had enough dealings with Elves to be familiar with their everyday looks. The patrols had been armed for forest warfare, lightness and swiftness. But the Elves he saw here were not dressed to blend in with trees and leaves, they were dressed for open battle. Bard wondered when the last time had been that an army like this had left Mirkwood.

Galion led him up into the ruins of a large building, its roof and most of the walls gone. A tent had been set up there, and through the rolled-up side panes Bard saw a group of several Elves inside, most of them in armor. They were standing around a table filled with maps, and one was pointing something out to the others.

"Ah, Bard the Dragonslayer," Thranduil greeted him when they approached. "I've expected you, there is much we need to discuss." He gestured for Bard to come closer, then turned towards the other Elves. "We will continue this later. Imrahil, see to the watches. If anything approaches from the Mountain…" He paused. "For now, aim for somewhere not immediately lethal."

The Elves dispersed, and within moments Bard was left alone with the Elvenking. The armor Thranduil had worn earlier had come off and he was now in a flowing grey robe, the fabric so shining and smooth that Bard didn't dare think about the cost. It suited the interior of the tent, however: a delicately carved throne, several finely crafted tables. A bed a little more out of the way was strewn with soft cushions, a gleaming basin and beaker beside it.

Thranduil clearly wasn't about to rough it in the field. After the last night on the paved stone floor of a ruined house, Bard couldn't say he blamed him.

"You need not concern yourself with guards tonight," Thranduil told him, his robe trailing behind him on the carpeted ground as he went to one of the side tables. "We will handle it so your people can rest."

"Thank you," Bard said. "Truly. I don't know what we would do if you had not come."

Thranduil glanced at him, then reached for a carafe on the table and poured two goblets of dark red wine. "You would have found out."

"I'd rather not." One of the goblets was offered to him and he took it, his fingers briefly brushing against the Elf's surprisingly warm hand. Bard hoped he didn't leave any dirt behind on the smooth, pale skin. "My Lord, I don't know how we can repay you."

"Lord Bard-"

"No," he interrupted. "I'm not a lord. I don't know why everybody suddenly thinks so."

"I could offer a few ideas," Thranduil said with a definite smirk to his face. "But as you wish, Dragonslayer."

Bard sighed, his hand tightening around the goblet until he noticed and made himself hold it more loosely to avoid damaging it. "I prefer Lord to that."

Tilting his head, Thranduil regarded him with curiosity bright in his eyes. "Was I misinformed? You did kill Smaug, did you not?"

Apparently Elves were a lot faster at spreading rumours than even the marketeers in Lake-town.

"I did. But it's not something I want to hear every time someone speaks to me."

Thranduil sipped at his wine, waiting, and didn't seem about to say anything. He merely watched Bard and appeared content to be patient.

It was hard to resist an explanation, and Bard eventually gave in. "Do you know who Girion was?"

"Of course I remember Girion of Dale." And naturally an Elf would recall an ancestor six generations removed. Bard wasn't even surprised anymore. "A wise leader, and a great loss. And now avenged by his descendant, I should think."

Bard blinked at that.

"You resemble him somewhat, in looks and… other matters. So what of Girion, Dragonslayer?"

"He didn't kill the dragon," Bard said simply. "And for that he's been called Girion the Almost-Dragonslayer for the last few generations. I'd rather not have the association, not when I only killed the dragon because he laid the groundwork. If he hadn't hit Smaug and damaged his scales enough to leave a gap, I couldn't have done it. He gave his life, and he's saved us now. Not that it's going to matter to anyone."

Thranduil gave a quiet hum of comprehension. "Unjust, but Men will forget so quickly what their leaders have achieved over one moment of failure. Girion was a valued ally in peace. Will you be an ally in war now?"

Bard heaved a sigh. "An ally, yes," he said. "But hopefully not in war."

"The Dwarves see no reason. You know that better than anyone."

"Let them think about it, at least for another day. Thorin might change his mind once he has time to consider his options."

"You have far too much faith in the Dwarves," Thranduil said, but there was little force behind it. "They will disappoint you."

"A day," Bard repeated. "What difference does it make, if it might make the battle unnecessary?"

Thranduil stepped past him to the map table. "My captains agree with you," he said. "They think it will take at least a day to arm your people and work out proper plans. I assume you haven't yet been able to see whether there is anything useful left in Dale's armouries?"

The thought hadn't even crossed Bard's mind. "No."

"I expect there will be serviceable weapons in there, and if you distribute them today there will be some time for your people to acquaint themselves. Spears for your fishermen, they'll know what to do with those. Perhaps swords for those who served as guardsmen and know how to use such weapons without hurting themselves. And bows, of course." Thranduil stepped closer, a smile on his face. "For Bard the Bowman."

"Apparently it's impossible to simply call me by my name," Bard said, though he returned the smile.

Thranduil chuckled. "I should think this epithet is harmless enough, given that my patrol leaders have occasionally reported on your proficiency with bow and arrows. But if you prefer just your name, I can certainly manage that."

"Good, now I just need to convince the rest of the people." Bard glanced at the maps on the table, the marks on them incomprehensible to him, then back at Thranduil. "Spears, bows and swords for the men, you said?"

"And knives for the rest," Thranduil added. "Even if it's not needed."

"I'd better see to it, then," Bard said. Thranduil knew how to handle an approaching battle. Bard had no idea, but the suggestions sounded good. They sounded like something that might just keep his people alive if it came to a fight after all.

"Perhaps. Come back tonight once you know how many you can arm, then we will lay further plans." Thranduil stepped closer to take the wine goblet from him, then frowned. "And maybe I can offer you a more pleasing drink then."

Bard blinked with surprise, then realised that he hadn't touched the wine at all. "I had forgotten," he hurried to say. "I've had… it's been a long day."

Thranduil regarded him, eyes narrowed for a moment before his expression smoothed again. "More than one day, I daresay. Very well. Come back tonight, and promise me that you will actually try my wine then."

"Are the Elves going to stay?" Sigrid asked when Bard found a precious moment to check on his children. She looked better than she had in the morning, more rested and less scared. Sleeping under the guard of four Elven warriors had helped a lot in that regard.

"I don't know," Bard told her. "I hope so, at least for now. Where's Bain?"

Tilda snuggled closer against his side. They'd settled on the steps before their makeshift home to catch the warmth of the early afternoon sun, and he was just glad to have a moment with his two daughters. "One of the Elves took him over to the big green tent."

And you let them go? he almost said, but swallowed the words. Sigrid did not deserve blame for the fact that he had not been there to watch over his children.

"They're helping the injured," she said. "They're nice. One of them came by earlier, he brought the cloaks and food." Sigrid paused and reached across Bard to tuck Tilda's shawl more tightly around her. "He saw that Bain was hurt and said they'd fix him. I wanted to go with them but I didn't know if I should leave our things alone."

Afraid of losing a few blankets and some bites of food. Closing his eyes, Bard drew his daughters into a tight embrace and just held on. "We'll be fine," he murmured. "We'll be fine."

"What's going to happen?" Tilda asked.

"I don't know. It depends on Lord Thranduil."

"He's the Elf with the elk?"

"Yes."

She thought that over. "Why an elk?"

Bard chuckled. "You'll have to ask him that yourself."

"I will."

"Do that, and tell me what he says." Another hug, then Bard let them go and got up with a quiet groan as his tired muscles protested. "Will you be all right?"

"We'll be careful," Sigrid said, "and we'll stay here until you're back."

His next stop was the tent where the Elves were treating the wounded. It was a lot busier than he'd have liked; too many of the people of Lake-town had not escaped unharmed. Those who hadn't suffered burns had been struck by debris from the collapsing city, and far too many had caught chills in the freezing water.

Bain sat on a low cot while an Elf crouched before him, wiping a white cloth over his hands and arms where the dragonfire had left the most severe burns. During the walk from Lake-town Bard had done his best to patch up Bain's worst injuries, but there simply wasn't much to be done about bruises and burns except wait for them to heal. His own body complained in sympathy with his son, and he hoped that the Elves would have salves or ointments to help with the healing.

The Elf looked deep in concentration, so Bard didn't approach, just caught his Bain's eye and gave him a smile and a quick wave, relief settling in his heart. With all the devastation around him, it seemed almost miraculous that his family had escaped, especially with the tales of Orcs Tilda had told during the walk to Dale. Bard knew they had been more than just lucky to have escaped together.

"Do you need help?" one of the Elves asked him briskly, then gestured at an empty cot. "Sit down over there, I'll look you over in a moment."

Bard shook his head. "I'm fine."

"Of course you are," the Elf said, rolling his eyes. "Sit."

"I'm fine," Bard repeated more firmly. And he was, beyond a few scrapes and bruises and general exhaustion after two practically sleepless nights. His wrist hurt a lot less already than it had yesterday, and the knee he'd twisted in the fall from the belltower had held up for the long march, so it wasn't going to be an issue now either. "Nothing that some rest won't fix."

"The Valar save me from the stubbornness of Men." The Elf shook his head and turned towards another patient, and Bard beat a hasty retreat before anyone else attempted to keep him there.

Finding the armoury took a little effort. Too much of Dale had been destroyed two centuries ago when Smaug had first arrived, and Bard had no real idea where an armoury would be in the first place. It wasn't near the main square, it wasn't by the river gate. But it had to be somewhere; he remembered a few tales about the weapons crafted by Dwarves and Elves which had been stored there when Dale had been an ally of both races. And so he went on looking.

The ruins of Dale sent shivers down his spine. Some streets were practically untouched by damage and looked as though the inhabitants would be back at any moment to clean away the dust and dry leaves. Others were ruined, heaps of rubble from collapsed houses blocking the way. And here and there he saw reminders that not only the buildings had fallen victim to the dragon. There wasn't anything left of the people of Dale anymore beyond their bones, which still lay undisturbed where they had fallen two hundred years ago.

They would have to be buried, late as it might be to grant them final dignity. Another matter to handle once there was time, once the new arrivals in Dale were safe from joining their ancestors due to hunger and the winter cold.

"Lord Bard?"

He gritted his teeth. "Just Bard," he said once again and turned around to face the dark-haired Elf who'd followed him. One of Thranduil's captains, he thought, but he was not entirely sure. The Elf's armour looked important, and he had the air of someone who expected to be obeyed. "I'm no lord."

The Elf just looked at him for a moment, then appeared to decide that he wasn't going to concern himself with this. "We thought you could use assistance with arming your people, seeing as Esgaroth's soldiers appear to be lacking in numbers and experience. Have you decided on weapons yet?"

"Lord Thranduil suggested the armoury," Bard said cautiously. "There might be something left there. We escaped with the clothes on our backs and not much more, hardly anyone had time to carry weapons."

"You were lucky you weren't attacked on your way here. We've had reports of Orcs in the area."

Bard gave a bemused huff. "I know. I've had those Orcs in my home."

The Elf looked a little startled at that. "You fought them off?"

"My children did." With the aid of Elves and Dwarves, but Bard didn't feel like going into details. Let them think that his children were formidable, it could only make them safer. Not that he thought they had anything to fear from the Elves, but a reputation for fierceness could never hurt.

"Impressive, for Men," the Elf said. "We've had a look at the armoury already, you should find what you need there. And perhaps also something for your children."

Which was the last Bard wanted to do, but probably wise nonetheless. He sighed. "Where is it? I have never been here before, I don't know the way."

"Sometimes I forget how young you Men are, and that Dale wasn't abandoned in your generation," the Elf said with a shake of his head. "Follow me. If you can arm those of your people who would fight, we can see about giving them some training. At least enough that they're more of a threat to the enemy than to themselves."

"They'll fight," Bard said as he followed the Elf around the first corner, down a street he had not tried yet.

"And they'll die a lot more easily than seasoned warriors. They'll have to be placed somewhere in the middle of the ranks so they won't actually face battle, if it comes to that." The Elf shook his head again. "Fishermen and peasants and children. I never thought I'd go to war side by side with such a formidable army."

Bard glared at him. "Not everybody can be a mighty Elven princess."

The Elf ignored him, which perhaps was for the best.

"Will it come to that? War, I mean?"

"That depends on the King." They rounded another corner and came onto a wider road, one that had seen less destruction. The houses here still looked solid and safe, the window shutters whole and most of the roof tiles still in place. Bard made a mental note to have at least some of the people moved here; it would be much better shelter than the drafty ruins around the main square. "Thirteen Dwarves and a halfling. Even if there is a fight, it should be over soon."

Bard exhaled slowly. "All over the gold in the Mountain."

The Elf stopped to look at him. "If it were merely about the gold, we would not be here and you would not stand with us, Lord of Dale. There, the armoury."

Thranduil had been right; the weapons inside still were serviceable enough. There were racks of spears, their hafts strong under the cobwebs, and rows upon rows of swords, all lined up and still sharp. Even the bows still felt strong in Bard's hands when he restrung one and attempted to draw it. There had never been time for the people of Dale to take them up and fight when the dragon had come for them.

They spent the next hour arming as many of the people as they could. Spears for almost everybody, swords and bows for those who could handle them. There was an odd cheerfulness about the people of Lake-town that Bard found hard to place, until he realised it was the feeling of having at least a small say in what was happening. They wanted to stand and fight. It made him feel easier about having agreed to it.

He took a bow for himself, then a short sword for Bain, just in case. A moment's hesitation, then he also chose two knives for Sigrid and Tilda. It should not come to a fight, they should all be safe. But if there was one thing Bard had learned in the past days, it was that unlikely did not mean impossible.

As soon as this was over, he'd have to teach the children to handle weapons. Bain had been learning to shoot, and Bard had made sure the girls knew where to hit if someone tried to grab them. He'd need to give them more than that, though, just in case.

The afternoon was filled with figuring out who among the survivors had any experience in fights beyond brawls behind the tavern, then setting up a rudimentary command structure. That Bard was at the top of said structure was a foregone conclusion he wasn't happy with, but nobody bothered asking him about it, neither Elves nor his own people.

He really needed to figure out how to get away from this idea that he should be a leader.

The Elf - Imrahil he was called, Bard found out eventually - looked thoroughly exasperated at the sight of the blundering Men with weapons in their hand they had no business wielding, but seemed to accept that this was how it was going to be. Thranduil had offered an alliance, Bard had accepted it. And now they'd just have to live with it.

By nightfall Bard had assembled something that, if nobody looked too closely, could be called a militia. Compared to the Elves in their shining armour and tight formations, they looked like the rabble they were, but Bard wasn't going to dwell on that. This was the army of Dale, they were contributing to the mutual effort, and surely it would never come to that. Thorin had to see sense. Not even fourteen of the most legendary warriors could hold a fortress against several thousand.

When he returned to the Elvish command tent that evening, darkness had already settled in the valley, and even the fires of Erebor no longer burned. Only Dale was lit more brightly than the night before; the Elves had brought firewood for the people to warm themselves, and small lamps that shone a lot stronger than Bard would have thought.

The guards stepped aside to let him through, and he didn't even wonder anymore that they did. He simply walked past them, then wondered how to properly announce himself to an Elvenking inside his tent when knocking was hardly an option and all the panes were down.

Life as a bargeman had definitely been simpler.

In the end he simply cleared his throat, pushed aside the canvas and stepped through, counting on superior Elven hearing and modesty to prevent any surprises.

Apparently Elven hearing wasn't quite up to the challenge. Either that, or he'd overrated their sense of modesty, because Thranduil had apparently just been in the middle of changing his clothes. Robes. Whatever part of his garments it was that left him in just his soft boots and shining silver trousers that showed off his shapely thighs.

Bard blinked and swiftly shook his head to make himself focus. "My Lord Thranduil."

"My Lord Bard," Thranduil replied, amusement clear in his voice.

Bard narrowed his eyes. "What will it take to make you stop?"

"For you to realise that even if I don't call you by that title, you still carry it." Thranduil stepped closer, apparently unconcerned by his state of undress. In a way it was reassuring that underneath their fancy clothes and shining armour, Elves were not so different from Men after all. "And for you to accept my wine tonight and at least taste it this time."

"I can do that," Bard agreed and Thranduil stepped past him to the side table that once again held the wine, close enough for the tips of his long hair to brush against Bard's arm.

"Excellent. There is also food. I thought you should try lembas before we give it to your people so we know whether it is palatable to them." He turned around again and handed Bard one of those beautifully crafted cups, along with a small yellow cake.

"Is it like cram?" Bard asked as he accepted. Cram had never really been to anyone's taste as far as he knew, given that it had no taste, but those biscuits would last forever. Right now, there certainly were worse things to eat.

"Like a fresh spring to a muddy swamp pond." Thranduil poured wine for himself, but left the goblet on the table while he picked up a robe from the low bed and slipped into it, somewhat to Bard's regret. "Try it, tell me if your people will be amenable."

Bard took a careful bite. Then another, eyes widening when the taste registered in his tired mind. "They'll definitely like this."

"Good. I sent word this morning that enough supplies for the next weeks should be brought, until more can be sent. A mouthful or two is enough to keep a grown man sated for a day and it stays fresh better than most other food."

Bard put the lembas down on the table, mindful not to lose any crumbs. "Then I shouldn't eat any more." He'd take the rest back to his children, just in case.

"There is no need for rationing," Thranduil told him gently. "Food, at least, shouldn't be a concern for you."

He drew a slow breath and looked at the Elf. "Why are you doing this?" he asked.

Thranduil held his gaze. "As I said, I have come to reclaim something of mine."

"Nonsense."

The Elf's eyebrows rose.

"If you were here for the jewels, like you say, you wouldn't need to bother with a ragtag group of refugees. You could simply attack and be done with it within the hour."

Thranduil stepped into his personal space, and it took Bard some effort to stand his ground. "Would you prefer it if we left?"

"We'll be dead within a week or two without your help," Bard said simply. "So no, of course not. But you aren't doing this for your gems. At least, not just for the gems."

For a moment he thought that he had crossed a line as Thranduil stared at him, grey eyes unreadable. But if they were to be allies, if he was to rely on the Elves, he needed to know.

"My Lord Thranduil-," he began, not sure whether to try an explanation or an apology.

The Elf held up a hand, and Bard fell silent.

"My Lord Bard," Thranduil said, and was that amusement Bard heard? He prayed that it was. "Ask me again when we have achieved our mutual purpose, and trust me for now. Drink your wine, and let the world be the world."

Trust. Was that what it came down to? If that was the price… Bard raised his goblet and took a deliberate sip of wine, and saw Thranduil nod in acknowledgment of his answer.

The dark wine was smooth on his tongue, heavy with flavours of fruit and honey and a lot more complicated than the ales he was used to. "So this is what I've been ferrying up to your palace all these years," he said.

"You've never tasted it before?"

"I'm not nearly rich enough to afford it, and there are always more important things to pay for. Like the Master's taxes and tariffs."

"Something you can change in the future," Thranduil said.

"Definitely," Bard agreed. He turned to set down the goblet on the table, then winced when the motion made his side sting with sudden pain. Perhaps the training sessions in the afternoon had not been the wisest decision; now that he had stopped moving so much, his body was beginning to register its complaints.

He drew a sharp breath, then another as he waited for the aches to ebb away.

At a sudden he felt a hand at his elbow, seemingly ready to steady him. That in itself made him lock his knees and will the hurt away.

"Are you injured?" Thranduil asked.

"Just tired," he said, then took a step back when Thranduil reached for his collar and pushed away the cloth without even bothering to ask for permission. The Elf merely followed along, making sounds somewhere between a disapproving hum and a hiss.

"More than just tiredness, I should say. Why did you not see a healer?"

"There were more important things for them to handle. People who're hurt a lot worse than just a few bruises."

Thranduil glowered at him for a moment, then nodded to himself. "Stay there."

Bard watched as Thranduil crossed the tent to one of the doorways and stepped half outside. There was a swift exchange in Sindarin, impossible for Bard to understand with the few words he knew of the language. A few moments later, Elves began to pour into the tent and move about purposefully while Thranduil observed.

It didn't take them long at all to set up braziers all around the tent, their warmth immediately palpable in the enclosed space. And while the air was heating up, a bathtub was carried in.

Bard blinked, then attempted a retreat but was stalled by Thranduil's hand casually falling onto his shoulder in a light grip that promised to get a lot firmer if he tried to take another step.

"This really isn't necessary," he said.

"You still stink of dragon breath and lake water," Thranduil told him as water was poured into the tub, steam billowing up in the still cool air. "And other things. So it's very necessary. Your clothes."

Bard glanced at the flock of Elves still bustling around them. "What of them?"

"Hand them over."

Bard wrapped his arms around himself protectively. "I'm wearing them."

"I'm surprised that you can tell. How is that coat possibly keeping you warm? It's made of holes held together by scraps of fabric." Thranduil imperiously waved his hand. "Off with your clothes. Or you can keep them on while you bathe, a good wash would do them good."

More Sindarin, in an amused drawl from Thranduil that drew an answering laugh from some of the attendants.

"I've asked them to wash those of your clothes that can take such treatment without falling apart, and to find replacements for what can't," Thranduil told him. "Is there anything that you want to keep?"

"All of it, those are the only clothes I still have." Bard stepped closer even though that meant he had to look up to the Elf's face. "Not all of us can afford to throw something away just because it is not perfect."

"It still needs to be warm," the Elf countered. "You Men are far too susceptible to the cold. So, anything you do not wish to see taken away?"

Bard glanced at Thranduil, then the temptingly hot water. He had no idea what this was all about, but it was so very tempting to be clean and warm, and the Elvenking seemed determined about this, so… "Fine. My boots, you Elves have never heard of proper soles. And my tunic."

Thranduil looked thoroughly scandalized.

"My daughter made it, she was proud of it, so I'm keeping it." Sigrid had gotten much better at sewing by now, but so much effort had gone into her first attempts that Bard was not going to disappoint her, not even at the request of a king.

"If you insist." Thranduil issued more commands, and the Elves were now clearly waiting for Bard to do something.

He took off his coat and had it whisked away, then the boots and the tunic, which admittedly had seen better days already, but still looked salvageable if he found some time to mend it. The rest of his clothes followed and despite the braziers he was glad to sink into the bathwater with a quiet groan as the heat hit his aching muscles.

"So why do I deserve an Elvenking as a bath attendant?" he asked when Thranduil handed him a piece of something that smelled like soap, only much nicer, though it still stung when he washed his cut-up hands with it. The other Elves had vanished with his clothes by now.

"Because an Elvenking comes with certain advantages under these circumstances." Thranduil looked him over, a frown on his handsome face. "The next time you fight a dragon, you should be more careful. You don't look as if you emerged from that battle as the winner."

Bard snorted. "I'm not a heap of ashes, so I'm fairly sure I won. And I don't intend to repeat the experience. It's not so bad. Burns and bruises, it could be worse. Nothing's broken." He was fairly certain about that, at least. Bones hurt differently than bruises, and while those were making themselves felt by now, Bard could deal with that kind of pain. And only a few of the gashes felt like infection might have settled in, so there still was plenty of time to deal with it.

Thranduil hummed, then went to one of the chests on the floor and opened it while Bard sank deeper into the hot water. A luxury; at home it had been far too much work to heat the water to really allow for baths, and in the winter the lake was too cold to serve as an alternative.

He blinked when a few handfuls of dried leaves and grass were tossed into the water. "Are you preparing to turn me into stew?"

"I would use bay leaves and juniper in that case." Thranduil came to perch on the side of the tub, and Bard jumped with surprise when the Elf suddenly plunged his hand into the water and settled it on Bard's arm, the fringe of his sleeve turning dark as it was submerged.

"Elf baths are different from what I expected," Bard said, not sure what to do about the warm, smooth fingers against his skin, or about how good the touch felt.

Thranduil looked at him. "Athelas," he said, gesturing at the leaves. "When we ride into battle, I would prefer it that you have your full range of movement and are not hampered by injuries. I'd rather not look for a replacement for you when you're turning out to be quite reasonable to work with."

The Elf was doing something with his hand - Bard could feel his arm tingle where he was being touched, and when he looked, the bruise there was visibly fading.

"Can you all do this?" he asked. Sigrid had mentioned something about one of the Elves helping the injured Dwarf in that way, and now that he thought about it, the scent of kingsfoil had been noticeable in the healers' tent.

Thranduil quirked an eyebrow at that. "To some extent. Some more, some less."

"The advantage of an Elvenking as a bath attendant, I take it?"

"Just so." Thranduil's hand slipped lower along his arm and stopped at his wrist. "My healers could do the same, but it would take them more time and concentration. How is that?"

Bard lifted his wrist out of the water and moved it experimentally. "Better. I should keep you around, this is useful."

"How very kind of you to tell me that I finally have a purpose." Thranduil leaned in to look at him, a few silvery strands of his hair slipping forward, the tips trailing in the water. "I wouldn't know what to do with myself otherwise."

"Help others, I hope," Bard said with a happy sigh as his shoulder muscles finally stopped aching. They hadn't taken too well to first drawing that improvised bow to fire the black arrow, and then carrying Tilda part of the way to Dale.

"I leave that to the healers, it distracts them too much when I join them. You are an exception."

"Wonderful, yet another way in which I am special," Bard said wryly. "Though I like this one more than this idea everybody has about me being a lord. It's much more pleasant."

"You are, whether you accept it or not." Thranduil's hand still lingered on his shoulder, his thumb drawing small circles on Bard's skin in an oddly gentle touch. "Smaug hasn't been a threat just to your people. We have known that one day he would leave the Mountain again and go hunting further abroad, and my people remember only too well what it means to fight a dragon. So this is gratitude for what you have done." He paused, the corner of his mouth curling with the hint of a smile. "Besides, I don't consider this a hardship."

"I'll be back tomorrow in that case," Bard said, his eyes falling shut. "For the bath, if nothing else."

"Appreciated only for my bath. I should have known." Thranduil sounded amused at the idea.

"And your other hospitality. The wine's been excellent. I should have asked for a barrel or two in payment when I had the chance."

Thranduil actually laughed at that. "If only you knew," he said. "But for some guests I am willing to make more of an effort."

They settled into a comfortable silence while Thranduil's hands sought cuts and burns and bruises, leaving them faded and healed. Bard's hands, his back, his knee that felt warm long after Thranduil had moved on. And for the first time in three days, Bard reached an even keel despite all the concerns that lingered at the back of his head. He was warm and clean, his people were as safe as they could be for now, and nothing required his immediate attention. The scent of kingsfoil surrounded him, crisp like a spring morning out on the lake.

It was relaxing enough to make him a little drowsy and a little daring, and when Thranduil leaned across him to reach for a scratch at his neck, Bard moved forward and kissed him.

Thranduil held still against him. Bard was about to draw back and apologise when the Elf responded, careful at first and then with more intent behind the kiss, his hand on Bard's shoulder for balance as he leaned in.

"If this is also part of a bath in your tent," Bard murmured against his lips when they briefly drew apart, "I'm definitely coming back."

"As I said, you're welcome to do so." Thranduil kissed him again, the sleeves of his robe darker where they'd soaked in the water, then he shifted back to study Bard's face. "I do hope this isn't an attempt to thank me."

Bard drew a slow breath, the water rippling in small waves at the motions of his chest. "For the wine perhaps, and the bath and the kindness." Then he leaned forward to claim Thranduil's mouth once more, reaching up to touch the silvery hair, so soft against the tips of his fingers. "For nothing else."

Thranduil allowed the kiss to linger, then rose to his feet in one smooth motion and offered his hand. Bard let himself be helped up under Thranduil's appreciative look. "In that case, you should return," the Elf murmured, his hand slowly sliding down Bard's side and leaving a cool trail on his wet skin. "For a bath and perhaps… other matters."

Bard firmly told himself that he wasn't going to wonder whether this was wise or not as he let himself be walked towards the low bed in the corner, Thranduil's arms around him and his taste on Bard's tongue. And later that night, his head pillowed on Thranduil's shoulder as they rested, Bard decided that other matters were certainly worth a return, be they wise or not.

It was habit, more than anything else, that had Bard awake again before dawn. Normally he would now have thrown some fuel on the banked fire in the hearth, checked whether any fish had been caught in the fish trap under the house during the night, and depending on the day he'd have headed up the Forest River or across the lake to pick up goods or people to ferry.

He absently wondered what had happened to his barge, then pushed that thought away and instead drew the warm blanket up further.

Then paused to process the fact that this was Thranduil's bed, in Thranduil's tent, and that the Elf in question was currently at the map table, contemplating a sheet of paper in his hand.

"Do all Elves rise this early?" Bard asked as he sat up, regretting it when the cold air hit the bare skin of his chest and belly. The braziers had burned down sometime during the night, and while Elven tent canvas was amazingly good at retaining heat, there apparently were limits to its effectiveness.

Thranduil raised his head to look at him, something that might have been the hint of a fond smile on his face. "Elves don't need sleep. At least not in the same way you Men do." He put the paper down and crossed the space between them in a few smooth strides, his light silver robe trailing behind him. Yet another outfit, and Bard was beginning to wonder whether Elves had objections to wearing the same clothes twice.

"So what do Elves do instead?"

That question earned him a smirk and a suggestively quirked eyebrow. "We have managed to come up with an idea or two over the years," Thranduil told him and bent to brush his lips against Bard's forehead before permitting himself to be pulled down into a proper kiss. "And there is nothing more beautiful than a starlit sky."

"Nothing much colder either, at least in winter." Bard cast about for anything resembling his clothes and eventually spotted something that might be his tunic on one of the finely carved chests. A last thought was spared for the seductive warmth of the blanket before he got up and went to get it, well aware of Thranduil's appreciative gaze on his bare rear. He might even have moved a little more deliberately than usual.

His tunic and boots had been returned, as promised, though they looked a lot cleaner than Bard could remember. Whatever the attendants had done had clearly gone well beyond water and soap.

"What happened to my trousers?" he asked when he couldn't see them anywhere.

"Best not to inquire."

"And my coat?"

Thranduil cocked his head, watching as Bard worked out the fastenings of the new undershirt and trousers he'd been supplied with. "Attempts were made to mend it, but it was beyond rescue."

"A pity," he said, slipping into the tunic. "I liked that coat."

"It certainly had a personality of its own," Thranduil agreed with a smirk.

The new coat instantly felt warmer than the old one, and it looked a lot less scruffy, too. The work was clearly Elven but mercifully the fabric was sensible and sturdy, nothing like Thranduil's silk robes. Someone among the Elves had a shred of common sense, and Bard was instantly grateful to them for picking clothes he could wear without too much unfamiliarity.

"I assume you already chose a bow," Thranduil said, watching as he buckled his belt. "But I have a sword for you."

The weapon was held out to him and Bard accepted, surprised at its lightness. "Thank you."

"May it serve you well when we face the Dwarves."

Bard fastened the sword to his belt, the light atmosphere gone. "You think it will really come to that?"

"I believe so. This needs to be settled." Thranduil stepped up to him to straighten the clasps of his coat, fingers warm against the skin of Bard's throat. "My captains are waiting to give their reports."

"Then I'll leave."

"No. You are the commander of our allied force, so you need to take part in this."

Bard looked at him. "Commander," he repeated dubiously. At least he wasn't called lord this time.

"Oh stop protesting, you know it is true. I understand that the idea may not be welcome, but if you truly don't plan on filling that role, then you need to step away right now and make the people of Esgaroth choose someone to replace you. You've slain the dragon, you led the survivors here. You're the one they've seen greet us, and you're the one they've seen negotiate with the Dwarves. For the last days you've already led them and they've followed you." Thranduil looked at him, expression stern. "They have given you their trust and they are beginning to offer their loyalty as well. At this point, you no longer have the right to deny them."

"It's been two days!"

"As if time matters in this, when all they've known is gone." Thranduil turned away from him and gathered up a heavier outer robe of silver silk, sliding it on in practiced motions. "But if you truly don't want this, Dragonslayer, then send me someone who's willing to represent them in my war council."

For a moment, Bard was about to leave. He could go back to his children, do his best to bring them safely through all this, and not concern himself with greater worries. They'd be fine, they'd find somewhere to live, somewhere Sigrid and Tilda and Bain could grow up without threats of war and destruction.

But even as he thought about it, he knew that there was no such place. Lake-town had been the safest settlement of Men for many miles, so where would they go? And what of the others? Someone had to keep Alfrid and others like him away from any position that let them value gold over lives. The people of Lake-town were a stubborn bunch, but they'd let themselves be cowed by the Master. They'd chafe under that kind of rule, but they'd allow it.

"You're going to have to tell me what to do," he said.

"For now, just follow our plans," Thranduil told him, reaching for his silver circlet to put it on his head in a well-practiced motion. "We will keep your men as safe as we can."

Unless Thorin saw reason after all. Five thousand Elves against a handful of Dwarves; the only sensible move would be to back down. It was, Bard suspected, something Thranduil was hoping for as well, or he wouldn't have delayed his attack.

Bard inwardly sighed. "All for the accursed gold in that Mountain."

Thranduil brushed past him to push open the tent's entrance. "Think of it as the future of your people," he advised. "Gold should never be kept for its own sake, it only attracts dragons and other dark creatures."

"And yet you do this for jewels."

The look he received in reply to this was impossible to read, but Bard was kept from asking further by the arrival of what he assumed were the captains of the war council.

"We should keep the Men out of this," Imrahil growled as soon as they'd come in and greeted their king.

"If they wish to-" one of the other Elves said, but was interrupted.

"Have you seen them train? They'll be lucky if they don't stab themselves in the foot with their spears." Imrahil shook his head, a dark frown on his face. "Keep them out of our way."

"They are our allies in this, and they have the right to be part of the battle," Feren said. One familiar face from some of the forest patrols Bard had encountered, and he received a nod of acknowledgment from the Elf. "You did not see the aftermath of the dragon's attack on Esgaroth, and it was the Dwarves who woke Smaug."

Imrahil leaned forward, his hands braced on the map table they'd assembled around. "Perhaps they have the right, but that does not mean it is wise."

"We'll look for wisdom elsewhere then," Bard said, unable to listen anymore. "Maybe in the empty wine barrels of Elves."

That earned him five annoyed stares from the captains and a faintly curious glance from Thranduil.

"Only burglars and bargemen would think of that," Galion muttered. "And Dwarves."

"All the more reason to take the Men along," Feren said. "To make up for any… oversights."

Bard decided that he liked Feren.

"They'll just make this more complicated for us. I don't want them to be in our way." Imrahil glowered at Bard. "This isn't the time for fishermen to try their hand at being heroes."

"Of course not, we'll leave that to you, Princess."

"How dare you-"

"Imrahil," Thranduil said sharply. "The Men of Esgaroth are our allies and they will stand with us. The purpose of this meeting is to determine how to best allow them to do so. Feren, what reports do we have from the sentries?"

"They caught a few Orcs in the cliffs above the gateway to Erebor," Feren said, carefully not looking at Imrahil or Bard. "Nothing from the south."

"Good, so Dol Guldur is quiet. Galion?"

"Lord Calemir sent a bird, he reports movement from the Iron Mountains but says we still have a few days. They are not moving quickly."

"Who?" Bard asked.

"Dwarves," Thranduil said, his hand casually falling onto the spot where the Iron Mountains were marked on the map. "I was wondering when they would send for their kin."

"So we've got an army of Dwarves marching here?" Bard asked, just to be sure. The Elves didn't seem particularly alarmed at the idea. Maybe it was a small army.

Thranduil nodded. "Do we know their numbers?"

"Around five hundred."

"Then we continue with our plans, it should not make a difference. Have the troops ready tomorrow at dawn. Let's see if Thorin Oakenshield will still refuse to treat when he sees what he is up against."

The Elves continued to debate their plans, deciding on archery contingents on the hills and the placement of infantry units. The main idea, as far as Bard understood it from the maps and the parts of the discussion that were not in Sindarin, was to keep the host together for the most part, with archers backing up the flanks. It sounded logical to him for an open battle.

It didn't sound particularly logical to him for what essentially was a siege, however. Bard had never been part of one, but he had heard stories and tales, and one thing those tales had in common was that there usually were things like catapults or siege towers involved. Something to get through the walls, in any case.

Something didn't quite add up here. Thranduil had to be too experienced as a general of his forces to simply forget an essential part of his army at home. And even if that were the case, one of his captains would have pointed out the lack. But the Elves were happy to march on a practically impregnable fortress with nothing but swords and arrows, which would hardly do them a lot of good. Bard had heard myths of Elves in the distant past who had been able to bring down walls with the power of their songs, but if Thranduil intended to do the same, he hadn't shown any signs yet.

"I am not going to sing the wall down," Thranduil said when Bard asked him after the council was over, looking genuinely surprised at the question. "It's not a talent that runs in my blood."

Which Bard took to mean that some Elves could actually do it. Clearly he should have paid more attention to legends, since they were now all coming alive around him. First the prophecy about the King under the Mountain, then the signs of the power of Elves he had witnessed over the past two days. He wondered what would come next; he'd always liked the stories about talking dogs and women turning into seagulls.

"So how are we going to take Erebor if you won't be singing?" Bard asked, accepting the wine Thranduil poured for him.

"By showing Thorin that surrender is his best option." Thranduil settled down on his throne, robes casually draped around him. "Tomorrow we take position before his gates. And then we wait."

Bard drank from his cup, thinking as he tasted the smooth flavor of the wine. "You never planned on fighting, did you?" he said, and knew he was right when Thranduil watched him, interest bright in his grey eyes. "You want him to back down and acknowledge that you could beat him if you decided to do so."

"And why would I do that?" Thranduil asked, leaning forward.

"Because you are not going to let them get away with defying you. Balin said you tried to keep them from getting to Erebor. You won't fight over jewels alone, or you'd have tried it against the dragon if it were important enough to be worth the risk," Bard said, still working it through in his mind. "So you want something else here, and I think that it's a matter of proving to the Dwarves that it's best for them to listen."

Thranduil shifted on his throne, leaned his elbow on the armrest and settled into a sprawl, long legs distractingly crossed at the knee. "Why would I care whether the Dwarves heed me?"

"Because you don't want a hostile force this close to your borders," Bard said, stepping closer. His hands on the throne's armrests, he leaned in, making Thranduil tilt his head up to look at him. "And because you're far too proud to allow anything else."

"Very good," Thranduil drawled. "I knew you had a good head on your shoulders. For a Man."

"I'll take that as a compliment." Bard closed the distance between them to kiss him, even though a brief moment was all he dared with Elves everywhere outside the command tent. He was about to step back when Thranduil's hand came up to catch the collar of his tunic and keep him in place a little longer.

The day went by quickly. Bard checked on his children and found the girls with Frea and a few others, organising the distribution of food and firewood in the lower square. It was heartening to see how much they'd been able to achieve in just a day; enough of the statically sound houses had been made habitable and the rest had been scoured for blankets and clothes that were still serviceable after all that time, which had turned up a surprising amount. Elven-made and crafted to last, Bard recognised when he looked more closely at some of the cloaks; remnants of Dale's old trade links to Thranduil's realm.

Most of the men were in the main square with the fountain, training under the supervision of the few city guards who'd made it out of Lake-town alive. There was no time to make more than beginning fighters out of them, and the guards weren't even trying. They merely showed basic thrusts and stabs, how to hold swords and how to move with them without losing balance. An army of fishermen and small traders; it was good that the odds were against an actual battle taking place.

Bard settled a few more issues about repairs and watch rotations, then joined one of the groups in their practice. He'd managed to become reasonably proficient with a sword over the years thanks to a few childhood friends in the guard, but never enough to really be familiar with that kind of weapon. On the barge, the bow and a few knives had always seemed like the far better option in case he ran into trouble. Orcs were weak swimmers and spiders avoided the water altogether; Bard's best bet had always been to simply stay away from the shore when the land didn't look safe.

He lost himself in the training for a while, focusing on moving the right way, on keeping his blade where it was supposed to be, on parrying attacks from his sparring partners. It was perhaps the simplest time he'd had since he'd loaded barrels full of Dwarves into his barge. Had that really been only five days ago? It felt much longer to him.

Eventually, a commotion at the steps leading up into the old palace's ruins distracted him. A rider had come galloping through the narrow streets, a wooden staff in his hand. Bard watched as the old man dismounted and looked around as though he could not believe the Elven warriors he was seeing everywhere.

Bard was about to approach when he heard Alfrid's voice from the top of the stairs, where two men of Lake-town stood guard before pillars with Thranduil's banners on them. Yet another thing Bard felt he should pay more attention to.

"No, no, no. Oy, you, pointy-hat! Yes, you!" Alfrid came down the steps when he had the newcomer's attention. "We don't want no tramps, beggars nor vagabonds around here. We got enough trouble without the likes of you."

The man looked around, leaning on his staff as Alfrid waved his hand dismissively.

"Off you go. On your horse!"

Bard watched as the man raised his head, his bearded face still hard to see under his gray hat. He looked like an old farmer down on his luck, until one noticed the sword at his side and the feeling of… other… that surrounded him.

Bard sheathed his own sword and approached. This wasn't something he should leave to Alfrid.

"Who's in charge here?" the old man asked.

Before Alfrid could say anything, Bard stepped forward. "Who's asking?"

It took effort not to shy away when their visitor looked him over. "Gandalf," the old man said after a few moments. He looked tired and dusty, as though he had covered a great distance in a hurry. "I bring important news, and I must speak to the one in charge. Whose Elves are these? Don't tell me Celeborn's come this far north, he should know better than to come this close to Thranduil's borders with an army. That can't possibly end well, those two will be at each other's throats for centuries again."

"These are Lord Thranduil's troops," Bard said, very much aware that Alfrid was still here and listening.

Gandalf stared at him. "Thranduil voluntarily left his kingdom? What has happened here?"

"Is it any of your concern?" Bard asked.

"Who are you?"

"That is Lord Bard of Dale," Alfrid announced before Bard could say anything. "And he's got more important things to do than talk to beggars."

The old man seemed to grow taller at a sudden, darker, and the air around them turned impossibly colder.

"Take me to Thranduil," he commanded. "And don't stand in my way."

Alfrid was gone so swiftly that Bard didn't even see him rush off.

"What is it you have to tell him?" he asked, managing to stand his ground despite the effort it took not to shrink back and find shelter.

"That is for the King of the Wood-elves to know." Gandalf looked at Bard and the air turned lighter again, his face kinder. "And you, I suppose, if you speak for the Men here. Bard, Bard… Girion's descendant?"

For the second time in as many days, Bard blinked at having his ancestry so easily identified. He should have listened more closely to his grandfather when the old man had told tales of their family; it seemed like history was catching up with him more and more.

Gandalf muttered something into his beard, then nodded to himself. "You'd better come with me. Whatever have you all gotten yourselves into here?"

They walked through the ruins of the palace's outer courtyard together, and Bard was surprised to see something like recognition on some of the Elves' faces. One or two even called out a greeting to Gandalf as they came past. The guards at the tent's entrance stepped aside when Bard and Gandalf approached and let them through without comment, but with curious glances.

"When Galion said that there was a wizard here, I was almost afraid it would be Aiwendil," Thranduil said when they entered the tent. He was seated on his throne, robes draped around him in the kind of casual way that could only have been achieved by careful arrangement. "What brings you here, Mithrandir?"

"The same as you, I imagine," Gandalf said and went to the washbasin in the corner, already pushing up his sleeves. "Thorin Oakenshield and his companions."

"I should have known that you'd have something to do with a group of Dwarves foolish enough to return to Erebor." Thranduil stayed where he was, sharing a quick glance with Bard when he moved closer to the throne. "Did you send them into my realm?"

"I took them to the border and hoped that the kindness of Elves would still hold true." Turning his back to them, Gandalf poured water from the ewer into the basin. "Did you bring them here?"

"They made their own way," Thranduil said. "And they brought death and destruction with them. For that alone I wish they had remained behind lock and key in my realm. The freedom of a few Dwarves would have been a small price to pay. Durin's folk always brings ill tidings with them. I fail to comprehend what you see in them, Mithrandir."

Gandalf washed his hands, then reached for the towel that hung by the basin. "You must set aside your petty grievances with the Dwarves," he said. "War is coming! The cesspits of Dol Guldur have been emptied!"

Bard looked over to Thranduil with alarm at that pronouncement, but found the Elf rolling his eyes in clear exasperation. It was oddly reassuring.

"We're all in mortal danger!"

At that, Thranduil had the good manners to look mildly interested when Gandalf spun around to face him.

"What are you talking about?" Bard wanted to know. Dol Guldur was a place of darkness, but it was more than three hundred miles away. Why would any attack come from there?

Thranduil rose from his throne and stepped towards Bard. "I can see you know nothing of wizards," he said, pouring two goblets of wine. One was offered to Bard, who took it without even thinking about it anymore. "They are like winter thunder on a wild wind, rolling in from a distance, breaking hard in alarm."

He moved between Bard and Gandalf then, then came up at Bard's left side, a familiar presence in this confusion. If wizards always spoke like this, it was no wonder that Thranduil looked none too pleased at Gandalf's sudden presence.

Gandalf didn't seem happy that Thranduil was so clearly drawing Bard to his side in this, but said nothing, simply studied them. Thranduil quirked an eyebrow, then turned to face Bard. "But sometimes, a storm is just a storm."

"Not this time," Gandalf said, and Thranduil turned away from him, pretending to be busy studying the food on the side table. "Armies of Orcs are on the move! These are fighters, they have been bred for war. Our enemy summons his full strength."

Bard caught a flash of anger on Thranduil's face before his features smoothened again. "Why show his hand now?" the Elf asked.

"Because we forced him. We forced him when the company of Thorin Oakenshield set out to reclaim their homeland."

"Thrice-accursed Dwarves," Bard heard Thranduil mutter, and could not blame him in any way. The destruction of Lake-town lay squarely at Thorin's feet, and if he had now caused yet more mayhem, if there were Orcs coming because of what that foolish Dwarf had done out of greed and pride…

Gandalf walked out of the tent, and Thranduil followed. Bard hesitated for a moment, then came along as well.

"The Dwarves were never meant to reach Erebor, Azog the Defiler was sent to kill them," Gandalf said, and Bard felt cold to his stomach at hearing such casual words when he knew that his children had been caught up in the middle of this.

It seemed best to stay at Thranduil's side, so Bard did and relied on the Elvenking to take the lead in this. Gandalf looked across the empty plain to the gate of the Lonely Mountain, then turned back to face them where they stood in the ruins of Dale's palace, the walls still stained black from dragonfire.

"His master seeks control of the Mountain, not just for the treasure within, but for where it lies, its strategic position. This is the gateway to reclaiming the lands of Angmar in the north." At his side, Bard heard a faint huff of disbelief from Thranduil. "If that fell kingdom should arise again, Rivendell, Lorien, the Shire, even Gondor itself will fall."

Bard couldn't help noticing that neither Thranduil's realm nor Dale or Lake-town were mentioned.

"These Orc armies you speak of, Mithrandir," Thranduil said, an edge of steel to his voice, "where are they?"

Gandalf looked at them for a long moment. "I don't know."

"And yet you expect us to break off our plans and go on a wild goose-chase after them? I think not." Thranduil moved towards the wizard, his robes trailing on the cracked marble tiles of the old throne room as he drew himself up to his full, impressive height. "Imladris, Lórien… why would I care for their troubles, when they care so little about mine? Let Elrond and Galadriel deal with those threats. They can lay claim to far more power than I myself, after all, and it has never occurred to them to send aid when it would have been sorely needed."

"This isn't the time for bringing up old arguments," Gandalf said.

Thranduil gave a mirthless laugh. "The wise rulers of Lórien and Moria drove my father from Amon Lanc when he was in their way, then let it fall into the hands of Sauron. And now I'm to stand against the darkness that rests within? We wanted to be left in peace, nothing more, so we abandoned our stronghold there. Let the Elves of Lórien and the Dwarves handle the outcome of their actions. We'll secure our borders, by any means necessary."

The bitterness in Thranduil's words was palpable, and it left Bard wishing that he knew more history. He had heard the tale of how the Bald Hill of Amon Lanc had become Dol Guldur, but he hadn't known that it had once been the realm of Thranduil's people.

Gandalf sighed. "War will reach you. You need an alliance with Thorin, not a battle."

"I need a secure power on my eastern flank," Thranduil countered. "Forgive me for thinking that the Men of Dale will be more likely to provide that than a Dwarf who thinks nothing of rousing a dragon just to satisfy his lust for gold."

Bard suspected he should be flattered by Thranduil's faith in his rabble of refugee fishermen. How they were supposed to secure a border, however, was another matter entirely.

"Thranduil-"

"You may inform the White Council that I am aware of what lingers in Dol Guldur," Thranduil hissed. "Or should I say who?"

"We were going to tell you of our suspicions."

"In a decade? A century?" Thranduil turned away with an imperious sweep of his robes and headed back down the steps, casting a glance towards Bard as he went past. "The north has always been left to stand alone, Men and Elves alike. You will understand, Mithrandir, that we've learned to rely only on ourselves."

Gandalf didn't follow him, but Bard did after a last look at the wizard. He didn't know anything of Gandalf, but he felt that he was beginning to get the measure of Thranduil. And if Thranduil didn't think that Gandalf's advice was wise to follow, then Bard would trust in that assessment. The Elves had saved them without asking anything in return, without even needing to be called, and Bard intended to repay them by whatever means at his disposal, even if all he could give right now was his loyalty. Gandalf, on the other hand, was only here because he needed to use Thranduil and by extension Bard for his own purposes. It didn't sit well with him at all.

"So that's a wizard," he said as he stepped into the tent after Thranduil, not surprised when the attendants lowered the tent flaps behind him. "Are they all like this?"

"I've always found Mithrandir to be irritatingly meddlesome." Thranduil took up the goblet he'd set aside earlier and drank from it, eyes dark with fury. "Meddlesome and ready to use any and all to achieve his own ends."

"So what does he want?"

Thranduil looked at him. "Who can tell? The Valar sent the Istari to help the people of Middle-Earth in their fight against Sauron. But in my experience, they have been a lot less useful than they could have been, and not always do they care much about lives lost and sacrifices made."

Bard considered this. "You don't like having him here."

"How very perceptive of you." Thranduil set the goblet aside and came towards him, still radiating anger as he deliberately stepped into Bard's personal space. "He will try to change your mind about our alliance."

Tilting his head back to meet his eyes, Bard held his gaze. "Then let him try. I trust you to have the interest of our people in mind. I'll follow your lead in this."

Thranduil studied him, his expression unreadable, then moved in for a hard, almost bruising kiss too fast for Bard to do anything in reaction but allow it.

This wasn't about attraction, this was possession, pure and simple, and for a few heady moments Bard let himself be drawn into this, the grip of Thranduil's hands firm at his neck and the small of his back as they kissed. It wasn't wise, it wasn't the right time, and so he let it go on for another handful of breaths before he rested his hands flat on Thranduil's shoulders and pushed.

"No," he murmured against the Elf's lips. "Not right now, not like this."

Thranduil leaned away and would have taken a step backwards if Bard hadn't kept him in place with his grip on the Elf's shoulders. "I apologise."

Looking at him, Bard shook his head, then raised a hand to the nape of Thranduil's neck to bring his head down and rest their foreheads together. "No need," he said. "Just not the best moment."

Thranduil sighed, his breath warm against Bard's cheek. "It isn't," he agreed, then leaned back and straightened. "You should see to your troops, make sure they know what will be expected of them tomorrow."

"Stand back and listen to the Elves?"

"In essence, yes. We'll keep you in the center of our host, you'll be able to represent your cause there without a risk of direct confrontation." Thranduil let go of him and put some distance between them, returning them onto more official footing. "Imrahil will keep an eye on your men while you ride with me."

"I should stay with my people. And Imrahil doesn't like us much."

"You and I share command of this endeavour, we need to ride in front." Thranduil paused. "Imrahil is one of my best captains. He'll take care that all goes well, his personal feelings aside."

"I know," Bard said, crossing the tent to the door leading in the direction of the marketplace. "I'll come back later. Try not to stab the wizard in the meantime, I suspect that's bad luck."

Thranduil glanced at him, vaguely amused impression firmly back in place. "I make no promises."

That evening, Bard was faced with far too many matters demanding his attention. They were beginning to figure out just how many - too many - people they'd lost in Lake-town, and some of the refugees had already decided that they'd move on to other settlements as soon as they could. Then the questions about the resources they kept finding in Dale came up. The city had been abandoned within a handful of hours, people had left their possessions here and in some of the houses, stashes of coin or jewels could be found when their past owners had not been able to salvage them anymore. Today the first brawls had happened because of this, and they'd need to find rules and ways to enforce them quickly. And once that was settled, they'd need plans on how to rebuild homes, what to do about the water supply, the city gates…

But it would have to wait until after whatever was going to happen tomorrow. The people were restless enough already; they knew tomorrow they'd march on the Mountain. Everybody was focused on finding their family and friends, on making certain that everything was as settled as possible before they headed into a possible battle.

Bard was no exception to that. He might be the one they expected to lead them, but he was also a father of three children and he needed to find at least some scraps of time to spend with them. He'd need to return for the last council with Thranduil's captains later, but for now he wanted - needed - to hold his children close.

He was greeted by three tight hugs when he found them by one of the fires in the main square, right in front of the house they'd claimed for now. Most of the people were in the square, settled in small groups around fires but still close enough to the others to have the safety of numbers. The presence of the Elves helped, as did their ability to stand watch without needing sleep, but there was something about feeling safe that they couldn't give.

Tilda didn't let go of him once her older siblings had found seats again at Bard's sides and he tucked her in under his arm, saying nothing about her elbow digging against his ribs.

"Did you see the wizard?" Bain wanted to know once Bard had made sure they were well, warm and not hungry. "Some of the others said there's a wizard here."

"I talked to him," Bard said. "He didn't do any magic, though. I don't think he's that kind of wizard, more a wise old man." Which was more flattering than he'd intended to be, but there was no need to spoil the idea for his son.

"Who needs a wizard anyway," Sigrid said with a small wave of her gloved hand. "We've got so many Elves now, and they can do magic too, and the more practical kind."

Bard looked at her. "Is that so?"

"They make their coats stay warm and their boots don't get soaked in the rain, and Olga said something about a fishing net that never tore. That's much better than fireworks or whatever it is wizards can do." There was a sharp edge to her voice that made Bard listen to more than just the words she was saying. Sigrid was the oldest, she was almost grown and always so sensible that it was easy to forget sometimes that she was still a child.

"You're right about that," he agreed with her, shifting when Tilda squirmed against him to nestle closer. "They've also got spells to make their arrows fly true, and to keep their swords sharp. And to keep clumsy men like me from tumbling off their horses."

"They let you ride one?" Tilda asked, perking up immediately at the mention of horses. There hadn't been a lot of them kept by the people of Lake-town, but she'd always been interested in them. "Can we see it?"

"Perhaps in a few days," he said. "I didn't look very good on it, I'm afraid. But I didn't fall off."

"That's good, you'd look foolish otherwise." She asked a few more questions about the horse and Bard spun a story to make his brief ride to the gates of the Lonely Mountain sound more fun and less disappointing than it had been. No need to make her wonder why the Dwarves were so hostile now; with some luck, that would all be solved tomorrow anyway.

Tilda dozed off soon, her face buried against Bard's chest, small hands holding on to him. He tucked her coat more tightly around her to keep her warm, then turned his attention back to Bain and Sigrid, their talk moving on to more serious topics. They'd held up well under all the stress and pressure, but he could tell that they were exhausted, and not just in their bodies.

Bard still wasn't convinced it was wise for him to be the leader of the people of Lake-town. But when he looked at his children and saw the strain in their faces and the way they counted on him to put their world back to rights, it became harder to refuse. With anyone else in charge, he'd always wonder if he couldn't do better at keeping his family safe and well.

Bain eventually drifted off too, curled against his other side, and Bard lifted Tilda to settle her between himself and her brother, warm and sheltered. Sigrid was watching them from across the fire, then got up and came to sit in the free spot where her sister had been.

"What's going to happen tomorrow?" she asked.

Bard took her gloved hand in his own. "We'll ride out to talk to the Dwarves and we show Thorin Oakenshield that he needs to speak with us."

"And will he?"

"I think so. He must want his people to be well, and he knows that we are not asking for anything beyond what he's promised. If he gives us just some of the gold, we can rebuild here. That would be good for the Dwarves too. Dale and the Lonely Mountain were important partners before the dragon came. Maybe that can happen again."

She thought that over, her head resting against his shoulder. "And what if he doesn't agree?"

Bard sighed. "Then we fight," he said. "I need you to watch Tilda tomorrow. Don't let her out of your sight, no matter what happens."

"I'm already watching her, you don't need to tell me."

"Sigrid." He waited until she looked up, her eyes meeting his. "I know you do. But tomorrow I need to know that she's safe with you and Bain at all times. And I want you to carry that knife I gave you yesterday. Just be careful with it."

"Da, it's smaller than the big kitchen knife we've got and I use that every day. The one we had, I mean, at… at home." She cleared her throat, her voice rough at a sudden and her eyes bright with tears. "Only that's gone now, isn't it?"

Bard didn't know what to tell her. So he just held her close as she quietly wept for the home and life she'd lost, her head tucked under his chin.

Later that evening he was reluctant to leave his children's side, even though it was only for an hour or two at most. But he was expected, and it wouldn't be wise not to know the final plans for the morning. So he woke Bain and Sigrid and they followed him as he carried a sleeping Tilda inside, settling her in the nest of blankets they'd made in the small bedroom that would keep warmest.

"I'll be back later," he promised, then walked the by now familiar way across the square and up the stairs into the palace ruins, through the inner courtyard and into the former throne room, absently smiling at the fact that Thranduil had chosen this of all places to set up his tent.

Some of the men who'd be in charge of companies tomorrow stopped him along the way to confirm the plans for the morning, and while he caught the sound of raised voices from the tent, he tried to keep at least part of his concentration on troop deployments and weaponry.

"They've been shouting for a while," Percy said with a glance at the tent, where Gandalf could be seen through the open doors. Thranduil's captains were waiting outside, trying not to look as if they were listening in. "Doesn't sound like the king likes that wizard much."

Kyrre shrugged. "Can't say I blame him. Strange folk showing up, never the best sign." Apparently the Elves no longer counted as strange in any way. Two days and plenty of food had made all the difference here in laying the foundation for trust.

The voices got louder for a moment, then Thranduil stalked out of the tent and gestured sharply for Feren to approach. "Are the archers in position?"

Feren snapped to attention. "Yes, my Lord."

"Give the order," Thranduil almost hissed. "If anything moves on that Mountain, kill it. The Dwarves are out of time." Then he vanished into the tent again, robes flowing dramatically behind him.

The captains conferred briefly, then Imrahil and Feren left for the square, probably to carry out the orders from their king. The rest stayed, though none looked too happy with the situation.

"You, Bowman, do you agree with this?" Gandalf suddenly stood behind him, a long pipe in his hand. The scent of pipeweed tickled Bard's nose, then was blown away by a gust of wind that sent Thranduil's green banners billowing in the wind.

Percy and Kyrre exchanged a quick glance, then hurried off after the Elves.

"Is gold so important to you? Would you buy it with the blood of Dwarves?"

Bard stared at the wizard and wondered whether he should try to explain. They gave their word he wanted to say. They owe us for waking the dragon.

"It will not come to that," he said instead, unwilling to share more than necessary with the wizard. "This is a fight they cannot win."

Someone came hurrying towards them, the sound of steps clearly audible on the paved stone floor. At first Bard thought it was a child, then saw the oddly shaped feet, the glint of chainmail links at the open shirt collar.

"That won't stop them," Bilbo said, stepping into the light from the torches. "You think the Dwarves will surrender? They won't. They'll fight to the death to defend their own."

"Bilbo Baggins!" Gandalf exclaimed, and Bard needed a moment to remember that the wizard had been caught up somehow in Thorin's quest, and that he'd know the halfling because of that.

"Why are you here?" Bard asked. "Did Thorin send you?" He didn't add a question whether Bilbo had abandoned his companions because he'd seen the reality of the situation. The halfling had been polite and kind to him while they'd sailed downriver, and it was a favor Bard would repay.

Bilbo shifted on his feet before he answered, one hand twitching to his coat pocket. "I need to show you something. Give you something. Or, show something to the Elf king, I suppose he's the one who decides what his army is going to do tomorrow." He paused again, then turned towards Bard, his face open and honest. "I'm glad that you are alive. We saw the fires from the Mountain.

And yet they hadn't bothered with coming to help. But that blame could not be laid at Bilbo's feet, Bard knew that much. He had seen enough of the dynamics among the Dwarves to know that whatever Thorin decided was what they would do.

"We were lucky," he offered. "The children are well, that matters more than the lost town. Others weren't so fortunate."

Bilbo winced. "We tried to make Thorin talk to you, but it's not so easy with him. But I might have a way to make it easier."

Bard nodded. "In that case, follow me," he said, waving his hand towards the tent. "Let's speak to Lord Thranduil."

To his credit, Thranduil did not even blink when Bard came into the tent followed by a wizard and a Hobbit. He merely treated Gandalf to a haughty glower, then Bilbo to a milder version of the same expression. Bard raised an eyebrow at that, was rewarded with a swift smirk when Bilbo and Gandalf weren't looking, and went to sit in the second chair to observe what promised to be an at least entertaining scene.

Thranduil sat down on his throne, back straight, robes draped properly around him to show them off to the fullest effect in the warm light of the lamps. "If I'm not mistaken," he said, "this is the halfling who stole the keys to my dungeons from under the noses of my guards."

Bilbo had the good sense to look sheepish at that. "Yes," he murmured. "Sorry about that."

Thranduil leaned his right arm on the armrest, the very image of cold patience. Bard attempted to mirror the pose, but didn't think he quite managed.

With a quick glance at Gandalf, Bilbo moved to the map table and took out a small bundle wrapped into a piece of reddish-brown cloth from under his coat. "I came to give you this," he said and began to unwrap it. A faint glow began to emanate from under the cloth, making the gold patterns in it shine.

Bard had no idea what he was looking at, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Thranduil get up slowly, as though he did not quite trust his legs to carry him.

"The Heart of the Mountain," the Elf whispered as he moved closer, his hand stretched towards the shining gem that lay on the table. "The King's Jewel." He made as if to touch it, then flinched back at the last moment, his hand hovering above the gem.

Bard cast him a quick glance as he stepped closer too, along with Gandalf. "And worth a king's ransom," he said when Thranduil didn't seem about to say anything else. He looked at Bilbo. "How is this yours to give?"

Bilbo met his eyes. "I took it as my fourteenth share of the treasure."

And now he was offering it to them? His entire share? It didn't make sense, and Bard wished that Thranduil would give him some indication of what to think of this situation. But the Elf was silent and unmoving, his eyes still on the gem.

"Why would you do this?" Bard asked when he found his voice again. "You owe us no loyalty."

"I'm not doing it for you, "Bilbo said quickly, almost angrily. "I know that Dwarves can be obstinate and pig-headed and difficult and suspicious and secretive, with the worst manners you can possibly imagine. But they're also brave and kind and loyal to a fault." He paused, his expression close to pleading as he turned to speak to Thranduil, who still gave no sign that he even heard. "I've grown very fond of them and I would save them if I can. Thorin values this stone above all else. In exchange for its return, I believe he'll give you what you were owed. There will be no need for war."

This was it, this was their bargaining chip. Now they could prove to Thorin that they wanted nothing more than what was their due, and that they would treat him fairly if he did the same. Bard turned his head to look at Thranduil, relieved when the Elf reacted and they shared a quick glance.

"Do you give this freely?" Thranduil asked.

Bilbo looked up to him, a frown on his face. "Yes. I told you, I want to end this all before it turns into war."

"I would have your oath on that."

Gandalf stepped forward. "Thranduil, I don't think that is necessary."

"You know as well as I do what this is, Mithrandir, and what it has cost. Unless the halfling swears he gives it freely and won't ask for its return, it will not remain anywhere near us."

Bard shared a confused look with Bilbo, who seemed as puzzled by this as he was himself. The Arkenstone looked pretty enough, the way it shone with an inner light that was brighter than the lamps inside the tent. Some magic had to be about it, there was no question about that. But even as magnificent as it was, it was still just a jewel.

"Bilbo is hardly Fëanor, there is no need for oaths."

Thranduil took a few steps towards Gandalf, straight and tall, and for a moment he looked brighter, colder, his suddenly ringing voice sending shivers down Bard's spine. "I have witnessed two Kinslayings. There will be no more blood spilled over these accursed jewels under my watch!" He turned around sharply and Bard saw the ice in his eyes, heard the power laced with something impossibly old in his voice. "Your oath, Master Halfling."

Bilbo nodded, and Bard's respect for the halfling grew when he stood before the irate Elvenking without flinching away. "I swear that I give you the Arkenstone freely and that I won't ask for its return."

The atmosphere in the tent eased, clearing like the air after a thunderstorm.

"I thank you," Thranduil said and even gave the hint of a bow to Bilbo. "Your generosity will be put to use tomorrow. Let us hope that your Dwarvish friends see reason."

There was a huff from Gandalf at that, who cast a disapproving glare at Thranduil which was studiously ignored, then had a kinder smile for Bilbo. "Let's find food for you. I seem to remember that Hobbits are not pleased when they miss a meal."

When the halfling and the wizard were gone, Bard looked at the Arkenstone once more, trying to recall whether he'd ever heard anything about it before. Once this was all over, he really had to get better educated about myths and legends, now that so many of them insisted on interfering with his everyday life.

"You need to take the Arkenstone," Thranduil said from where he'd retreated to a corner of the tent, arms firmly crossed and hands tucked into the folds of his robe.

Bard looked at him. "Wouldn't it be safer here?"

"It's a distraction I cannot afford. But it won't affect you, at least not for a long time. Men are more resilient than Elves, in some regards." He paused. "It won't harm your children either if you bring it near them for tonight."

"What is it?" he asked.

Thranduil exhaled slowly and visibly steeled himself before slowly approaching the table again, long fingers cautiously reaching to cover the jewel in the cloth without touching it. "Ask me tomorrow, when this is over. I'd rather see this gone before we discuss it. Let Thorin Oakenshield be its guardian, as long as it fulfills its purpose and solves a dispute for once instead of causing it."

Bard definitely needed to read up on the legends of Elves somehow, and soon.

"Very well," he agreed and took the bundle. At a nod of Thranduil, he put it into the breast pocket of his coat. It felt warm to his touch but not uncomfortably so, almost as if it were a living thing. "I would like to stay, but…"

Thranduil's eyes met his, a faint smile on his face. "Be with your children tonight. We still ride into battle tomorrow, even though the chances that we won't draw swords have vastly improved. Come the dawn, much will change. I can feel it in the air."

"For the better or for worse?"

Thranduil shrugged. "Who can tell? All change brings both."

With a fond smile, Bard shook his head. "I see the old saying about not wanting definite answers from Elves is true." He rose up to claim a kiss, chaste and brief, then left with the Arkenstone heavy in his pocket.

That night he slept surprisingly well, exhaustion and a full belly letting him get a good night's rest for the first time in days. The Elves' horns woke him just before dawn, the air even inside the house cold enough that his breath was visible.

"Is it time?" Bain asked, only his nose visible from the mound of blankets. His sisters were stirring as well, Tilda curling closer to Sigrid as they both woke.

"Almost," Bard said, crouching at their sides to rest his hands on their heads, then drew them into a tight hug after all. His children. His reason to do this.

Outside the men were assembling already by the time he'd put on his hauberk and slipped his coat back on above it. The Arkenstone was still in his coat pocket, warm against his chest even through the chain mail.

"Ready?" Percy asked when he went to join the men of Lake-town in the main square.

"We've got our orders." Bard saw Imrahil further to the back on a grey horse, surveying the Men with an unreadable expression on his face. At least the Elf had the sense not to look disappointed at the sight, no matter what he thought.

When Imrahil spotted him, he nudged his horse into motion and rode across the square, stopping at the foot of the steps before Bard. "You're to join the King," he said. "A horse has been readied for you."

Bard exchanged one last glance with Percy, then nodded and watched as his people began to march off behind the Elf companies they'd been assigned to.

He found Thranduil already on his elk, resplendent as ever in his finely crafted armour, a silver cloak flowing from his shoulders down to the back of his mount and the heavy silver circlet on his head. If he was planning to make an impression on the Dwarves, his odds weren't too bad. Compared to him, Bard felt a lot more inconspicuous, at least until he had climbed into the saddle of his own horse. At that point, the feeling rapidly turned into drawing far too much attention to himself.

"Just follow my lead in this," Thranduil said quietly, even though the Elves around them couldn't possibly miss it. "We'll do this as quickly as we can, but we need to show Thorin what he is dealing with."

What the Dwarves were dealing with was a plain filled with Elves in shining golden armour, moving in tidy columns under the first rays of the morning sun. As they rode down from Dale's main gate, Bard could see his own men in the middle of the Elven host, an untidy, darker square in the center of all that red and gold. But they'd stand side by side with warriors so much better trained, better equipped than them and they'd do it to claim their due. It was what mattered.

Riding down right the middle of the entire length of the army was an experience Bard would never forget. It was almost entirely silent, even though they were surrounded by thousands of Elves. The only sound was the rustle of clothes and low ringing of armour plates as the warriors immediately before them turned aside to open the path, moving in almost perfect unison and then closing the gap behind them again. It made his blood flow faster with every step his horse took towards the mountain.

From the vantage point of the Dwarves up on their ramparts, it had to look more than just impressive. Bard cast a glance at Thranduil to his right, who sat straight in the saddle, his black-gloved hands resting against the elk's withers.

"Keep it slow," Thranduil said without turning his eyes away from the gates of the Lonely Mountain. "Let them get a good look and think about what they're seeing. We want to give them enough time to count what they are up against."

When they were almost at the front of the army, Bard could see the glint of helmets on top of the gates, along with the points of spears. Even with all the Dwarves up there, they couldn't even cover the entire width of the gate.

The final row of Elves parted before them and they rode out into the open and on the road that led to the ruined bridge. The elk and Bard's horse easily climbed the few steps leading up to it, their hooves striking almost no noise against the frozen ground. It had snowed since Bard had been here two days ago, and he absently noticed that he couldn't see any tracks of his earlier ride.

He saw movement up on the rampart, and before his mind could really register what he was seeing, an arrow clattered against the stone slabs right before Thranduil's elk.

They both reined in sharply. The animal looked unharmed, and Thranduil didn't even appear startled when Bard quickly looked him over. Quite the opposite, he looked almost as though he were pleased with getting shot at by a damned Dwarf who hadn't even taken the time to aim properly.

Bard drew a deep breath and tried to keep any and all bemusement at Elven unperturbedness from his face.

"I'll put the next one between your eyes," Thorin shouted from above. Around him the Dwarves cheered, which for some inexplicable reason made Thranduil wear a genuine smirk for a moment before he schooled his face in a more haughty expression again.

Whatever was going on here, Bard decided that his best bet was to simply wait this out, do whatever the Elf to his right wanted him to, and hope that it would not be entirely crazy.

Thranduil bowed his head, the gesture only visible because Bard had been looking at him that very moment. But despite its fleetingness, the effect was immediate.

Behind them, five thousand Elves drew arrows from their quivers, readied their bows in one flowing, smooth motion and took aim. Then they froze again, completely motionless. Bard didn't think he'd ever again see something this awe-inspiring in his life.

He held still and held his breath, waiting for Thranduil's next command. If the Elves fired now, the Dwarves would be lost, never mind that they had ducked for cover behind the merlons. Five thousand arrows… some of them would find their targets when they rained down, and surely not even dwarven armour could protect against a veritable wall of missiles.

Thranduil glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, then returned his attention to Thorin, who still stood with his bow drawn and arrow nocked. He'd not be able to hold much longer, Bard knew, not with that bow's draw.

Raising his gloved hand, Thranduil gestured for the archers to stand down again. Once more they moved in unison, a formidable display of just what the Elves were capable of. Only Thorin still held a bow ready in his hand now, aimed at Thranduil and ready to shoot. Bard wanted to do something, anything about that damned arrow up there, but knew he couldn't. He should have taken his own bow along, then he could have… done something, perhaps. At least the weight of the quiver would have felt reassuring.

"We have come to tell you payment of your debt has been offered," Thranduil said, his voice carrying easily in the biting chill of the morning air. "And accepted."

Bard watched him, saw the glint in his eyes and shot him a swift smile in response, then turned his head to look up at the Dwarves.

There was a brief moment of confusion up on the rampart, then Thorin took a half-step forward, his bow-hand wavering slightly. "What payment? I gave you nothing! You have nothing!"

Thranduil slowly, deliberately looked at Bard. They shared another glance, just for the blink of an eye, then Bard reached into his coat and slowly brought out the Arkenstone. It shone brightly in his hand as he held it up, and it felt smooth and almost soft against the bare skin of his fingers.

"We have this," he said.

Utter silence reigned among the Dwarves on the wall, and Thorin slowly put his bow down. With the immediate threat gone, Bard felt the first rush of triumph in his blood. This was what he'd wanted, this was what he'd hoped for.

"They have the Arkenstone!" he heard one Dwarf shout. "Thieves! How came you by the heirloom of our house? That stone belongs to the king!"

Still holding up the gem so the Dwarves could get a good look at it, Bard shrugged. "The king may have it," he said with a smirk, then tossed the Arkenstone in the air as if it were a toy, catching it again easily. "With our good will."

Then he slowly, deliberately put it back into his coat, well aware of the Dwarves' eyes on him. "But first," he said with all the seriousness he could muster in his voice, willing Thorin to see reason, "he must honour his word."

The Dwarves talked urgently to each other, not quite loud enough for Bard to understand, but it was clear this was not at all what they had expected.

Give in, he thought. End this, you must know that it's the best option for all of us.

"Thorin thinks we're lying," Thranduil said quietly. Bard turned in surprise, then remembered the superiority of Elven hearing.

"The Arkenstone is in this Mountain!" Thorin shouted down at them. "It's a trick!" But he didn't sound convinced, and the other Dwarves didn't look it either. They had to know that something was up, and that they at least had to consider the possibility that what Bard had in his pocket was real.

Bilbo was moving towards Thorin, small even among the Dwarves and barely visible from below.

"What's happening?" Bard asked, not daring to take his eyes off the top of the wall. His horse began to fidget, sensing its rider's tension.

"The halfling has confessed his actions. And Thorin is not pleased with him." Thranduil murmured something in Sindarin and Bard's horse quieted down, hooves firmly planted on the frozen ground.

"... miserable rat!" he heard Thorin shout, loud enough to make the words echo from the rocks.

The argument on the wall quieted to hisses and whispers again before Bilbo was audible again. "The Dwarf I met in Bag End would never have gone back on his word, would never have doubted the loyalty of his kin."

So at least the people of Lake-town hadn't been the only ones deceived. Bard hadn't trusted Thorin during his speech on the steps of the Master's mansion, but he had thought that basic decency would make the Dwarf help them after the destruction. If only a tenth of the legends were true, the Mountain was filled with gold beyond measure. More than the Dwarves could possibly need in a hundred generations, and enough to rebuild a town a thousand times over.

"Throw him from the rampart!" Thorin suddenly shouted, but nobody moved to follow the order. "Did you not hear me?" He grabbed one of the Dwarves and tried to shove him towards Bilbo. Then, when that Dwarf resisted and pulled back, he screamed, "I'll do it myself!"

He'd do it, Bard knew in that moment. Thorin was crazed enough to truly do this, commit murder over what he saw as a betrayal but what was a friend's attempt to make him keep his word and offer them all a way out. And there was nothing Bard could do about it, not with the bridge broken and boulders blocking his path, even if he could have caught a falling halfling.

"I curse you!" Thorin screamed, and that finally sent the other Dwarves into motion. They tried to drag Thorin away from Bilbo and get between him and the halfling, and for now managed to keep him away from the edge.

Was that the gold's doing? Thorin had been harsh and impatient from the beginning, but Bard hadn't seen him like this, so driven beyond all rhyme and reason.

"Cursed be the wizard that forced you on this company!" Thorin screeched, still trying to shove Bilbo forward to the vast drop onto the shattered boulders below them.

"If you don't like my burglar," a voice rang out behind them, far louder and more resonant than anyone could normally manage without what Bard was coming to recognise was magic, "then please don't damage him. Return him to me."

Gandalf. Just what they needed now, the wizard to add to the tense situation with his own ideas of how this was supposed to go. Bard suppressed a sigh and saw Thranduil roll his eyes as they both studiously didn't turn around, keeping their attention on the Dwarves.

"You are not making a very splendid figure as King under the Mountain, are you, Thorin son of Thrain?" Gandalf called, his voice now more that of an old man again, although whether mockery was the right choice here remained to be seen.

"Never again will I have dealings with wizards, or Shire rats!" Thorin shouted back, letting go of the halfling. The other Dwarves hurriedly dragged Bilbo to the side, away from Thorin and immediate threats. Throwing a rope over the side, Bilbo scrambled down the wall, slipping and sliding as he struggled to reach safety on the ground. If Thorin remembered his bow now, this might all come to an end none of them could wish for unless they could distract the Dwarf long enough.

"Are we resolved?" Bard shouted, keeping an eye on the halfling. "The return of the Arkenstone for what was promised!"

They weren't asking for anything unreasonable. A chance to rebuild, nothing more. At his side, even Thranduil was tense, the tight grip of his hands on the reins betraying his effort to look unfazed by what was happening.

"Give us your answer!" he tried again. "Will you have peace or war?"

For a brief moment, Bard thought they'd finally come to an agreement. Even Dwarves could perhaps be reasoned with.

Then something that looked like a crow landed on the wall by Thorin's hand where it rested on the stone.

"I will have war," the King under the Mountain said.

It couldn't be.

It just couldn't be. This had to be a mistake. What did Thorin think he was going to gain from this? If he wanted the stone, he could have it in exchange for nothing more than a fair share. Bilbo's share, even; he wouldn't lose one piece of gold more than he'd have given the halfling anyway.

Bard felt the Arkenstone's heat, recalled Thranduil's reaction upon seeing it. Whatever this stone was, he wanted to be rid of it as soon as it could be arranged.

He was still trying to work out what to do now when Thranduil was suddenly staring to the east, up at the hill's crest there. Bard followed the direction of his gaze.

At first he saw nothing.

Then the glint of sunshine on metal, and the darkness of leather and shields. An army was marching towards them, lances raised and axes drawn.

Dwarves.

"Ironfoot," he heard Gandalf mutter behind him before the wizard's voice was drowned by the cheers from Thorin's company.

Wheeling his elk around, Thranduil shouted commands that sent his own army into motion, turning towards the sudden newcomers and reordering their ranks. Bard's people were caught up in the shifting companies, moving back and forth as the Elves directed them.

"Come with me," Thranduil ordered, and Bard's horse was moving before he could even give it a signal. "Stay with your soldiers, we're moving to the front so we can attempt to stop this madness." Another string of commands in Sindarin made the archers step back behind the others as Thranduil and Bard galloped through the ranks, taking position on either side of the Lake-town contingent.

The Dwarves came to a halt not fifty steps before them and their leader rode in front on what Bard recognised with some surprise as a boar.

Dwarves. All of them insane.

"Good morning!" the Dwarf shouted, stopping his boar on a small outcrop. "How are we all? I've a wee proposition, if you wouldn't mind giving me a few moments of your time."

That didn't sound too bad, all things taken into account.

"Would you consider," the Dwarf continued, and then was suddenly screaming at them, "just sodding off!"

Bard's soldiers took a few steps back, Elves closing the gaps almost immediately and forming a defensive wall around them, weapons drawn. He saw Imrahil a few rows further to the front and heard him mutter orders to the Elves around him. For now they'd have to rely on him; Thranduil wasn't close enough for Bard to catch much of a hint of what he was supposed to do, and nothing in life had prepared him for leading an army of men into battle at the side of an army of Elves, against a damned army of damned Dwarves.

Imrahil caught him looking and took a few swift steps towards him. "That's Dáin Ironfoot," he said, his eyes on the Dwarves again. "This may become unpleasant. Whatever you do, keep your people calm."

Bard nodded, grateful for the direction. "Stand fast," he called, his sword drawn as he did his best to rein in his horse. A few of his men looked at him and there was something almost like relief on their faces at seeing that he was here with them.

Gandalf pushed his way to the front past the first line of Elves. "Come now, Lord Dáin," the wizard said, his tone amicable.

"Gandalf the Grey," Dáin said. The wizard certainly got around. "Tell this rabble to leave, or I'll water the ground with their blood!"

"There is no need for war between Dwarves, Men and Elves! A legion of Orcs march on the Mountain. Stand your army down."

Bard was beginning to wonder why anyone ever let Gandalf try his hand at negotiations if this was the outcome. Thranduil's assessment of the wizard was looking more and more accurate; meddlesome and not always the most useful.

"I will not stand down before any Elf, not least this faithless woodland sprite who wishes nothing but ill upon my people!"

Bard simply had to look at Thranduil at that tirade and was rewarded with the sight of a bright smirk on the Elf's face. It wasn't necessarily the most reassuring view, given that they were being taunted by an irate Dwarf.

"If he chooses to stand between me and my kin, I'll split his pretty head open! See if he's still smirking then!"

"He's clearly mad," Thranduil called back, ostensibly to his own soldiers but very much directed at Dáin. "Like his cousin!"

"Oh yes, this is going to make it all better," Bard muttered under his breath, his grip on his sword tightening.

"Hear that, lads? We're on!" Dáin sounded far too enthusiastic about the prospect of a battle against overwhelming odds. They were vastly outnumbered; even a Dwarf had to realise that. "Let's give these bastards a good hammering!"

That got frantic battle calls from the Dwarves, who started banging their axes against their shield, the thundering noise reverberating in the marrow of Bard's bones.

Then it all descended into chaos.

The hills down to the south suddenly exploded into rubble and giant… things shot out from the mountainside, crushing rocks in their wake. Even Thranduil looked startled, which by Bard's reckoning was a frightful sight.

Orcs. Orcs pouring out of the gashes in the mountain in huge numbers, and suddenly there were trolls as well, with what looked like riders on their shoulders.

It looked like Thorin would get his war, a lot more thoroughly than he probably had bargained for.

Afterwards, what Bard remembered most of all of the battle was the stench of Orcs. He couldn't even describe it to himself; the sickly sweetness of rotting flesh, the sharpness of manure and unwashed sweat. It was everywhere that day, and it didn't take long for them to learn how to become aware of approaching Orcs by the way the air turned almost unbreathable.

They stank just as much in death as they did in life. The streets of Dale were strewn with their corpses by the time the sun reached its zenith, and it was as if they were decomposing faster than any creature should in the biting autumn cold.

The Elves took over in the afternoon when the strength of the fighters of Lake-town began to flag in earnest. What Orcs remained had scattered into small groups throughout the city, hiding in alleys, on roofs and even in the cellars of some houses. Now they were getting flushed out mercilessly by the Elves, who combed the city's streets methodically to find every last one.

"Elven magic of old," Imrahil deigned to explain in a calmer moment when Bard asked how they managed to find the Orcs with such precision. He'd insisted that he'd come and do what he could, and miraculously Imrahil hadn't argued, merely thrown him an exasperated glare before shoving a bow at Bard and telling him to stay among the Elves and obey orders. There'd been a few choice Sindarin words thrown into that little command, too, but for now Bard could still pretend not to understand.

"You sense them?" he asked. "Or is it just the stench? Because that's not Elven magic, Princess, that's working for anyone who's got a sense of smell."

"Amazing that it works for you Men, then." They rounded a corner in concentration, checking the side streets before moving on. "But there are more elegant ways."

Bard just looked at him, eyebrows raised, and waited. It was an idle distraction, but for now he'd take anything he could get that kept his mind off the other matters that were waiting for him to deal with. Chasing off Orcs was straightforward.

Imrahil gestured for his patrol to gather close again, then raised his sword and showed the blade to Bard. "This was forged by one of Elu Thingol's best smiths," he said.

"Ah, so it glows when Orcs are close, like Gandalf's?" Bard had seen that sword during the fighting earlier, and had to admit that it was an impressive sight. And definitely useful when it came to discovering hidden Orcs.

"That wizard should not have such a weapon," Imrahil muttered, then gave a sharp command that had his soldiers snap to attention. A blink of an eye later, the head of an Orc rolled down the sloping road, bouncing with wet thuds when it hit a couple of steps.

They continued their task until just before nightfall, when after a brief conference Imrahil proclaimed Dale to be free of living Orcs. Only the dead ones remained, and with them the bodies of far too many Men and Elves in the streets of Dale, and Dwarves down on the plain.

It was a reality Bard had tried to avoid all day. He'd seen the fallen, but he hadn't had the chance to look too closely. His family was safe, as were most of those who'd escaped to the Great Hall and barricaded themselves behind the remnants of its gates. And yet there were too many familiar faces among the dead, now that he had time to look.

They'd need to deal with the bodies, he knew. But first they had to deal with the living.

When they returned from a last perimeter check to position guards, there were makeshift infirmaries set up in the fountain square, Elves and Men working side by side to handle the steady influx of wounded people. Bard spotted Sigrid in the middle of the fray, bandages in hand as she rushed about. Carrying a washbasin, Tilda followed her like a smaller shadow. Two of his children accounted for, and it only took a moment to see Bain carry an armful of fuel to one of the fires set up around the square for light and heat.

"The king asks to see you," Feren said, coming up to Bard's side. The Elf hadn't escaped the fighting unscathed; a deep bruise had darkened the entire right side of his face and he carried his right arm in a makeshift sling, probably waiting until a healer had time to fix him further.

Bard looked across the square once more and wondered whether he should go help with the injured, or with setting up tents or whatever needed to be done. But everything seemed to run smoothly for now, with Elves and Men working in concert, and his body was letting him know in no uncertain terms that he'd been on his feet for far too long, and perhaps pushed himself a little too far. With Thranduil, he could expect to sit down for a few moments.

He found Thranduil alone in his tent, still in armour. After the battle Bard had seen him briefly when they'd all tried to make sense of the chaotic aftermath, but there had been no time to exchange words then. Now, he wasn't certain what to say.

"Did we win?" he eventually asked.

Thranduil looked at him for a long time, long enough that Bard wondered whether he'd been heard.

"It's never a simple question," the Elf eventually said. "You still live. I still live. Dale remains in your hand, the Orcs have been routed. Mithrandir's wish has been fulfilled." He rose slowly and went to the side table for the by now familiar ritual of pouring two cups of wine and holding one in his hand as an offer.

Bard accepted it and took a sip, enough to show acknowledgment. Whether this was some kind of Elven custom or not, it gained him a small nod in reply from Thranduil.

"That would make it seem like a victory," he said.

"History will count it as one." Thranduil gave a humourless laugh. "Your people and mine lie dead in the streets, but they will be forgotten soon. They are not Thorin Oakenshield after all."

"What do you mean?"

"Had you not heard yet? Thorin fell, as did his heirs." Thranduil drank deeply from his own cup, then turned it over and let the last of the wine pour onto the flagstones. "The King under the Mountain has come and gone, and there are not many Dwarves left to mourn his passing."

"Do you?" Bard asked.

"It's never good when a king is lost." Thranduil began to unbuckle the vambrace on his left arm with his right hand, carefully laying it on the table. "What of your children?" he asked as he turned his attention to his other arm.

Stepping closer, Bard brushed his hand aside and undid the straps for him. "Safe and unharmed." Mostly, at least, but there had been nothing worse than a few scratches on any of the three. Right now Bard was more than ready to count his blessings in that regard. He laid the second vambrace on the side table with the first, then asked cautiously, "And Legolas? I thought I saw him during the fight."

"He came in time to bring news of the second army," Thranduil said, flexing his wrists. "He has chosen to leave."

Bard breathed a small sigh of relief. He had lost sight of Thranduil's son in the fray, and while he hadn't heard anything from the Elves that the king's son had been lost, there had been no way to be certain. "Where did he go?"

"West," Thranduil said and let Bard undo the shoulder buckles of his cuirass.

Bard drew back to look at his face, startled by the casual tone of this. "He sails?" There hadn't been more than a few brief run-ins between him and Legolas when they had crossed paths during one of Bard's deliveries, but the Elf had never struck him as one tired of life in Middle-Earth.

"Of course not," Thranduil said, then suddenly wore an expression Bard knew only too well from his own experience, the sinking feeling that he had missed something with one of his children. Just for a moment, then it was gone again and Thranduil's calm mien settled into place once more. "He has much to think about, and doing so in my realm would have been difficult. He will go to the Dunedain. The Rangers of the North," he added when Bard's puzzlement had to have shown.

"I thought they were a legend." The last buckle of the cuirass came loose and Bard held onto the metal of the breastplate while Thranduil slipped out from under the armour. His tunic was dirty with mud and blood underneath, but it didn't look as though any was his own.

"They are real enough, even if their numbers have dwindled over the past generations."

"And they'll be a distraction?" Bard asked as he put the cuirass on its stand. Thranduil seemed to take the departure of his son well enough, but perhaps it hadn't sunk in yet that Legolas would be gone.

"I believe so. And it matters that he goes. There is much in the balance about his leaving, though I cannot tell what. I only know that there is someone he must meet."

Bard raised an eyebrow at that and tried not to grin.

Thranduil's eyebrows quirked right back in response. "That's hardly what I meant."

"I thought scrying is an imprecise art even for Elves?"

"Only for those who do not know how to do it properly," Thranduil told him in his best haughty voice.

At that Bard did laugh, as was probably the Elf's intention judging by the flash of a smile across his face. It was a much needed lighter moment after all the day had brought, and he was grateful for the breathing space.

They dealt with the rest of Thranduil's armor in companionable silence, and Bard wasn't in the least surprised when the Elf almost immediately shed his tunic to wash, even if it was just at the washstand and not in a bath that would have demanded far too much in resources and efforts. Bard watched appreciatively, happy to let himself be distracted by the sight of bare skin and the play of long, lean muscles as the Elf cleaned himself of the grime of battle.

"Stay," Thranduil whispered in his ear once he'd made short work of Bard's own clothing, accompanied by displeased murmurs over its sorry state. The fastidiousness of Elves, Bard thought with a fond smile as he was handed a washcloth, and an even fonder smile when Thranduil's hands slid over his body, leaving warmth where bruises and cuts had been.

"For a little while," he agreed and pulled Thranduil into a kiss that was swiftly returned. At first he permitted himself to just savor the simple pleasure of warmth, closeness and touch before drawing Thranduil down onto the soft cushions of his bed, and for some time there wasn't much thinking at all.

Bain was still awake when Bard returned to their makeshift home later that evening, watching from the front steps with his sword laid across his knees.

"You should be asleep," Bard told him, but sat down by his side when Bain didn't immediately move to get up.

"I can't." Bain looked down at his sword, the blade clean and gleaming in the light of the fires around them. "If I try, it's… I can't."

Bard wrapped an arm around his son's shoulder, drawing him close against his side. Bain would soon be too tall for gestures like this, and perhaps too old to want them, but for now he was still happy to tuck himself tightly under his father's arm.

"You'll be fine," Bard said when they'd sat in silence for a while. "It just takes a little time to sink in." Something he, too, needed to remember. There'd be time to come to terms with everything, for now he just had to keep going and not let himself become overwhelmed by it all.

Bain picked at the pommel of his sword. "I almost couldn't keep Sigrid and Tilda safe, like you told me to."

Exhaling slowly, Bard rested his chin against his son's head. "You kept them safe," he said quietly. "You did well, Bain, so very well. I know I can rely on you, and your sisters know it too."

"Sigrid killed an Orc with the knife you gave her," Bain said. "And Tilda threw all our crockery at the ones that attacked when the Dwarves stayed with us at home. I don't think they need me to protect them."

"Doesn't mean they won't appreciate it when you do." Bard looked across the square to the infirmary tents. Activity there had quieted down, but he could still see the Elves walk among the wounded who hadn't found room inside, stopping here and there to check on someone on the cots they'd set up. He wondered whether they'd sleep eventually, or if Elves could go without rest forever.

Bain huffed a small sigh and set the sword aside, then nestled closer and tucked his hands into his coat. "Da, are we going to be all right?"

Bard took his time to answer, weighing reassurance against honesty and deciding on the latter. His son deserved no less, not after what they'd been through. "A week ago I would have told you that it's all going to be fine," he said. "But you've seen what's happened since then. You and I killed a dragon together, and we've just fought against an army of Orcs and trolls together. I don't know what tomorrow may bring." He drew back to look at Bain, meeting his eyes as he put all the sincerity and conviction he could muster into his voice. "But I know that you'll come through it just fine. I'm proud of you, son."

The dawn came far too early the next day, and with it the harsh reality of what lay before them. During the night, some of the Elves had begun to gather the bodies of their fallen comrades from where they lay in the streets, and once daylight made it safe to do so, they ventured out onto the battle plain to perform that sad last duty there as well.

"The Dwarves sent word," Thranduil said at the morning meeting with the captains, which Bard attended once more. "They will bury their dead before the gates of Erebor, where the sun first shines on the ground in the morning, and they offer to assist if we choose to do the same."

Imrahil looked up sharply. "Surely you aren't thinking about that. Our fallen-"

"Will be buried," Thranduil interrupted him sharply. "They will have graves, they will be honored."

"We should bring the bodies home," Imrahil insisted. "Not leave them here with the Dwarves and Men."

"And how would you take them there, toss them into the grain wagons?" Thranduil drew himself up straight. "Their spirits are with Námo in his halls, let that be enough. They will be buried properly, on the battlefield where they fell."

For the blink of an eye, Imrahil looked as if he'd protest further, but then lowered his gaze and nodded.

Thranduil watched him for a few breaths, then turned to Bard. "The offer was extended to you as well, should you wish to accept it."

Bard tried not to grimace at the thought. He'd considered it yesterday already, once it had become clear that the battle had taken more than just its toll among the refugees from Dale. Their normal burial rites would not serve here; there was no way to launch a boat onto the water and set it afire when there was no lake anywhere near and the only other body of water was a frozen river. It would be a break with tradition, but while he didn't like the thought, he could see the necessity behind it.

"We'll accept," he said, then thought of something else. "What about the Orcs?"

"The worm holes need to be filled so nothing comes through them," Thranduil said dismissively. "We might as well use them for it before the Dwarves collapse the mountainside on top to close them. There is no point in wasting firewood on pyres for them, no matter how satisfying the sight might be."

There also was no wood for pyres to be had anywhere in the vicinity. Bard had known that the area around Dale and Erebor had been devastated by Smaug, but he hadn't considered what that devastation actually meant. No tree grew on what surely had once been a plain filled with meadows and fields, and there wasn't even any grass to be found, only scorched earth black from dragonfire. He was no farmer, but he couldn't help wondering whether anything would grow on this soil come spring. And if it didn't, then where would they get their food from? They could hardly rely on the Elves forever, and buying enough to feed so many people would not be a simple matter.

The gold would help with that, if the Dwarves now agreed to hand over what had been promised. Yet another task on his list, and an important one at that, just like all the others. He'd also need to find out just what the Dwarves were planning now, whether the mountain would be settled or abandoned and what their intentions were towards Dale.

And so he found himself on his borrowed horse once more and again on the road to the Lonely Mountain. Only this time the scenery was vastly different; the path was still littered with dead Orcs, while the bodies of Men, Elves and Dwarves had already been collected by their surviving comrades.

Guards stood at the gateway into the Mountain, but before he could announce himself, one of them offered to take his horse while another went inside, coming back soon afterwards with the oldest of the Dwarves of Thorin's company. A good sign; that one had been mostly reasonable.

"Greetings to the Lord of Dale," the Dwarf said with a small bow as they met on the restored bridge. He looked as weary as Bard felt himself, and at the same time just as determined to handle what needed to be done.

Dismounting, Bard returned the bow. "I'm afraid I don't remember your name," he said.

"It was never given," the Dwarf returned. "I am Balin, son of Fundin, and for now I speak for the Dwarves of Erebor."

Bard frowned. "For now?"

Balin shrugged. "Lord Dáin will claim the crown, but not yet. Until then, there are only ten Dwarves of Erebor and they've chosen me to represent them."

There wasn't much to say in response to that except nod and follow when Balin turned to walk back across the makeshift bridge into the Mountain.

For a little while, all Bard did was look. The hall behind the gate was badly damaged, with debris strewn everywhere and the walls black with ash and traces of dragonfire. But he could still see the giant statues of crowned Dwarves that lined the walls, some of them still whole, others broken and shattered. Banners hung from the high vaulted ceiling, their colours faded and fabric torn, coats of arms still visible after all this time. What startled him most was the shimmer of metal on the floor which he took for a pattern in the marble at first until he realized that he was seeing splashes of molten gold that had hardened again. When he looked more closely, he saw the imprints of huge claws gleaming in a pattern like that a lizard would leave, only so much larger.

The small, dark pang of satisfaction he felt at seeing the devastation Smaug had left behind here was hard to ignore.

In the hall, the Dwarves had set up their camp and Bard was given plenty of part curious, part hostile looks as Balin led him to a stone table in a corner lit by a gap in the roof, surrounded by stone-carved chairs that were just a little to high for him to sit comfortably.

"What brings you here?" Balin asked when they'd taken their seats. The air was clammy around them despite the fires, and a smell of dragon and decay still lingered.

"Your offer of help to bury my people," Bard said bluntly. "And a need for answers."

Balin nodded, raising a hand to absently brush at his white beard. "We will bury our own fallen today," he said, "and assist you tomorrow. What of the Elves? Has Thranduil made up his mind yet?"

Bard hesitated briefly, not certain whether it was his place to answer, then figured there had been a reason why it had been discussed in front of him. "They will accept as well."

Balin hummed to himself at that. "That's more reason that expected. It will be arranged, you may tell him that. Or should we send a messenger?"

"I'll tell him."

"You still are allies then."

"The Elves came to help us," Bard said and didn't bother to hide the bitterness he still felt over Thorin's refusal. "They brought food and clothes and firewood, and they stood with us yesterday."

"That was hard to miss," Balin said, then raised his hand in a placating gesture when Bard frowned at him. "I think I understand better than Thorin did what Thranduil's intentions were. I can't say I particularly like them, but I can give him some credit."

"He'll be happy to hear that," Bard said dryly.

"Indubitably. So what of those answers you wanted?"

Bard leaned back in his chair. "The people of Lake-town need to settle somewhere. In my opinion that should be here in Dale."

Studying him, Balin considered this. "And you want to know whether Erebor will be reclaimed? It wouldn't make much sense for anyone to stay in Dale otherwise."

"There was an alliance in the past."

"Which you'll need to renegotiate with Dáin," Balin said. "He'll claim the crown, it's his right as the next in line after Thorin and his sister-sons. The Lonely Mountain will be settled again. There already are more Dwarves coming here." He paused. "Perhaps you should not tell that to your pointy-eared friend just yet. Let him calm down a bit more."

"Are they going to be a threat to us?" Bard asked.

Balin rested his hands on the table. "No. I give you my word."

"I'm not certain I hold much store by the promises of Dwarves anymore."

There was a look of deep regret on Balin's face at that, and Bard was willing to believe that it was genuine. The old Dwarf had been fair in their dealings with each other, he'd been polite and the one to try and strike compromises when Thorin had been unreasonable. But the experiences of a handful of interactions were hardly enough to stake his people's future on.

"You will be given your fair share of the gold," Balin said. "I suggest you take it before Dáin claims the Mountain. Today, if you want it. I'd rather have this sorry business finally settled, and Thorin's promise to you upheld after all."

The gold. Finally. Their chance to rebuild, their chance to have a future where they wouldn't be dispossessed fugitives.

Bard exhaled slowly and tried to think past the rush of elation and excitement. There was nowhere to keep it in Dale. The people of Lake-town might be a generally honest lot, but with that kind of temptation he didn't want to think about what would happen if there was an unsecured amount of gold kept among them without real safekeeping. The Elves probably had the means to store it, but whether Thranduil would agree to take something he considered accursed was another matter.

"I won't take your word," he said slowly and saw Balin's expression darken. "But I've never heard of any Dwarf who didn't honour a contract. I'd agree to one that lets me leave the gold here in your keeping."

Balin weighed his head for a moment. "You'd trust us to keep it safe?"

"If there's one thing I know, it's that nothing gets between Dwarves and gold," Bard said with a smirk. "Well, except for dragons perhaps, but I know how to deal with those now." He paused, then continued. "I will accept your word that it is a honorable contract for both sides."

Balin nodded. "Fair enough. I'll have it sent to you before sunset today, and wait for your answer and signature." He leaned back in his chair and gave Bard an earnest look. "It's in our interest too that Dale be rebuilt," he said. "Dwarves are not interested in trade, so those who settle here will need someone to handle that. It's how the Dale of old rose, and I believe it can be the future for your people now. We don't wish your people ill, Lord of Dale. We'd rather see them prosper. It's good for us, too."

"Then we are agreed, "Bard said.

"Does that also answer your questions about our intentions?"

"Yes, though there is one more thing I want to know." He reached into his coat for the pocket where the Arkenstone was a warm weight against his chest. Carefully he drew it out and unwrapped it from the cloth he'd kept it in.

Around them, all noise ceased and silence settled throughout the vast hall, and he became aware of many pairs of eyes watching him.

"What is this?" he asked, looking first at Balin and then at the Arkenstone on the table, shining warmly from within.

"It's the Heart of the Mountain," Balin said after a long while. "A heirloom of the House of Durin. Thrain, the first King under the Mountain, found it when he established Erebor as his realm."

Bard leaned forward, his hands resting on the table on either side of the Arkenstone. "I know that much," he said. "But I also know that there's more to it. Gandalf knows more, and Thranduil acts as if it's more dangerous than the dragon ever was."

"Thranduil may be wiser than I thought," Balin said with a sigh. "The Dwarves have always told legends about the Arkenstone, and if the Elvenking recognises the gem, there may be some truth to them."

Bard held his gaze. "Tell me," he said.

Three times couldn't really be called a habit. However, Bard didn't mind doing this until they could properly make it one.

Drawing Thranduil back against him, he brushed his lips across the tender skin behind one pointy ear, then settled down into the cushions, careful not to knock them to the ground again. Thranduil's bed was fairly narrow when shared, which made for the occasional precarious almost-tumble, but it also provided a good excuse to simply share an embrace as they rested. Bard certainly wasn't going to complain about an armful of Elf curled back against him, especially since said Elf was wonderfully warm.

He'd soon need to get dressed and leave so he could sleep at what wasn't quite home yet, but there still was a little more time to be had and he intended to enjoy it. Right now he was clean, warm and rather blissfully distracted from everything.

"Something has just occurred to me," Thranduil said, sounding a little too awake for his liking.

Bard hummed in faint inquiry, letting his hand slide down Thranduil's flank to settle low against his hip, with no real intentions behind it except to get him to quiet down again.

"I'll need to rearrange our wine deliveries. From now on I doubt I can expect you to bring the barrels up the river."

Bard took a moment to parse that, then roused enough for an answer. "We'll figure something out," he murmured. "Would be a shame, it's good wine."

"Very much so. I'll have some sent to you, the Lord of Dale needs to have a proper stock. Perhaps I should simply consider a different delivery route."

That sounded a bit suspicious. Sighing, Bard briefly buried his face in Thranduil's soft hair before blinking his eyes open. "Whatever you're up to, can it wait?"

Thranduil chuckled, his body shifting against Bard's. "I forget that you Men need so much sleep."

"It's not much, just… some. Can't Elves sleep?"

"We don't need to." Thranduil's hand came up to cover Bard's, lacing their fingers together. "But we can."

"Then I suggest you give that a try." He shut his eyes again and willed Thranduil to be agreeable and just let him enjoy his brief chance at some peace and quiet. Mercifully, the Elf let him be.

When Bard woke again, he was alone in bed, the sheets piled high on top of him. He drew a slow breath, then another. Then realized that the tent was too bright for the evening, and that he was hearing voices somewhere close.

Bard sat up with a gasp. He'd slept the night away. He'd left his children alone.

Under normal circumstances that would have been bad enough. It hadn't always been avoidable; sometimes he hadn't been able to return home before morning if a trip had taken longer or he'd had to wait somewhere due to shifting schedules and changing weather. But those times had been out of his control, and he'd had to do it to be able to afford food on the table and a roof above their heads. This time however... this was pure selfishness.

"I believe your father has decided to join us," he heard Thranduil say.

"Da!"

Bard blinked. "Bain?"

He heard the smooth rustle of silk robes, and when he turned he saw a scene he had not expected: Bain and Thranduil seated at the map table, with something that looked like it might be breakfast set out before his son.

"I took the liberty of informing your children that you needed rest and would stay for the night," Thranduil mercifully explained while Bard gathered first his wits and then his clothes. "And set two of my guards to watch over them. Your son has done me the honour of joining me this morning."

"Sigrid and Tilda are with some of the Elves," Bain added. "Sigrid wanted to learn about Elf knives."

There wasn't anything intelligent he could come up with to say in reply to that, so Bard kept his mouth shut and quickly got dressed. Once again Thranduil's attendants had abducted his clothes from yesterday and replaced them, though they knew enough by now to leave him his tunic. They also hadn't touched his coat. Whether that had been coincidence or a deliberate act once they'd noticed what he kept in the pocket was something he wasn't going to question.

"Bain has told me about the black arrow you kept," Thranduil said when Bard managed to join them, still torn between guilt and fascination at seeing his son so at ease with the Elvenking. "An odd choice for a family heirloom, but clearly a wise one."

Bard hummed in agreement at hearing that. "My grandfather once told me a tale about the arrow he'd had from his own grandmother, about how we should keep the arrow because one day it would be needed again. Apparently she was very insistent."

"And wise." Thranduil offered him the customary cup of wine, though it was watered down more than it usual, perhaps out of deference to the time of day. "I remember that Estrid often saw far where these matters were concerned."

"You knew her?" Bain asked.

Thranduil nodded. "I have long been familiar with the Lords of Dale," he said. "Her grandfather was Girion and in her generation, she was the one who heeded her ancestor's duties and honoured his memory. We sometimes spoke and she was ever welcome in my realm."

"So you've known Girion and his granddaughter, but nobody after that?" Bain asked. "Was it because they no longer were lords?"

Bard didn't know whether to be proud, amused or a bit horrified at the directness of the question, so he hid his grin behind his cup and watched.

Thranduil shot him a glance that said he knew very well what was going on in Bard's head, then focused on Bain again. "It would have been difficult for them to explain how simple folk came to have the acquaintance of an Elf lord," he said. "It often causes more harm than good."

"You had something to do with the supply shipments contract, didn't you?" Bard said. "I've never found out why my family had it or where we got it from."

Thranduil merely raised an eyebrow at that.

"It's kept us from starvation more than once." Regular coin, maintained even when there had been less shipments to be made. Bard had never known who to thank for it, and had never questioned that small bit of luck.

"Girion was owed a favor," Thranduil said dismissively. "I am in the habit of honouring my debts."

"Is that what this is?" Bard asked.

Thranduil met his eyes. "My assistance to your people? You might say that it is aid returned for aid that was given a long time ago."

"I never heard of anything like that."

An amused smile curled at the corner of Thranduil's mouth. "Just because Men forget within a few generations does not mean that Elves won't uphold their duties or stay faithful friends."

Bard looked at Bain, who'd followed the discussion with curiosity. "Better remember that the Elvenking likes us. And remember to tell your children." He paused. "Actually, we'd best write it down."

"Carve it into an arrow," Thranduil suggested with a definite smirk. "Your family appears to have a talent for keeping those safe."

The glance Bain threw Bard at that said very clearly that his son was not sure whether to take that as a serious suggestion or to be concerned about the Elf's wellbeing. It was the kind of sentiment Bain had better get used to if the Elves were going to continue their contacts with Dale.

Breakfast was followed by the inevitable meeting with the captains, this morning dominated by supply reports and watch rotations. Bard was coming to realise just what it meant to lead, and his respect for Thranduil in his capacity as king had grown sharply ever since he'd begun to see just how much effort it involved. Food storage, weapons, healing supplies, the condition of the buildings the Elves had temporarily appropriated for their needs. Even the horses and carts factored in the discussions, and Bard was fairly certain Thranduil could have recited all that information afterwards and draw the right conclusions from it. And that wasn't all; there were steady streams of reports coming in from Mirkwood as well, but Bard only caught glimpses of those here and there while he attempted to fulfill his own duties.

"Walk with me," Thranduil said after the meeting with the captains had concluded. "We should be seen."

"Showing off the new robes?" It was yet another set, this time a silvery blue that looked almost practical in comparison to some of the others Bard had seen. At least the fabric didn't trail on the ground.

Thranduil treated him to a haughty look, though there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Someone needs to make up for your appearance."

"You gave me that coat."

"And I wish you'd accept a better one." Thranduil stepped out of the tent and Bard followed, partly out of curiosity to see what the Elf was up to now. "Obviously we cannot always get what we want."

"Doesn't stop you from trying," Bard said. "Don't think I didn't notice someone absconded with my boots. I liked those boots. They were good ones, and I've only had them for two winters."

"These are better. You know that your old ones were beyond hope." Thranduil slowed down for a few steps so Bard could catch up with him without needing to hurry. "More will be sent, along with clothes for the winter. It wouldn't do to let your people freeze to death due to inadequate footwear, that is just impractical."

Bard simply shook his head at that, decided that he wasn't going to argue something that would keep them all warm, and let Thranduil pick the direction once they were out in the main square.

"We've counted the refugees from Lake-town yesterday," he said as they passed the fountain, which was currently serving as a makeshift horse trough. "I'm not sure what to think of the result."

Thranduil glanced at him. "Too few men compared to the women and children?"

They hadn't had time to count before they had come to Dale, but Bard was reasonably sure the numbers had been more balanced then. The battle had taken its toll then, and that mainly among the men. Which was tragic enough in its own right, but also meant that they now lacked exactly the people they'd need for rebuilding.

"Exactly, and I don't think we've got a lot of carpenters or smiths left. And nobody with any experience with stone buildings."

A handful of Lake-towners and Elves passed them, discussing firewood, and they waited until the group was out of immediate earshot again. Bard didn't intend to keep secrets from his people, and he had no illusions about the speed at which gossip and rumours could spread, but he didn't intend to encourage imagined fears beyond the very real ones they already faced.

"I have a suggestion," Thranduil said, waiting for Bard to gesture for him to go ahead. "Talk to the Dwarves, see if they'll sell you their labour. You'll have enough gold to pay for it, and they'll be happy to get some of it back. For masonwork they'll be adequate."

"Will our share be enough?" Bard asked. He should have gotten that information from Balin, but he hadn't thought about it at the time. The rumours about the gold had been far too fantastic to believe; the real amount remained to be seen. Enough to rebuild, hopefully, or to at least make a start.

Thranduil smirked. "Unless much has changed since the last time I set foot in Erebor, I wouldn't worry."

"You've been inside the Mountain?"

"The relations between my realm and Erebor go back well beyond Dale's founding." Thranduil waved his hand dismissively. "If you wish, you can ask them to pave the streets with gold and silver."

Bard exhaled slowly. "Then I'll really have to leave the gold with the Dwarves unless I want shiny cobblestones. Balin offered to secure it with a contract."

That got him a frown and a rapid darkening of Thranduil's expression. "Dwarves are not to be trusted."

"If we're talking heaps of gold, I'm going to have to unless we stumble across a treasury. What did the Lords of Dale do in the past?"

"Leave the gold with the Dwarves," came the reluctant reply as they walked down along the southern street. Traces of the fighting were still visible here: dark smears on the stone slabs and the occasional discarded weapon, shattered or bent. Unless the weather turned warm enough for rain again, Bard saw no way to be rid of those reminders before spring.

Perhaps they should find a way to divert part of the water supply for a few hours to clean the roads. Part of the lower city had been flooded like that anyway, with one of the main aqueducts broken, so if they could get the water lines for the upper city set up during a warmer day or two… The pipes were oddly resistant against the cold - Bard suspected Dwarvish craft that kept the water from freezing - but unless they wanted the streets to freeze solid, they'd need plenty of sunshine.

"Did Balin offer a written contract?" Thranduil asked, making him focus on their discussion again. He still didn't look pleased at the idea of dealing with Dwarves.

Bard drew the folded parchment from his pocket. "Balin sent it yesterday evening. It looks fine to me, but I meant to ask you something about it anyway. Who is Elrond? Balin suggested him as an arbitrator."

If Thranduil's expression had been dark before, it now turned positively thunderous. "He is an Elf lord."

"That's probably good in a contract between Dwarves and Men."

Thranduil walked a little more swiftly, not bothering to see whether Bard kept up. "If you think so."

"Would he have any reason to favor the Dwarves?"

"Who can fathom the intentions of the esteemed Lord Elrond?"

Bard stopped in the middle of the road and heaved a sigh. "Thranduil."

The Elf continued to walk. "It is your gold, Lord Bard, I suggest you make your own decision where it is concerned."

"Elves and their damned grudges," Bard muttered, knowing only too well that Thranduil's superior hearing was bound to pick up on it. Immortality had to give you a different perspective on many things, and he knew from tales and legends that Elves were very, very good at ignoring disagreements between them rather than settling them. In the past he hadn't cared. But now it was affecting him directly, at a time when he simply had better things to do.

He watched as Thranduil disappeared around the next turn in the road without a backwards look. Apparently he wasn't going to get any help here.

Stepping out onto the small terrace overlooking the city streets further down the hill, Bard leaned his hands on the low parapet and looked towards the south, where he could see the shimmer of the Long Lake in the distance.

The Dwarves had broken their word once. Could they be trusted now? Bard didn't feel cautious around Balin the way he had with Thorin, but the old Dwarf certainly was no fool. The question was whether he was honest. The proposed contract looked simple enough - the gold would stay in the Mountain, the Dwarves would receive one coin every year for every thousand they kept safe, and any disagreements would be settled by Elrond. Who, apparently, was an Elf lord Thranduil didn't particularly like, although Bard was coming to realise that there were plenty of people Thranduil wasn't too fond of.

Still, Bard leaned towards accepting. There really wasn't much of a choice about it unless he wanted to waste far too many resources on safeguarding their treasure, and he was no fool. The news would spread, and it would be a matter of weeks until they were under attack if anyone thought they kept such riches here in Dale where they could not be secured. Let the Dwarves deal with that particular danger.

"Lord Elrond will treat you fairly, should it come to this," Thranduil suddenly said behind him. Bard hadn't heard him approach and now didn't turn around, but bowed his head in acknowledgment of his words.

"Then I'll sign," he said. "Tomorrow." They would be at the gate to the Lonely Mountain today, but that time was reserved for the burials. It wasn't a time to settle matters of gold.

His children by his side and surrounded by the remaining people of Lake-town, Bard watched in silence as the fallen were laid to rest in the graves the Dwarves had provided in the frozen ground.

There already was a freshly raised hill, covered in newly hewn stones. During the night the Dwarves had performed their own death rites, undisturbed by onlookers and outsiders. They were now watching the gathered Elves and Men from the Mountain, Bard knew, even though they were hard to see.

The two graves filled swiftly; dead Elves wrapped in their red cloaks were carefully laid into the one on the left, while those lost among the Lake-towners would lie between them and the Dwarves. Diplomacy even in death, though Bard had no head for the subtleties right now. The sight of graves didn't sit well with him, never mind that they had no real choice about it. To see their dead in the ground rather than carried away by wind and waves went against tradition, against what had been done in Lake-town ever since the first homes had been set up on the water.

Tilda leaned back against him and he rested his hands on her shoulders, letting her feel that he was there with her. It wasn't the first funeral she saw, but none of the others had been on this scale, or after so much upheaval. Everybody here had lost friends and family members, either in the devastation of Lake-town or in the past few days since then, and for all that they were attempting to treat this as closure, it would take time for the wounds to heal. Bard had been lucky that his children had come through unscathed, but he had just helped lay good friends into the grave, feeling numb and hollow at the sight.

To their left, the Elves were beginning to quietly sing in Sindarin as they placed stones on the grave of their comrades in a slow procession, heads bowed and steps measured as they filed past.

"It was the first command I had to give as a king," Thranduil had quietly said to him earlier. "Leave the fallen, do not risk the living to bury them. Since then, I've never again let it come that far. Elves don't care much about graves, but it matters to offer a farewell." Bard saw him among the Elves now, tall and distant as he watched his people take their leave.

Sigrid wiped at her cheek, then put her hand down on Tilda's shoulder as well. Bard moved his own hand to cover hers, briefly tightening his hold. Too many funerals in her life already, the first that of her mother, followed by others in the tough life on the lake. Perhaps sensing something, Bain leaned against Bard's other side, quiet as they watched their dead be covered with earth and stone.

When the graves were filled and the remaining earth piled high above them, Bard was well aware that the others expected him to lead them in this. He had thought about it earlier, without a clear idea of what might be acceptable or appropriate, considering several options before discarding them. He glanced at Thranduil, who now stood before the Elves, and made a decision.

Briefly tightening his grip on Tilda's shoulders, he murmured to her to stay with her siblings as he let go and slowly walked to the Elves' grave, coming up at Thranduil's side. He was greeted by a brief sidewards glance but not dismissed as out of place, and so he plowed on with his idea.

It was difficult to manage the Elves' farewell gesture as smoothly as they could but he did his best, laying his hand above his heart before bringing it down in a slow arc, palm turned upwards. Then he bowed his head for a few heartbeats, thinking of the Elves' generosity and kindness towards his people, of their willingness to ride into battle with them and how they had protected a city that wasn't their own.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Thranduil give a minute nod of acknowledgment, then mirror him with a lot more elegance than he could ever hope to achieve.

When it felt right, Bard took a few steps towards the grave of his own people, Thranduil accompanying him. Together they repeated the motions, and when Bard raised his head again he saw that the Elves and the people of Lake-town had begun to follow them.

He hesitated briefly before he moved on to the third grave, but then went ahead to complete his slow circuit. The Dwarves might have kept their burials apart, but that did not mean that honor could not be shown to them.

That Thranduil came with him for this was not something he dared count on. Too much bad blood between Elves and Dwarves, and one fight against a mutual enemy could not undo all that. But it seemed he had underestimated the Elvenking's understanding of the need for conciliatory gestures; Thranduil not only remained by his side but even said something in Sindarin that sounded friendly enough, even if Bard couldn't understand the words.

If there had been any doubt that the Dwarves were watching, they were dispersed when the horns of Erebor sounded as the Elves and Men walked past the graves.

That evening, an Elf delivered a small, wrapped bundle when Bard and his children sat at one of the cook fires. "Lord Thranduil hopes you will find this useful," she said and handed the bundle not to Bard but to Bain, who unwrapped it with a puzzled expression, then began to laugh.

It was an arrow. A black-painted arrow, though at least a regular archer's and not a windlance's projectile. And onto it, someone had carefully carved Lord of Dale, Girion's kin, elvellon in Westron script, along with Sindarin letters.

Bard rolled his eyes and tried not to laugh. "Elves," he muttered.

"You told him you wanted it carved somewhere," Bain said with a grin as he showed the arrow to Tilda, careful with the sharp head. "What does elvellon mean?"

"That's something you'll have to ask the elves. They'll be here for a few more days at least, there'll be time for it." Bard set down his empty bowl, careful not to let it tip over and the spoon get lost. Crockery, they had discovered, was hard to come by in Dale for some reason; most of it lay scattered on the floors in front of the cupboards where it had been kept. Potters would be in great demand come spring, once they could all be bothered with such minor issues again.

"Are they going to keep sending food?" Sigrid wanted to know, huddling closer to the fire. "I saw the new carts arrive this morning. They brought a lot of lembas."

"For now, yes," Bard said. It was something he needed to speak to Thranduil about; Dale would need food not just for the next few weeks, but for almost a year from now. The harvest had been at the end of summer and all their stores had been lost in the fire. There was nothing left to get them through the months ahead, and Bard had no idea whether the farms at the lakeshore still existed, or whether the plain could be used to grow anything. And with a rotting dragon in the lake, fishing might not be safe either, though some people were talking about going back.

He didn't think Thranduil would let them starve; Elves were good people, they'd not stand by and watch. Still, they'd need an agreement over the food and the price it would come at.

"They also brought more clothes," Tilda said. "And they said they'd have toys for the children next time. It's really nice that they noticed that nobody has anything anymore."

Sigrid nodded. "They even helped Gudrun and Frea cut up a few really nice blankets to make more diapers." She paused, then put down the empty bowl she'd still been holding. "Da, can you help me with the window in the back room? I can't get the shutters closed and Bain can't reach that high."

Nodding, Bard rose to his feet and followed her inside, leaving Bain and Tilda to tidy up around the fire. He'd need to find some time to help with cleaning up the house; the children had done their best so far, but some of the waiting tasks required more heavy lifting than they could manage. For now they had two rooms that were habitable, if the small alcove in the back could be counted as such, but that small space was at least easier to keep warm.

The window wasn't much of a problem. Once the rusted latch at the top gave way, the shutters on the outside moved with relative ease, another layer of protection against the coming winter cold. If they did something about the crack in the wall up near the ceiling, perhaps found a carpet or two somewhere, then this might be enough for the coming months to keep them sheltered.

"Da, there's something we need to talk about," Sigrid said when he'd climbed back down from the rickety chair by the window again.

Bard looked at her and waited. She'd been nervous about something for the past hour or so, ever since she had come back from her work with the women, and he'd only waited for her to make up her mind whether she wanted to speak about it. In the past he'd learned that she didn't always like to do so, that she sometimes preferred to settle matters by herself if she could, but this didn't seem to be one of those instances.

"Pregnancy."

Bard blinked. Then sat down on the chair, not caring how much it wobbled on the uneven legs.

Sigrid watched him in confusion, then covered her mouth with her hand, almost managing to hide her grin. "Not mine, Da. But some of the women are pregnant, and they didn't know how to talk to you about that and they're worried about how they'll get through the winter."

Still scrambling to get his mind into the conversation, Bard needed a moment to understand what she was trying to tell him. "We'll have enough houses repaired that there'll be space soon," he offered.

"I'm not sure that's the problem," Sigrid said. "They don't know what to do and how they'll manage. I don't think they've all got their husbands anymore, and Hemma doesn't have a husband anyway."

Bard drew a deep breath. He thought he was beginning to see where the matter lay; they'd need everybody to pull their weight during the coming months to make Dale inhabitable, and for a woman heavy with child and perhaps no surviving family... "What do you want me to do about it?" he asked.

Sigrid looked at him, frustration plain on her face. "I don't know," she said, her hands tucked into her pockets. "Something."

"Can you tell them I'll try to think of something?"

She nodded. "They'll want to know. They're really worried, Da."

Which wasn't something he could blame anyone for. Bard fought the urge to go and return the arrow to Thranduil, then tell everybody that they'd need to find someone else to handle the task of being their leader, that he wasn't cut out for this. He'd spent years trying to keep his head down and just take care of his children, even when his tongue had sometimes gotten the better of him when the Master had crossed too many lines.

"I'll try," he said again.

"Perhaps Lord Thranduil can give you some ideas?"

"I don't think he's had to worry about something like that."

Sigrid shrugged. "Maybe not," she said, crouching to tug at the blankets of their bedrolls.

Bard looked at her. "Sigrid," he said, waiting until she met his eyes. "I promise I'll think of something, just give me a few days to find a solution."

She let the matter rest at that, though he could tell she wasn't satisfied with his answer. And she was right, something needed to be done. If only he had any idea what it was.

That night he didn't sleep easily, his thoughts too busy to let him rest even as he struggled to keep still. Tilda had curled against him for warmth, her small body tucked tightly under his arm in her blankets, and he could hear the quiet breaths of Bain and Sigrid just behind her.

Dale was their future, he knew that much. Where else would they go, Rohan? He'd heard enough news at the trading posts along the River Running to not even consider it. The settlements closer to the Misty Mountains were plagued with bandits and Orcs, and the same was true for the north. The only path that might still be open to them was to leave for the east, towards the Iron Mountains, but that wouldn't make a difference. Here in Dale they at least had a home of sorts, even if it had been centuries since it had been inhabited, and would need so much rebuilding.

He'd just managed to settle into an uneasy sleep when a loud scream from somewhere outside sent him scrambling upright, his sword in hand before he could even think about what he was doing.

"Stay here!" he ordered as soon as he saw that his children were awake too. "Don't move, don't make any noise." He waited until he saw them nod, then rushed outside.

Bard didn't know what he'd expected, but it wasn't the sight that greeted him in the low light of the watchfires. Elves with their swords drawn surrounded a man who was crouched on the ground, his arms wrapped protectively around his head.

From the surrounding buildings people slowly came out, swords and spears in their hands as they took in the scene. The Elves spoke sharply to each other in Sindarin and one of them hissed something at the man on the ground, who only whimpered in reply.

"What's going on?" Bard demanded, stepping forward with his sword lowered so he wouldn't present a threat to the Elves.

One of them looked up and said something that probably was a clipped explanation, but it was in Sindarin and the few words Bard understood weren't enough to make sense of it. The Elf clearly noticed, because she waved her hand in frustration, then called out to another handful of Elves who'd stayed back to watch.

"He's a bastard, that's what's going on!" he heard a woman shout, and when he turned in that direction he saw her standing with a group who surrounded a young woman, protective rather than threatening. "Won't take no for an answer!"

Bard closed his eyes. Damn it.

More Elves rushed into the square, Feren and Imrahil among them. A few rapid conversations with the ones who guarded their prisoner, then Imrahil strode towards Bard, his expression grim.

"We'll keep him under guard for the night," he said, his voice matching his mien.

Bard met his eyes. "And then?"

Imrahil gave a humorless laugh. "Dale must have dungeons somewhere. You Men die soon anyway, it's a problem that solves itself. Put him there and leave him, in a few decades he'll no longer be your problem."

Another group of Elves arrived, these in more ceremonial armour than the companies of the night watch, and Bard spotted Thranduil behind them. But he stayed on top of the stairs, watching rather than involving himself for now.

"No," Bard said, aware that he was being observed and that at least the Elves heard every word. This was about more than just practicalities and immediate justice.

Imrahil cocked his head, strands of dark hair slipping forward over his shoulder. "You'd allow this?" he asked, his tone harsh, taking a half step forward that deliberately brought him into Bard's personal space.

Bard held his ground. "Never. But we're not wasting resources on keeping a prisoner."

"You'd have him killed?" Imrahil considered that. "Hard justice, but perhaps-"

"No." Drawing himself up straight, Bard walked across the square to the Elves' prisoner.

He recognised the man, but couldn't remember his name. One of Lake-town's guards, he thought, which was damning enough; those men had rarely been recruited for their morale. Around them, more and more of the people had come from their shelters to watch.

"Stand up," he ordered. "Your name."

The man rose shakily to his feet, and and the Elves guarding him moved back slightly, their swords and arrows still trained on him. His face was scratched and bleeding, and one eye was rapidly blackening.

"Skule," he said, his eyes hopeful. "My Lord, I didn't mean anything by it, she's been giving me the eye all day and I know her husband's dead so I thought that's what she -"

"You're outlawed," Bard interrupted. "Leave now. Never come back."

"Leave? But where do I go? There's nothing here! And there are Orcs!"

"Then I suggest you move quickly."

They weren't going to waste anything on a prisoner, and there had been enough death to make Bard shy away from the only other option. Banishment, with the next settlements several days' worth marching away, might not be that different at any rate but he refused to dwell on that.

"Take him before the wall," he told the Elves, but forced himself to keep looking in Skule's eyes. "Make sure he doesn't come back."

The Elves glanced at someone behind him, then two of them seized Skule's arms and pushed him forward, the others following them. Before they could leave the square, Imrahil stepped into their path, his sword drawn. He raised the tip until it rested against Skule's throat, making him look up.

"Run," the Elf told him in a whisper that nonetheless carried. "At sunrise, I'll come hunting."

A sharp command in Sindarin and the Elves dragged their captive away.

"You'll go after him?" Bard wanted to know, wondering whether he needed to prohibit it and how he was going to manage that. Imrahil didn't seem particularly likely to take orders from him.

Imrahil glanced at him and sheathed his sword. "No," he said. "But he doesn't know that. Let him run as far as he can, and flinch at every noise." He turned to face the assembled people in the square, smoothly stepping up onto the fountain wall to speak. "Go back to your homes," he called. "We will guard the city and not let anyone come to harm."

"So we are agreed," Balin said as he sanded Bard's signature on their contract the next afternoon. "A wise decision, I think, for Dale and Erebor. It's going to link them more closely, and that can only be good for both."

Bard nodded and took a careful sip from the cup of ale the Dwarves had provided while they sat in the Mountain's hall and dealt with the formalities. Earlier they'd also shown him the gold now in possession of Dale, and he still felt weak at the knees at the mere memory of the sight.

He'd imagined a chest full of gold, perhaps two. A cartload at most.

He certainly hadn't imagined vaults. Or a hall whose floor was made of twenty feet of solid gold, poured like water into a basin.

It made him unspeakably glad that he wouldn't have to figure out how to store all this in Dale. He didn't think there were enough cellars to hold it.

"There's something else I'd give you, if you will have it," Balin said.

Bard glanced at him. "Am I going to need a contract for that too?"

Balin chuckled. "Probably not. And you're only the messenger, if you'll agree."

"What is it?"

"A last debt to settle." Balin waved his hand, and another Dwarf brought a small wooden chest, setting it down on the stone table. It was finely crafted out of differently colored wood, the inlay patterns something Bard recognised as Elvish, not Dwarvish. "King Thrór was not able to resolve this matter anymore, and perhaps not entirely willing to do so either. And I'd rather not have the Elvenking be our enemy over this any longer. Elves have long memories, and Thranduil's reputation for holding grudges is quite a formidable one."

Bard couldn't really contradict him on that, so he listened.

"He once sent jewels to Thrór to have them repaired and re-set. There was a… disagreement, shall we say."

"Thranduil mentioned it," Bard said. "I don't think he'd have marched on the Mountain if it hadn't been for that."

"Something we'd really rather avoid in the future. Elves are much easier to appreciate when they stay where they belong and don't gather an army before our walls."

"I rather like them where they are right now," Bard said with a smile. "They've got their advantages."

"That, my lad, is your opinion." Balin pushed the chest towards him. "Please give this to Lord Thranduil with our hope that he won't have any more reason to come to our doorstep with an army."

Bard raised an eyebrow at that and took the chest, not opening it. "I'll tell him. Which leaves one last matter to settle."

"The Arkenstone." Balin heaved a sigh. "Frankly, it might have been best if that had been lost."

"You're not inspiring much confidence. And you're certainly not making me want to keep it."

"It's valuable beyond measure, "Balin said.

"Then let Bilbo have it again. He claimed it as his share and I don't need it anymore as a bargaining chip." He tapped his finger against the jewelry box. "Neither does Thranduil."

"Bilbo won't have any use for it, and I'm not sure he'd welcome the memories." Balin reached up to absently stroke his white beard, then shook his head. "Keep it, Lord of Dale. I'd rather not see another of my kings fall under its spell, and you seem immune so far."

"If I didn't know that you've got good, selfish reasons for all your generosity, I'd feel suspicious." Bard emptied his cup and set it down again. "I assume my next talks are going to be with Dáin?"

"He'll be crowned after we bury Thorin," Balin said. "Then I'll no longer be the guardian of the Mountain. A shame, really, it's not so bad."

"Maybe find a mountain for yourself," Bard suggested.

Balin hummed thoughtfully at that. "Maybe I will."

The ride back to Dale was becoming familiar by now, as was the view of the city. There'd be a lot to do come spring, when the weather would let them begin rebuilding in earnest. And with the Dwarves' agreement that they'd assist in the construction - in exchange for what Bard suspected would be no small amount of gold - it should even be doable within a reasonable amount of time.

There were Elves guarding the walls, as had become usual over the past days, and Bard spotted a few Lake-towners among them here and there. A token presence given the far better senses of Elves, but apparently one that was accepted for now. If Imrahil hadn't noticed yet, they might just get away with it.

Thranduil was in his tent by the time Bard found a free moment to carry out his delivery, once again dealing with reports by the looks of it. The letters were laid aside with something that looked a lot like relief when Bard poked his head through the tent's entry.

"So the Dwarves haven't decided to keep you prisoner after all," he said, rising from his throne, once again leaving his outer robes draped across it. Bard was beginning to wonder why he even bothered with them; so far he suspected it was for dramatic impact. It certainly wasn't necessary to keep the Elf warm, not with all the braziers lit and the tent's entrances covered.

"It's been a narrow escape, but I managed," he said. "And you counted on it, given that you had the wine already poured and the tent heated."

Thranduil treated him to an arched eyebrow before passing him the goblet. "I have some faith in your abilities."

"I even managed to bring you something. Well, Balin wants you to have it and I agreed to be the messenger." Bard raised the leather bag he'd used to transport the jewelry box safely and offered it to Thranduil, who took it with an expression of faint curiosity.

Then he looked inside and stopped moving entirely. Bard wasn't certain he still breathed.

"Thranduil?"

He didn't receive an answer; Thranduil was too focused on the box as he carefully pulled it out of the bag and set it down on the map table. He brushed his fingertips over the wood inlays, then turned the key in the lock at the front and slowly raised the lid.

The box was filled with white gems that shone bright as stars even in the low light of the tent. Most of them were loose, but some had been set into a delicate necklace, much finer than anything Bard had ever seen in his life. There was a feeling about them of age and power, and he could suddenly see why Thranduil would be willing to go to war for them.

"Elbereth be praised," Thranduil murmured, reaching to touch the gems with an expression of sheer reverence on his face.

"What are they?" Bard asked after a little while.

Thranduil glanced at him, then his attention reverted to the gems. "What remains of the Nauglamir," he said quietly. "The last that is left of the great realm of Elu Thingol before it fell to fire and sword. I remember seeing him wear this necklace at court when I was a child, and I've never seen anything like it since that day. Lúthien Tinúviel wore it when Beren reclaimed it for her, and Dior Eluchíl and Elwing after her. My father collected what parts of it he could find after it was broken and the Valar gave the Silmaril from its center to Eärendil the Mariner."

"I didn't realise that you are so old," Bard said honestly. He knew those names from tales told and lays sung at the fire, but he hadn't thought that anyone could still be left in Middle-Earth who knew them as more than tales of times long gone.

Thranduil cast him a wry smile. "Older than at least one star in the sky," he said, then carefully closed the jewelry box after one last look. "Thank you for returning these to me."

"Thank the Dwarves," Bard said, then grinned when he saw Thranduil roll his eyes. "I'm merely the messenger."

"Who deserves to be rewarded, I should think."

Cocking his head, Bard set his goblet aside. "I do have a contract that says I'm to be paid for transports I run for the King of the Woodland Realm."

"In that case I'd better uphold my side of the bargain." Leaning in, Thranduil framed Bard's face in his hands and kissed him, gently at first before becoming more demanding. "What would you ask of me?" he murmured against Bard's lips before claiming them again.

Bard leaned back a little to look up at him, his hands at Thranduil's waist to keep him from stepping away. "Fewer of those fine clothes might be a start," he said with a smile. "And a bed after that."

Thranduil laughed quietly, sounding genuinely amused rather than deliberate. "I believe that can be arranged."

"Also, some help with those fastenings on your tunic," Bard added after a moment of trying to figure them out, his fingers tangled in the fabric at Thranduil's neck. "You really need to wear your clothes more than once, that would help immensely."

"You will just have to practice more often," Thranduil countered, covering Bard's hands with his own and showing him how to work the intricate clasps. Elves, Bard thought absently as the smooth silk slowly gave way. Never simple.

Not that he was about to complain. And in the end, his mind very firmly focused on warm touches and bright pleasure, it wasn't so complicated anyway.

Sleeping with an Elf - and a male one at that - wasn't something Bard had ever considered, not that there had been any reason to do so. But there hadn't been much thought involved in this at first, and now Bard found himself enjoying Thranduil's company as much as their more vigorous activities, though those were wonderful at taking his mind off the thousands of large and small concerns he needed to handle.

Carefully turning over to keep hold of the bedsheet, he curled himself closely against the Elf's warm body, his limbs still heavy with sated contentment. Soon he'd need to get up and deal with the rest of the day's matters, but for now he just let his mind drift, smiling when Thranduil's hand came up to slowly card through his tangled hair.

"Remind me to send you a brush," Thranduil murmured.

Bard hummed absently. "Add a razor while you're at it."

The Elf's smooth fingertips slid across his face, exploring the stubble on his cheeks before tracing his beard. "A small blade may be the best I can do in that regard."

"That's true, you Elves don't manage beards, do you?"

Thranduil tapped his finger gently against Bard's cheek for that comment. "Fortunately not. Only Círdan has ever grown a beard, and he's been considered strange even before the Second Age dawned. I've never heard of any others."

Sighing contentedly, Bard shifted to make himself more comfortable. "I'll have to tell Bain, he's been fretting about not needing to shave yet. If it's all right for Elves, it's going to be fine for him."

"He's a sensible young man, I'm sure he'll see the advantages." Thranduil reached to adjust one of the cushions and they settled down again.

"Bain's a good boy," Bard agreed, his eyes drifting shut. He shouldn't sleep, there was too much to do still, but it was hard to resist. "And Sigrid and Tilda, too. I'm lucky."

Belatedly he wondered whether he shouldn't have said that when Thranduil's own son had left only days ago, but the Elf interrupted his thoughts before he could come to a conclusion. "Your daughter has asked for an audience."

Bard frowned. "Tilda?" She liked tales of kings and queens, perhaps she'd decided to get a closer look.

"I believe Sigrid is the older of the two? She approached Galion about it this morning." Thranduil trailed his fingers along Bard's ear, lingering at the top where an Elf's ear would not be so rounded. "I will invite her this evening."

"Should I come with her?" He wasn't worried that she might misbehave or run into trouble, but he couldn't think of a reason why she'd want to speak to the Elvenking. Curiosity, most likely, which could be a good thing after the past days when she'd seen Elves mostly as deadly fighters. Bard was only too well aware that Thranduil was just as lethal as any of his warriors, but he felt reasonably sure that the Elf would not deliberately frighten a young girl. Sure enough that he might let Sigrid do this by herself.

"Ask her," Thranduil suggested, then leaned in to brush his lips against Bard's forehead in a fleeting kiss. "She won't come to any harm. I might even feed her dinner."

"Better be prepared to have all three of them as your guests for every meal from now on if you do that," Bard said. "They're all growing, you have no idea what they can put away right now if they work together on it."

The look on Thranduil's face said that he could guess at Bard's thoughts of days when the nets had remained empty and the money hadn't been enough to bring home food. "That shouldn't be a concern. There is no reason for any of your people to go hungry."

"They're being careful to set some of the food aside, just in case."

"In case we forsake them?" Thranduil sighed and sat up, the sheet pooling in his lap. He didn't seem to care about the cooler air on his bare skin. "A word, Lord of Dale."

Bard raised his eyebrows and waited, and a moment later was pinned against the cushions by Thranduil's hands on his shoulders.

"I don't care about the Dwarves, they'll need to handle their own supply lines. But your people may count on our assistance until the next harvest when you will be able to feed yourselves." Thranduil's blank expression changed to a smirk. "I do hope you like lembas."

Bard looked up at him, judged the mood and swiftly pushed up to roll them over so he was on top, almost tumbling them off the bed in the process. "I think the taste of your kindness has grown on most of them, oh King of the Woodland Realm," he said with a grin, then bowed his head to claim a kiss, only to be stopped by a sharp tug at his hair.

Thranduil watched him, blue eyes unreadable at a sudden. "You are aware that this between us is just that, and not a prerequisite for anything else?"

The tone was serious enough that Bard gave it the consideration it deserved. "I'll tell you what I told you that first evening. I know there is no price on your help, and that this," he gestured vaguely, "doesn't concern our people, only the two of us. You're too honorable for anything else."

Thranduil drew a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. "A compliment I can only return," he said.

Bard studied him for a moment longer before attempting another kiss. This time he wasn't deterred but rather drawn down into a warm embrace, and for a while they didn't concern themselves with outside matters.

Sigrid returned to their home late that evening, a thoughtful expression on her face and a small satchel in her hand. She was also escorted by Imrahil, who looked thoroughly disgruntled at the idea of performing something as mundane as guard duty for a simple girl.

At first Bard had wanted to accompany her for her audience with Thranduil, but by the time he had been done with settling the hundred small matters that all wanted his attention, she'd been gone already. So he'd sighed when he'd noticed, wished her luck in his mind, and turned back to figuring out whether they should reclaim the fountain in the main square or the well closest to the old market first.

"It was interesting to talk to him," Sigrid told him. "But I thought Elves would know more about us. He needed explanations for a lot of things."

Or wanted to put you at ease while he found out why you were there, Bard thought. It was a move he definitely wouldn't put past Thranduil, and it would have been a fairly kind way to handle Sigrid.

"So what did you two speak about?" he asked as he accompanied her to fetch water from the nearest well they'd found that could be used right now. It wasn't in the most convenient location, but for now it served them well enough as a primary water source and they were careful to keep it from freezing over.

Sigrid shrugged and shifted the bucked she was carrying into her other hand. "I wanted his opinion on a few matters. And I wanted to know more about Elves. You've never let us meet any."

"That wasn't because of the Elves, that was because taking you on the trips up the Forest River would have been dangerous," Bard said. "If I'd know you were curious, I'd have caught one of the Elves from the patrols for you and brought him home in a barrel."

Sigrid cast him the kind of look that spoke very clearly about what she thought of the idea. "They're here now, so I want to know more. Did you know that many don't speak anything but Sindarin? It must be so strange for them here. Tilda said one of the healers she helped today couldn't say more than 'yes', 'no' and a few really bad swearwords."

"I'm not sure Tilda should be learning how to swear from Elves." They carefully walked down the steep road - imaginatively named Steep Road just yesterday - to the lower part of the city. More functioning wells really had to be a priority from here on; it wouldn't do to have their water supply harder to access than necessary. "Perhaps they'll learn Westron."

"Or we'll learn Sindarin," Sigrid said. "Thranduil says it's not so difficult."

Bard glanced at her. "I'm starting to feel really sorry that I missed your talk."

"He wants to discuss that with you anyway."

"He does?"

Sigrid nodded. "He and I had a few ideas, but he says that he needs to discuss them with you because you're Lord of Dale and you need to decide. But he really seemed nice about it. He gave me paper and ink and pens so I could write down notes if I need to."

"Sigrid, just what did you two talk about?"

His daughter looked at him and straightened, the way she always did when she had something to tell him that she didn't think would please him. "He's still thinking about the details."

Bard reached out to touch her upper arm, and they both came to a halt in the middle of the deserted road. "Sigrid."

For a moment he thought she'd be stubborn and stay silent, and he was more than ready to go and find out from Thranduil what this was all about. But then she heaved a sigh and marched on. "I told him that it's going to be really hard to get everybody through the winter here. Which it will be, you know that."

Frea had mentioned it a few times when they'd tried to figure out the next steps they needed to take to turn from refugees to proper settlers, and he still remembered Sigrid's concerns. But Bard had been under the impression that it would all work out, especially with the supplies they stood to receive from the Elves.

"We'll manage," he tried to assure Sigrid, but she just walked on, taking the last corner to the well.

"It's going to be hard, Da." She set the bucket down by the well with more force than necessary, and Bard stepped close so she'd see what she was doing while he held the torch high. "Bain helped us count the people today, and there are so many children but we couldn't find the parents for all of them."

Sighing, Bard reached out to gather her close in a one-armed embrace. "I know," he whispered into her hair when she leaned against him. "I know. But we won't abandon them. If their parents are no longer there to care for them, we'll find someone."

Sigrid leaned back so she could look up into his face. "I did. Find someone."

Bard frowned and waited for her to explain.

"I told Thranduil about it and he didn't look happy when he heard. Then he said that if it's this difficult, we can send the children and the others who can't take care of themselves alone to Mirkwood for the winter." She held his gaze, her expression pleading. "Will you think about it? You should think about it."

It took effort to keep his voice even. "Yes," he said, "I'll think about it."

"Just what were you thinking?" Bard practically shouted a little while later as he stood in Thranduil's tent.

Thranduil watched him with the same infuriatingly blank expression he'd shown Gandalf and Thorin, but didn't say anything. Instead he smoothed his robes so they fell in flawless lines, stood straight and waited.

"You can't make such promises to Sigrid. And why were you talking to her about that anyway? She's a child, she shouldn't have to worry about these things! It's bad enough that she's had to see her entire life turn upside down, she shouldn't be burdened with that kind of responsibility. It's not for her to carry!"

In a slow, measured move Thranduil turned and walked out of the tent, and when Bard stalked after him he saw the guards begin to turn to block his path, only to be stopped by the flick of Thranduil's hand. For some reason, that gesture only made him angrier.

"So what is your plan? Will you take my people away? Are you even going to ask them, or are we just going to get your orders about it? If that's the price for your help, then I find myself unwilling to pay it!"

Thranduil took the few steps to stand before the old throne of Dale. Behind him, the fires of Erebor could be seen lighting up the Mountain in the distance.

Bard followed, recalling the moment when they had stood here and listened to Gandalf demand that they stand down. He'd followed Thranduil's advice then, but right now he was far from willing to do so again.

"Sigrid is going to be crushed when she finds out that I can't agree to this. Why did you have to make her think that she should speak about this to you? You had no right!"

Before he could react, Thranduil seized his arm; a spin and a shove and Bard found himself sitting on the hard, cold stone of the throne of Dale, a thoroughly irate Elf before him who seemed to shine with a cold inner light.

"I should have you declared unfit and let your daughter be proclaimed Lady of Dale, she's by far the more sensible one!" Thranduil hissed, his tone chilling Bard to the bone.

"Leave my daughter out of this!"

"Silence!" His hands gripping the armrests of the throne, Thranduil leaned forward until their faces were barely a hand's width apart. "You will hear me, Lord of Dale, and you'd better listen well."

Bard held his gaze and refused to look away, his jaw clenched.

"If you are too foolish see reason, that is your concern alone, but I will not have it said that you were not advised well. Your people will not make it through the winter alive here. Not all of them will die; you'll be left with the strong and unhurt, and after a few warmer weeks they'll recover from the ordeal. But your old, your injured? Your children? I suggest you go to the Dwarves tomorrow and ask them to dig another grave now while the ground is not yet covered in snow."

He wanted to say something in reply, but his voice would not cooperate. Elven magic, perhaps, or just the anger in those grey eyes. All he could do was sit still and hold his head up high.

"You may not see the winter that is coming, but I do," Thranduil went on, his voice no longer echoing with power, but still hard and cold. "I can feel it, I can hear its steps as it draws near. It will be harsh and it will claim lives if you don't take precautions. Are you willing to live with that, Dragonslayer?"

Thranduil straightened and took a step backwards, his eyes never leaving Bard's. The distance made it a little easier to breathe, though words still wouldn't come and the air still felt impossibly cold around them.

"Your daughter sees reason, so I made her an offer. My people will shelter those of yours who cannot fend for themselves, who cannot be protected here. And if you won't accept it, I will strike this deal with your daughter instead of you. She asked for it, and she will take it. And she will be right to do so. You know it, even if your pride doesn't let you admit it."

"You're the right one to talk about pride," Bard growled when he found his voice again.

A smirk settled on Thranduil's face. "As the one who is being reasonable, I'm well within my rights."

"Reasonable," Bard muttered. Part of him knew that Thranduil's offer was a sound one, but the thought of abandoning his people didn't sit at all well with him. If they wanted his leadership, then they were his responsibility and he would have to repay their trust in him. They had chosen Dale as their new home when they had followed him. He couldn't ask them to leave yet again.

"Reasonable," Thranduil repeated. "We will take the weaker members of your group and keep them safe for the winter, then return them in spring. If nothing else, it will ease the burden on the supply crews."

Bard glared at him. "You should have left my daughter out of it."

Thranduil didn't look at all impressed as he calmly stood before Bard and regarded him. "Believe it or not, she was the one to come to me with this issue."

And that thought rankled. Bard couldn't blame Sigrid for taking her concerns to the one person she thought could do something about them directly, not when she had attempted to speak to him before. But he would have dealt with the matter as soon as they got the immediate concerns out of the way. Which, obviously, had not been soon enough in her eyes.

He sighed. "So how do we do this? Do you just pack them into the carts and leave?"

"You inform them of my offer to offer shelter to those who are too infirm to stay for the winter. And when I lead my host back, we will take them with us."

"And when will that be?"

Thranduil hesitated briefly. "Two days, I believe. The Dwarves have asked for my presence at the funeral of Thorin and his heirs, and I find myself in the mood to acquiesce, so I will wait."

"How very kind of you." Bard shook his head and leaned forward, his arms on the armrests of the throne. "I know Sigrid is right about the injured and the children, we can't keep them safe here."

"And you don't have a use for them in times of strain," Thranduil said bluntly. "Keep those who can be put to work. The rest will come with us. And I expect Sigrid to come with them."

"No." He didn't even need to think about it.

"They'll need someone to speak for them and to lead them. She is your daughter and it has been her idea." Thranduil shrugged. "Who else would you send? Besides, then she can keep an eye on her younger sister."

"I'm not sending my children away!"

"Yet you expect your people to do so with their own." Thranduil stepped closer again. "You need to show them that they can trust in this decision. That you trust me with your daughters. I am well aware that it is not easy for a father to do so. But just as I must set my children duties for the good of our people, so must you."

Bard sighed. "I'd ask for your son in exchange, but I'm not sure we'd know what to do with Legolas, to be honest."

A fond smile crossed Thranduil's face at that. "He may be better suited to forest patrols and messenger duties, I agree. But you can have Imrahil. It would do him good to spend some time among Men, he has been getting a little… confused about the proper ways to interact."

"He's an arrogant bastard," Bard said bluntly.

"I must object to the bastard."

"Not the arrogance though, I see."

Thranduil didn't dignify that with an answer. "Speak to your daughters, and we will make plans tomorrow," he said. "Though I can guess at their answers."

"Me too, unfortunately. If this really was Sigrid's idea, she'll want to see it through." Bard shook his head. "She's too young for this. She shouldn't be thinking about such matters."

"In my experience, fate has little concern for such considerations." Thranduil offered his hand in a conciliatory gesture, and Bard took it as he got to his feet, the Elf's fingers warm against his own. "Speak to her and tell me of her decision tomorrow."

Bard nodded. "I will. And there is another matter I would speak to you about."

"Will there be more shouting?" Thranduil asked as they walked down the steps side by side. "If not, we can do this in more comfortable surroundings."

"I don't plan on it." They stepped into the tent together, and Bard was poured his customary cup of wine. "I'm beginning to see why you needed so many barrels delivered to your palace if this is how you greet all visitors."

Thranduil waited until Bard had drunk from his cup, then took a sip from his own. "A mere courtesy, for those who are welcome in my halls." He glanced around his tent. "Wherever they may be at the time."

"You didn't give any to Gandalf."

"I never do, but so far he hasn't taken the hint." Thranduil shook his head. "Wizards. So what is this other matter?"

Bard almost reached into his coat pocket for the Arkenstone, then remembered Thranduil's reaction to the gem and thought better of it. "The Dwarves don't want the Arkenstone."

He saw Thranduil tense at the mention of the gem. "Who would have thought that they'd show some sense."

"So what do I do with it?"

"You still have it?"

"You told me to keep it safe."

"And of course you did." Sighing, Thranduil raised a hand to briefly cover his face. "Will the Halfling take it?"

Bard shook his head. "He has no use for it."

"Though that may be the safest place for something as dangerous as this. He would make a great guardian in his innocence." Thranduil drank from his wine again, then sat down on his throne, for once not in his casual sprawl but with his back straight and his focus on Bard. "I can only advise you not to keep it either."

"Is it that dangerous?"

Thranduil's expression hardened. "If it is what I suspect, then yes. I only ever saw one of the Silmarils, and it was not this one. But there are enough similarities that I have little doubt about it."

Bard resisted the urge to reach into his pocket and touch the gem, feel its warmth and the way it almost seemed to breathe under his touch. "Are the tales true? Balin mentioned a few legends when I asked, but I find them hard to believe."

"Which ones? That Fëanor captured the light of the Two Trees in them? That he and his sons swore an oath to slay all who kept the accursed gems from them?" Thranduil paused. "I do not know the answer to that, though I believe the stories to be accurate. But what I know is that I saw Thingol be torn apart by Dwarves for the Silmaril he wore set in the Nauglamir. I was there when Dior fell to Celegorm's sword when Fëanor's sons brought death and ruin to us for their father's creation, and when Elwing cast herself out into the sea to keep the jewel safe and left her sons behind in the hands of kinslayers."

"That's not particularly reassuring."

"It wasn't meant to be." Thranduil refilled both their cups, then carefully set down the carafe. "If the Arkenstone is indeed a Silmaril, its fate is still linked to Fëanor and his sons. Only one still wanders along the shores of Middle-Earth, but wherever he is, his oath must eventually drive him to claim it. And others may covet it as well." He drank deeply from his cup and sat down on the throne again. "Perhaps you should simply throw it into the Long Lake. It will surface again at some point, but hopefully far from our people."

Sigrid had always reminded Bard of his wife, more than her brother and sister ever did. She had the same slant to her grey eyes, the same light brown hair. Bard was also coming to realise that she had inherited her mother's assertiveness.

"If Thranduil wants me to go with the others, then of course I'm going," she said, hands tucked into her coat pockets as she walked with Bard to check the new supply transports.

"You don't have to," Bard said. "And you should call him Lord Thranduil."

"He said I don't have to because I'm the daughter of the Lord of Dale. Which is a bit weird, but I guess you are, aren't you?"

Bard gave a somewhat helpless shrug.

"I've been polite, don't worry. And you don't call him your Majesty either, do you?"

Bard cast her a sideways glance. "Not anymore."

"Then surely it's fine. Did he tell you when we need to leave?"

"The day after tomorrow."

Sigrid's expression fell at that. "So soon?" she asked, suddenly back again to sounding young enough that he wanted to hug her close and keep her safe. "I thought there'd be more time."

"There is still time for a change of plans," he offered. If she didn't want to go, he wouldn't allow anyone to force her, not when his own heart ached at the thought. For all her life, he'd never left her and her siblings alone for more than a week at a time, and those cases had been as rare as he could possibly make them. To think that both Sigrid and Tilda might be gone for the entire winter… it was a thought he didn't want to consider, no matter how aware he was that rationally it would be a sound decision.

Sigrid shook her head. "Tilda can't go alone," she said quietly. "And she shouldn't stay here. We've got to do this, Da, you know that."

Bard sighed. "I know. I don't have to like it, do I?"

She gave him a little smile. "It won't be that bad. Now you and Bain don't have to complain anymore that Tilda and I get up so early."

"I'd gladly be up before sunrise if you two stayed, and I don't think Bain would mind either." At least his son would still be here. A strange thought; Bard had always imagined that Bain might be the first to leave their close-knit family.

They came into the lower square where the Elves had set up the supply stores, and for a while they were busy with helping to unload the carts and checking what had been delivered. Mostly it was the promised firewood, dry and ready to be used, but there also were more vegetables, dried meat and plenty of small lembas packages wrapped into surprisingly green leaves.

It was enough to get them through the next few weeks at least, and Bard knew there was more coming to fill their stores for the winter before the snow could come in earnest. Thranduil had insisted that they still had a few weeks until the roads became difficult to navigate and that the heavy snow would only arrive around the solstice, and Bard had no reason not to believe him. The forest patrols had been able to reliably predict the weather for a week whenever Bard had encountered them, and they'd warned him of storms often enough. It stood to reason that Thranduil could do the same, if not better. He'd certainly sounded convinced enough, and not even the weather was probably brave enough to defy the Elvenking when he wasn't in the mood to be proven wrong.

"Do you think they eat something other than lembas?" Sigrid asked when they unloaded crate after crate of those.

Bard couldn't help laughing at her wrinkled nose. "You can only hope. But they've obviously got plenty of turnips as well."

That only got him a scowl; none of his children had ever been fussy eaters, but if there was one food Sigrid loathed with a passion, it was turnips.

"Are you truly all right with this?" he asked her, turning serious again. "You can change our mind, you know that. Just because it was your suggestion does not mean that you must be the one to go with them."

Sigrid tugged the sleeves of her coat down to cover her wrists again, then met his eyes. "I know. And I don't want to leave, but I think I should."

Together they finished the unloading, then walked back to the main square, their work done for now. They were far from settling into a proper pattern yet, but most of the new inhabitants of Dale were beginning to figure out their places and where they could be of the best use. A few more days, then perhaps they'd manage something approaching routine.

Or not, what with losing yet another group of people, though mercifully not to death this time. Bard watched Sigrid as she walked beside him, her mind doubtlessly on keeping score of the supplies and tracking all the other tasks around the camp she had taken on. That she'd keep an eye on Tilda in the Woodland Realm was reassuring, but the mere thought of sending them both away for so long was almost unbearable. His daughters, his family… if only there were a way.

He could go with them, he knew. If he abandoned the people of Dale. And for the briefest of moments he was tempted to do so until he ruthlessly quenched that thought.

So he did his best that evening to give his children as much attention as he was able to, aware that it would have to last them all for some time to come.

"Tilda," he called when they finally managed to settle in their spot on the steps of their makeshift home together, and he saw Sigrid's eyes on her sister. "Come here for a moment, I need to speak to you about something."

He didn't want to have to do this to her. He didn't want to tell her that she'd need to leave for the winter, that she wouldn't see him or Bain for months and that this wouldn't happen in weeks, but within days. But there was no way around it, and so he did his best to go through with it.

"You could come with us," she suggested desperately when they built up their small fire together. Her eyes were still bright with tears from the news, though she'd done her best not to cry. It had been hard to explain the necessity of it all to her, and Bard wasn't sure she'd accept it before it was time to leave.

"The Elves haven't got that much space," he told her gently, doing his best to sound reassuring and calm, even though the thought of sending her and Sigrid away broke his heart.

She gave him a pleading look. "If some of the Elves are staying here, then surely there'll be room for you and Bain in the forest?"

"Da can't go, he's got to stay here and make sure that the people fix the city," Bain told her. "So you and Sigrid have a nice place to come back to in spring."

"It's going to be that quick?" Tilda asked, looking around at the ruined buildings.

Bain grinned and handed her a few twigs for the fire. "Sure, we'll work hard. You'll see, it's all going to be fine."

Bard wished he could share his son's optimism in that regard. A group of Dwarves had come over from Erebor this afternoon, and there had been a lot of muttering and frowning and stroking of beards as they'd surveyed the stonework. Nothing had been said about it being an impossible task, but they'd grumbled about needing to wait for more work crews from the Iron Mountains for all that needed to be done. It hadn't sounded like they'd be done within a few weeks.

"Then you'll have to visit," Tilda said, turning to give Bard a pleading look. "And Bain too."

Her brother was still smiling at her, though Bard could see the strain in his face at the knowledge that he wouldn't see his sisters for a long time. "Perhaps we won't have time? Da and I need to make sure you and Sigrid will have a nice house to come back to."

"But you could come, just for a few days," she whispered. "Please."

Briefly Bard debated agreeing with her, but then discarded the thought. He'd never lied to his children, he wasn't going to start now. "I'm not sure it's possible in winter. But Thranduil has promised that he'll take good care of you and that you'll have anything you need. You'll be fine, and spring is going to come much sooner than you think, you'll see."

Now if only he could convince himself of it as he held her close, his face buried in her soft brown hair.

The sun had barely risen yet when the Dwarves held the burial rites for Thorin the next morning in a hall carved deep under the Mountain, where no outside light would ever shine. Three sarcophagi had been brought in for the king and his heirs, the cold stone pale in the flickering light of the countless lamps held by Dwarves who stood watch over their fallen leaders.

Outsiders played no great role in Dwarven funerals, and all visitors were soon led outside again without much fanfare. No Dwarf in the Mountain seemed eager to spend any time with visitors who had been invited only because it couldn't be avoided, so Bard and Thranduil were quickly left to their own devices at the gates of Erebor.

"Dwarves," the Elf muttered as he swung up into the saddle of his horse. "They will never develop manners, or a sense of propriety when dealing with guests. Or understand why no home should be shrouded in darkness."

Bard shot him a wry grin as he climbed onto his own horse with considerably less grace. "As if you were that eager to stay. I thought your own halls are underground as well, shouldn't you be used to it?"

"It is, but there is light and air, and far more beauty and elegance to it all. Dwarves and their strange need to hide from the sun and stars, as if they were afraid of the open sky." Thranduil waited until Bard had settled into the saddle, then nudged his horse into motion. Bard's horse followed without needing any prompting from its rider, unwilling to abandon its herd mate.

"They didn't build it with Elves in mind, I think," Bard said. "They certainly were surprised that you accepted their invitation."

Thranduil looked thoroughly pleased at that assessment. "Other than Dwarves, I do know what is appropriate. And it is always good to seize any opportunities to defy their expectations."

He certainly had achieved that goal when he had stepped forward to lay a finely forged Elven sword into Thorin's folded hands. The entire hall had fallen silent at the sight, and the confusion radiating from the Dwarves had been almost physical. Whatever the meaning behind that gesture had been, the message had been unexpected, which in turn was something Bard had come to expect from the Elf.

It also had given Bard an idea about how to solve one of his own problems.

The Arkenstone now rested on Thorin's chest inside the sarcophagus, hopefully shut away forever by the Dwarves' respect for their dead. The silence after Thranduil's offering had been replaced with murmurs when Bard had moved forward, and he'd been very much aware of hundreds of eyes staring at him when he'd placed the gem with the dead king who'd desired it more than anything else.

"What happens now?" he asked as they slowly rode back to Dale in the early morning light.

Thranduil glanced at him, then looked ahead again. "If they keep with their traditions of old, they will extinguish the furnaces and all other fires for the rest of the day once they have performed their ceremonies. I imagine those atrocious horns they have in that Mountain will also be sounded again. I shall have to warn my troops to cover their ears."

Bard chuckled. "It's not that bad."

"Men have such half-deaf ears, or you would not say that." Thranduil drew himself up straight in the saddle when they came onto the straight stretch of road leading across the northern bridge up to Dale.

A little later, when all his people had assembled atop the walls facing Erebor to pay their respects, Bard had to fight a small smile when Kyrre managed to sound one of the horns they had found in Dale, the deep tones carrying far through the clear, quiet air in response to the horns of Erebor.

"What have I done to be banished?" Imrahil demanded to know a few hours later, after he had been summoned by his king. Bard was in attendance as well and seated in his by now customary chair in Thranduil's tent, his customary cup of wine in hand, though the two Elves were currently ignoring him.

Thranduil regarded the dark-haired Elf for a moment. "I would not consider it banishment. Rather, it is an opportunity to expand your skills in an area where they might still be lacking."

It was a little surprising to see Thranduil permit such protest from one of his captains, and it left Bard wondering what other goals he was pursuing with it. On the surface, this was about Imrahil's new posting to Dale as the commander of the Elven forces which would be left here as protection and as much-needed muscle for the rebuilding effort. But there was an undercurrent of something else flowing through this conversation that Bard couldn't quite figure out.

"I have demonstrated that I know how to command large forces," Imrahil said, his left hand on the hilt of his sword. "And I have no interest in leading a settlement like Calemir does."

"That is good to hear," Thranduil answered, his voice dangerously calm as he lounged on his throne. "Because you won't need to lead. That task is Lord Bard's prerogative. It would serve you well to remember that."

And here it is, Bard thought as he watched Imrahil stiffen at those words.

"But-"

Thranduil raised a hand, and Imrahil fell silent in response. "Our relations with Dale need to be strong, and a defensive force must be maintained for now that works with the Men of Dale until they can handle these tasks by themselves." Which could easily take a decade, Bard knew, and he had no doubts that Thranduil was well aware of it too. "I require a leader of this force who can command it, raise a local militia at the same time, and who is also aware that it is the Lord of Dale who carries the final authority."

Imrahil looked thoroughly scandalised for a moment, then schooled his face into a smoother expression, his gaze still a glare.

"Perhaps someone else can be found?" Bard asked. "Someone who does not think of my city as bleak exile?"

"He will come around to the idea," Thranduil said dismissively. "Dale is charmingly rustic, in some ways."

Bard shot him an amused glance at that, which was answered by a briefly quirked eyebrow. "Perhaps to you Elves. I'll have you know that we managed to set up running water in the lower city again this morning, at least where the aqueduct's not too broken. The old pipes must be Dwarvish to keep from freezing shut."

"Excellent, then baths should be in your near future. A few years and we may consider Dale almost civilised, certainly in comparison with Erebor at least. You see, Imrahil, there is little reason for concern."

Imrahil was watching Bard like a belligerent mule, but managed a terse nod at Thranduil's words. "Yes, my Lord," he muttered.

"I should probably be offended on behalf of the people of Dale at such a lack of enthusiasm," Bard said. "We've already made progress, and from tomorrow on the Dwarves will be here to take on the masonry work."

"Dwarves," Imrahil repeated faintly.

"They have been contracted for the winter to help us rebuild." And would be paid well for their services. Bard had no experience whatsoever in what it cost to make a ruined city habitable again, but he had a feeling that the Dwarves were jumping at the opportunity to re-earn some of the gold they had more or less freely given to Bard.

Imrahil rolled his eyes. "First Men, then Dwarves. What is next, will there be a dragon in the belfry?"

Bard shot him a smile in return. "Don't worry, Princess, I'll keep you safe from that."

Imrahil practically bristled at that, then said something in Sindarin that was too fast for Bard to even guess at.

Thranduil merely smirked in reply and shook his head. "It will be a useful precedent to have Elves and Men learn how to cooperate. And," he continued, his mien turning harsher, "I expect you to do your part in it."

Briefly, Imrahil looked as though he'd attempt to protest, then bowed his head. "My Lord," he murmured.

"You may leave," Thranduil told him, less a permission than a command, and it was swiftly heeded, with the tent flaps being shoved aside with somewhat more force than strictly necessary.

Bard waited until he was reasonably certain that Imrahil was out of Elven earshot before he turned to Thranduil.

"He's going to murder me in my sleep," he said.

Thranduil waved off. "He won't. He knows too well that it would not please me."

Bard snorted. "I'm not sure that his fear of you is greater than his dislike for me. If I end up with an Elven arrow in my arse, you'll know who to look for."

"Not Imrahil. An Elf would aim for the chest, it's by far the better target." Thranduil rose from his throne to re-fill their goblets.

"Very reassuring. At least it will be swift?"

"He doesn't have much experience in dealing with Men," Thranduil said as he poured the wine. It was a lighter vintage this time, and Bard saw him reach for the second carafe that held water. "I did raise him to be more courteous, apparently that lesson needs to be reinforced."

Bard frowned and stood as well to follow the Elf to the side table to make sure his wine was watered sufficiently. "You raised him?"

"Of course I did." Thranduil passed him the wine, and Bad gave a nod of thanks. "He is my son, why would I not?"

The goblet almost dropped from Bard's hand at that, and for a moment he hoped he'd heard wrong. "So he's really a princess?"

Thranduil briefly looked puzzled, then laughed when he understood. "Just so, though I think he'll object to being called that. I'm a little surprised he never said anything."

Bard suspected that Imrahil had decided it was beneath him, but chose not to mention that. "I'd better call him by name from now on."

Thranduil's smile turned wolfish. "I leave that up to you. It might do the boy good to be reminded that not everyone is in awe of him on occasion."

The boy, Bard thought, was probably a few thousand years old. Elves.

"Are there any other children of yours I should be aware of?" he asked instead, taking a sip of his wine. "Just in case my family or I insulted them as well? Apparently Tilda tossed a loaf of bread at Legolas, but she swears she mistook him for an Orc at the time."

"I don't believe Calemir has been anywhere within bread-tossing distance," Thranduil said, a fond tone to his voice that Bard recognised only too well. It seemed that no matter how old the children were, some things never changed. "And Amathiel is wintering at the Grey Havens and won't return before late spring, so you will only have to deal with Imrahil for now. He will serve you well in this, even if he is reluctant."

Bard cradled the goblet in his hand and considered the idea of Imrahil and Legolas being siblings and, furthermore, being only two out of four. He took a deep drink and decided not to dwell on it. "How many of your Elves will stay here with him?"

"Three hundred for now. Enough to maintain a reasonable watch schedule around Dale and keep your city safe against the more opportunistic visitors you might receive. I do suggest you rebuild your walls swiftly."

"If anyone else sets fire to my city anytime soon, I'm going to make them regret it." Bard sipped at his wine again, then looked up at the Elf standing before him. "I wish you would not leave."

Thranduil met his eyes and held them. "Your daughters will return to you after the winter."

Sighing, Bard tried for a small smile but didn't quite manage. "Which is good to know, and I will miss them more than anything. But I will miss your advice as well." He paused, and this time achieved a more genuine and cheerful expression. "And friendship, if I may claim it."

"I thought I'd made that clear earlier when I named you elvellon," Thranduil said, then frowned at Bard's confusion. "Elf-friend. Perhaps not in an entirely conventional way, but a friend and ally beyond doubt."

"Friend and ally," Bard repeated, and leaned into the touch when Thranduil rested a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you."

"I believe I told you already that your gratitude is misplaced."

"And I told you already that I don't agree, so what do we do about that?"

The grip on his shoulder tightened briefly before Thranduil withdrew his hand again, somewhat to Bard's regret. "Need I remind you that I am a king?"

"Go talk to people, they'll tell you I'm not terribly good with authority figures." Bard grinned up at him and took a moment to enjoy the sight of a thoroughly amused Elvenking. "It even got me tossed into prison a few times."

"I do have dungeons, if that is a requirement," Thranduil drawled in reply. "I'd be happy to show you."

"If that's the best excuse we can come up with for why I need to visit your realm…"

"You shall be welcome, elvellon."

Bard cocked his head. "You are going to make me learn your language, aren't you?"

Thranduil smirked. "It's so much more civilised. And since you will have plenty of reasons for close ties with my realm, the gesture would be greatly appreciated and earn you much goodwill."

Bard moved to put away his half-emptied wine cup on the side table, brushing against Thranduil when the Elf didn't retreat. "Until then I'll just have to find other ways," he said, then stepped closer to claim a kiss that was eagerly returned.

He'd miss this, he thought as Thranduil's hands tangled in his hair and he let himself be drawn close, these small moments of carefree time and comfort and friendship. But tomorrow it would be over, at least for the winter and who knew what spring might bring. With a quiet sigh of regret he broke the kiss, though he didn't move away just yet.

"I'm not distracting enough?" Thranduil murmured, lightly leaning their foreheads together.

"Too distracting," Bard said. "I should go and find my daughters if you're going to take them away in the morning."

Thranduil chuckled, then briefly brushed his lips against Bard's. "As if I am stealing your children. But leave them be for another hour or so, Feren has just taken them to meet their horses for tomorrow. The first moments in a saddle may not be something they want you to see if they can look so much more elegant a little later."

"You'll make them ride?"

"They are the Lord of Dale's daughters, we cannot possibly cram them onto a wagon." Thranduil sounded almost offended at the suggestion. "They will be fine. Remember what I told you about Elven horses keeping their riders safe."

His girls, up on horses. It had to be such a treat for them, and perhaps Thranduil was right about giving them a little time to get used to it so they could show off once they'd gotten more accustomed to their mounts.

"Promise me you won't let Tilda sleep in the stable," he said.

Thranduil quirked an eyebrow. "That should not be too difficult to do."

"Clearly you have not gotten to know her yet." He closed his eyes and focused on the light tug of Thranduil's hands in his hair, and on how smooth and cool the silk of those fabulous robes felt against his own fingertips. "An hour, you say?"

"I've given orders that we are not to be disturbed," Thranduil said, gently rubbing their noses together before kissing Bard again, mercifully distracting him from the realisation that the guards posted outside the tent couldn't possibly have missed what had been going on for the past few days. They wouldn't have needed Elven hearing for it, either.

Ah well, it was too late for that now anyway, and so Bard gave in to the kiss, pushing away his more wistful thoughts and instead focusing on the warmth of Thranduil's body that he could feel even through his clothes and on his quiet, satisfied murmurs as they slowly made their way across the tent to the low bed, pausing for kisses and touches.

It was a small moment of triumph for Bard when the clasps of Thranduil's tunic didn't turn out to be so difficult this time and he could run his hands across the smooth skin of the Elf's shoulders, drawing pleased hums from him in response. He felt the muscles shift under his touch as Thranduil twisted to slip free of his tunic before pressing close again, and Bard's clothes soon joined the finer garments already on the floor.

Absently Bard wondered whether they shouldn't pick up at least the beautifully embroidered robe from the dusty floor, but before that thought could settle, Thranduil firmly kissed him and pushed him down into the cushions to straddle his thighs.

"Stop thinking," the elf told him, "or I'll have to be insulted that I'm not commanding your full attention."

Bard looked up at Thranduil's deceptively ageless features warmed by a smile, spared a last thought to oddities of fate and circumstance and reached to draw him down into a kiss, long silver hair falling around them.

"As you wish," he murmured in reply, and there wasn't much thinking anymore for a while.

All the people of Dale had assembled in the main square the next morning to see the assembled Elves one last time, and to bid farewell to those among them who'd leave for Mirkwood as well.

Bard stood among them, his arms around Sigrid and Tilda in a tight embrace, Bain leaning against his side. He wondered if it was too late to change his mind about sending them away.

"We'll be good, Da," Tilda told him, her voice hard to hear with her face buried against his side.

He leaned down, pressed a kiss into her soft hair and did his best to keep his voice from turning rough with feeling. "I know you'll be. Promise me you'll be careful and do as you're told. And that you'll keep an eye on your sister."

Sigrid chuckled at that, though it sounded a bit watery. "Shouldn't you say that to me?"

Bard gently tugged at her hair. "You've got others to watch out for. Someone's got to do it for you."

She'd be able to do this, there was no doubt in his heart about it. The past few days had changed her, and Bard was coming to realise that his daughter had grown up, and that she'd done it fast. He wished she hadn't had to, and he wished that he now had time to get to know her again.

Around them, those who'd be leaving with the Elves were helped into the now empty supply carts. Perhaps they could have stayed a little longer, with the winter still a few weeks away, but now was the safest time for them to go since most of the Elven warriors would accompany them. If he kept telling himself that, he might even begin to believe it.

Scouts had gone out in all directions for the past days, and they had caught no more signs of Orcs aside from a few stragglers trying to flee. There would be Elven patrols covering the plains east of Dale for the winter, and Imrahil and his three hundred warriors would keep the city safe. It was considerably more protection than they had had in Lake-town, but Bard was still reluctant to see the main army go and take his daughters with them.

There was movement in the square, Elves snapping to attention all around, and Thranduil rode up along the main road with his personal guard following behind him. Even though he was on a horse this time rather than a magnificent elk, he still commanded all attention just by his presence.

The group of riders came to a halt in front of Bard, and Thranduil shot him an amused glance before adopting his usual haughty expression.

"Is everything ready?" he asked.

Imrahil stepped forward. "Yes, my Lord," he said, still looking distinctly displeased at the prospect of having to stay in Dale. At least he wasn't arguing anymore, although Bard suspected there were less than pleasant discussions in their future.

Thranduil nodded briskly. "Lord Bard, expect the next supplies within five days, as agreed."

"We will, and we thank you for your aid." They had discussed this yesterday already, though Bard knew why Thranduil wanted to make the announcement in front of the people.

What they hadn't discussed were Thranduil's next words. "I will return at the next full moon to begin negotiations with Erebor and Dale for our continued co-existence, Lord Bard. Imrahil has been left with instructions so you may prepare."

Sigrid glanced up at Bard, and he saw the same thought in her eyes that had occurred to him. Perhaps he'd see his daughters again sooner than expected. The next full moon would come in less than three weeks; that seemed almost bearable.

"Only if it's safe to travel," he told Sigrid quietly, then straightened to face Thranduil properly. "We look forward to it, Lord Thranduil. And perhaps we'll be able to offer you a solid roof over your head already by then."

Thranduil briefly smirked at that, then raised his hand and two horses were led forward by riders of his guard.

Bard knew what this meant and he drew his daughters closer, holding them so tight that Tilda squeaked in protest to make him ease up.

"Be good," he told them, pressing kisses against the crowns of their heads before he closed his eyes and focused on their presence one last time. If only this didn't have to be. If only he could go with them.

"You have my word that they will be safe, Lord of Dale," he heard Thranduil say, and when he could make himself look up, there was understanding in the Elf's eyes. Bard thought of Legolas, and that Thranduil too knew what it meant to let a child go.

"I'll hold you to that," he said with a rough voice, then released his daughters and went to help first Sigrid and then Tilda up into the saddles of their horses. They both gave him brave smiles once they were settled, and all he could do was reach up one last time to touch their hands before he had to step back and watch them ride off behind Thranduil. The guards followed, then the Elven warriors slowly began to march after them.

Bard watched from the walls until they were only small figures moving in the distance anymore, the Elves' armour shining under the rising sun. Then he drew a slow breath and went to rebuild his city so his daughters would have a home to return to.

The End