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Title: Dust and Starlight
Author: Evandar
Fandom: The Hobbit
Rating: G
Pairing: Onesided Bard/Thranduil
Genre: Gen
Disclaimer: I do not own The Hobbit and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Bard goes to Thranduil to discuss the care of the wounded and discovers something unexpected.
Author's Notes: This was written for Poetry_Fic's July Challenge - Day 18. The line a thing of dust and starlight (Nocturne, Ted Kooser) just screamed Thranduil to me, and ended up being included in the fic as well as providing the title. This is mostly book compliant - I think - but manages to explore some of the fanon that cropped up after the last movie.
The Elvenking is slumped in his chair; a thing of dust and starlight, scarcely stirring. His eyes are closed and it is only the steady rise and fall of his chest that tells Bard that the blood on his clothes is not his own. It is, most likely, Oakenshield’s, if the rumours floating about the camp have truth to them; the rumours that the Elvenking tried to save his life.
He hesitates in the doorway, tent flap raised, debating the importance of his visit. He is the proclaimed Lord of Dale, ruin though it is, and leader of the Men of the north, but those are recently claimed titles. The King before him has been King since long before the Mountain fell. Bard is unsure if he is sleeping – if Elves sleep at all; the stories he’s heard claim not – and if he has the right to disturb him.
“I know you are there,” the Elvenking says, lifting his head, but not opening his eyes. Bard wonders briefly if they pain him, even as he steps into the tent and lets the flap fall closed behind him.
“I bring reports of the wounded,” he says.
The Elvenking nods and waves a hand, indicating that Bard should join him. The Elves of the wood are dangerous – they have to be to live in such a fell place, but their King seems different from the lay-folk he has met by the river banks. He seems older, wiser. Colder, somehow. Everything about him, from the fall of his silvery hair to the way he wears blood on his clothes like finery, is more distant than anything Bard has seen of his people.
The King’s eyes open. They are as dark a blue as the depths of the lake, but lit from within with a light like stars; Bard follows the Elvenking’s gaze over his right shoulder, but sees nothing but the blank canvas of the tent wall.
“Losses were few,” he says, and the Elvenking’s gaze snaps unerringly to his face. “On our part. But they will be greater when winter comes.”
The Men of the Lake have no shelter. Laketown is destroyed and Dale has been in ruins for years. They have some food – the lake is always plentiful, and their crops were spared by the dragon, but what livestock they had on the banks has vanished, and if those cattle and ponies fled to the woods, Bard knows they will never be seen again. This is why he is here: to rely on the Elvenking’s charity as he relied on his military power.
“You seek my help,” the Elvenking says, “when it has already been offered.”
Bard exhales slowly. “The burden will be heavy,” he replies.
“War is always thus,” is the response, and Bard cannot help but wonder how many wars this Elf has seen. How many battles he has fought.
The Elvenking stands and moves across the length of his tent to a table. A carafe of wine sits upon it, and goblets, and as he walks, Bard notices him trailing the tips of his fingers over the furniture. It is behaviour he has seen once before, in his mother-in-law when she yet lived, and he swallows his surprise; washes it down with wine from a silver goblet and says nothing but his thanks.
The wine is strong and sweet, better than any he has tasted before. He looks up, past elegant fingers and bloodied clothes, to a face as pale and lovely as the moon. He is a man grown, yet he feels like a child. He has lived a life in sorrow and mourning for his lost wife, but the Elf before him is the most beautiful being he has ever seen. He knows painfully little about his ally – not his name, nor his age – and what he does know, he suspects he should keep to himself lest he lose that alliance.
The Elvenking is blind, and Bard will tell not a soul.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: The Hobbit
Rating: G
Pairing: Onesided Bard/Thranduil
Genre: Gen
Disclaimer: I do not own The Hobbit and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Bard goes to Thranduil to discuss the care of the wounded and discovers something unexpected.
Author's Notes: This was written for Poetry_Fic's July Challenge - Day 18. The line a thing of dust and starlight (Nocturne, Ted Kooser) just screamed Thranduil to me, and ended up being included in the fic as well as providing the title. This is mostly book compliant - I think - but manages to explore some of the fanon that cropped up after the last movie.
The Elvenking is slumped in his chair; a thing of dust and starlight, scarcely stirring. His eyes are closed and it is only the steady rise and fall of his chest that tells Bard that the blood on his clothes is not his own. It is, most likely, Oakenshield’s, if the rumours floating about the camp have truth to them; the rumours that the Elvenking tried to save his life.
He hesitates in the doorway, tent flap raised, debating the importance of his visit. He is the proclaimed Lord of Dale, ruin though it is, and leader of the Men of the north, but those are recently claimed titles. The King before him has been King since long before the Mountain fell. Bard is unsure if he is sleeping – if Elves sleep at all; the stories he’s heard claim not – and if he has the right to disturb him.
“I know you are there,” the Elvenking says, lifting his head, but not opening his eyes. Bard wonders briefly if they pain him, even as he steps into the tent and lets the flap fall closed behind him.
“I bring reports of the wounded,” he says.
The Elvenking nods and waves a hand, indicating that Bard should join him. The Elves of the wood are dangerous – they have to be to live in such a fell place, but their King seems different from the lay-folk he has met by the river banks. He seems older, wiser. Colder, somehow. Everything about him, from the fall of his silvery hair to the way he wears blood on his clothes like finery, is more distant than anything Bard has seen of his people.
The King’s eyes open. They are as dark a blue as the depths of the lake, but lit from within with a light like stars; Bard follows the Elvenking’s gaze over his right shoulder, but sees nothing but the blank canvas of the tent wall.
“Losses were few,” he says, and the Elvenking’s gaze snaps unerringly to his face. “On our part. But they will be greater when winter comes.”
The Men of the Lake have no shelter. Laketown is destroyed and Dale has been in ruins for years. They have some food – the lake is always plentiful, and their crops were spared by the dragon, but what livestock they had on the banks has vanished, and if those cattle and ponies fled to the woods, Bard knows they will never be seen again. This is why he is here: to rely on the Elvenking’s charity as he relied on his military power.
“You seek my help,” the Elvenking says, “when it has already been offered.”
Bard exhales slowly. “The burden will be heavy,” he replies.
“War is always thus,” is the response, and Bard cannot help but wonder how many wars this Elf has seen. How many battles he has fought.
The Elvenking stands and moves across the length of his tent to a table. A carafe of wine sits upon it, and goblets, and as he walks, Bard notices him trailing the tips of his fingers over the furniture. It is behaviour he has seen once before, in his mother-in-law when she yet lived, and he swallows his surprise; washes it down with wine from a silver goblet and says nothing but his thanks.
The wine is strong and sweet, better than any he has tasted before. He looks up, past elegant fingers and bloodied clothes, to a face as pale and lovely as the moon. He is a man grown, yet he feels like a child. He has lived a life in sorrow and mourning for his lost wife, but the Elf before him is the most beautiful being he has ever seen. He knows painfully little about his ally – not his name, nor his age – and what he does know, he suspects he should keep to himself lest he lose that alliance.
The Elvenking is blind, and Bard will tell not a soul.
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no subject
Date: 2014-07-20 09:45 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2014-07-20 10:34 pm (UTC)From:For some reason, I really liked the facial scars in the film and the blind!fanon that came out of it. There was a lot wrong with the movie, but I thought that that was a really powerful moment. Beyond that, though, bookverse all the way.