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Title: From the Ashes
Author: Evandar
Fandom: The Hobbit
Rating: PG
Genre: Angst/Fluff (?)
Pairing: Bard/Thranduil
Disclaimer: I do not own The Hobbit and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Thranduil finds Legolas and Bard in the aftermath of the battle on Raven Hill.
Author's Notes: This is the sequel to Awakening, Vampire, The Beginning of an End and Bred for War.
Also, this series now has art! The wonderful![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lynndyre has drawn a stunning portrait of Vampire!Bard, which can be found here.
He finds his son in the ruins of the watchtower on Raven Hill, crouched in the shadows. He is smeared and spattered with the black blood of Orcs, and his skin is pale beneath the grime, but he is overall unharmed. Thranduil breathes a sigh of relief.
It is only when Legolas looks up at him, straightens reflexively in the presence of his father-king, that Thranduil sees what he was hovering over. His greeting freezes on his lips, and he stares - unable to look away even as panic and the first cold surge of grief wash over him.
There have been no fires since Esgaroth finished smouldering. Not on the battlefield, and certainly not in this shattered fortress surrounded by ice. Yet the body at Legolas' feet is charred black, burned to bone and ash - its mouth is open in a silent scream, and is only the fangs, still white and gleaming, that allow him to identify the body as Bard.
Bard.
"The bats were too many, Ada," Legolas says softly. Thranduil can barely hear him over the roar of his heartbeat. He reaches out a hand to steady himself against the wall. "Bard chose to control them, and so lost his grip on the clouds that defended him from the sun's rays. He burned, Ada."
Never before has Thranduil hated the sun. He kneels next to his son, next to his lover's remains, and brushes a finger lightly over Bard's charred brow. It crumbles at his touch, revealing blackened bone. Only his fangs, it seems, have survived intact.
"Ada?" Legolas whispers.
Thranduil doesn't respond. Legolas already knows how deeply Thranduil has come to care for Bard. He must know how much this hurts; he must somehow be able to appreciate the sense of desperation that claws at Thranduil's lungs. He cannot stand to lose Bard; not any more than he can stand to lose his son.
"Stand guard," he says. "Stop anyone who approaches."
Legolas bows his head. His hand grips tightly at Thranduil's shoulder as he stands, and Thranduil leans into the touch. He watches as Legolas moves to stand in one of the arches that overlooks the frozen river. Seeing him bathed in bright sunlight, all he can think is that his son is a creature of the day - of light and laughter; bright and fierce .Thranduil was once the same, a long time ago, but he knows in his heart that he has chosen a life of shadow and twilight, and that there is no going back. He would rather not have his son witness this, but he prefers Legolas' presence to the idea of Oakenshield stumbling across him.
His dagger is sharp. He unsheathes it with ease and draws it across his wrist, and it's so sharp that the wound barely hurts even as his blood wells up within it. He watches as it spills down over his wrist and hand, and shifts slightly so that the majority of it spatters into Bard's open mouth.
He waits.
Slowly, whatever dark power it is that keeps Bard alive begins to act. Thranduil can feel it - a cold presence that coils around his own spirit and leaves him trembling. He watches, mesmerised, as brittle bones strengthen and ash and char reform as muscle and skin. Bard's hair regrows, his tongue flexes in his mouth, and Thranduil holds his breath as he watches him swallow.
That is all the warning he has. There is no time for him to feel even the slightest bit of relief. Bard's hands are like iron bars around his wrist as he drags Thranduil down and sinks his teeth into his open wound.
Thranduil cannot stop himself from crying out. Bard is acting on instinct, he knows that, but his bite still hurts far more than it usually does. He hears Legolas move to intervene, and he throws out his hand to stop him.
"Wait! A moment longer," he hisses through his teeth. "Do this for me."
He can feel himself growing weaker. Bard has never taken so much, not even in his first days, and there are black spots dancing over Thranduil's vision by the time Bard's grip finally loosens. He shudders as his arm is finally released, but does not pull away. He moves closer instead, sliding down onto the floor – more a graceful collapse than anything else – and rests his head on Bard’s chest. There is no heartbeat; no breathing to comfort him, but there is a presence. A spirit that shines as brightly as his own. He tilts his head to look up at his lover’s face just in time to see the red in his eyes fade back to brown. He meets Bard's gaze and smiles faintly.
"Welcome back, meleth-nin," he says, his words barely more than a whisper, but Bard hears him even if he doesn't fully understand.
He feels Bard's fingers in his hair, and he closes his eyes in pleasure, content to rest a while against Bard's chest. Legolas, he trusts, will guard them as clouds draw in once more to blot out the sun.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: The Hobbit
Rating: PG
Genre: Angst/Fluff (?)
Pairing: Bard/Thranduil
Disclaimer: I do not own The Hobbit and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Thranduil finds Legolas and Bard in the aftermath of the battle on Raven Hill.
Author's Notes: This is the sequel to Awakening, Vampire, The Beginning of an End and Bred for War.
Also, this series now has art! The wonderful
lynndyre has drawn a stunning portrait of Vampire!Bard, which can be found here.He finds his son in the ruins of the watchtower on Raven Hill, crouched in the shadows. He is smeared and spattered with the black blood of Orcs, and his skin is pale beneath the grime, but he is overall unharmed. Thranduil breathes a sigh of relief.
It is only when Legolas looks up at him, straightens reflexively in the presence of his father-king, that Thranduil sees what he was hovering over. His greeting freezes on his lips, and he stares - unable to look away even as panic and the first cold surge of grief wash over him.
There have been no fires since Esgaroth finished smouldering. Not on the battlefield, and certainly not in this shattered fortress surrounded by ice. Yet the body at Legolas' feet is charred black, burned to bone and ash - its mouth is open in a silent scream, and is only the fangs, still white and gleaming, that allow him to identify the body as Bard.
Bard.
"The bats were too many, Ada," Legolas says softly. Thranduil can barely hear him over the roar of his heartbeat. He reaches out a hand to steady himself against the wall. "Bard chose to control them, and so lost his grip on the clouds that defended him from the sun's rays. He burned, Ada."
Never before has Thranduil hated the sun. He kneels next to his son, next to his lover's remains, and brushes a finger lightly over Bard's charred brow. It crumbles at his touch, revealing blackened bone. Only his fangs, it seems, have survived intact.
"Ada?" Legolas whispers.
Thranduil doesn't respond. Legolas already knows how deeply Thranduil has come to care for Bard. He must know how much this hurts; he must somehow be able to appreciate the sense of desperation that claws at Thranduil's lungs. He cannot stand to lose Bard; not any more than he can stand to lose his son.
"Stand guard," he says. "Stop anyone who approaches."
Legolas bows his head. His hand grips tightly at Thranduil's shoulder as he stands, and Thranduil leans into the touch. He watches as Legolas moves to stand in one of the arches that overlooks the frozen river. Seeing him bathed in bright sunlight, all he can think is that his son is a creature of the day - of light and laughter; bright and fierce .Thranduil was once the same, a long time ago, but he knows in his heart that he has chosen a life of shadow and twilight, and that there is no going back. He would rather not have his son witness this, but he prefers Legolas' presence to the idea of Oakenshield stumbling across him.
His dagger is sharp. He unsheathes it with ease and draws it across his wrist, and it's so sharp that the wound barely hurts even as his blood wells up within it. He watches as it spills down over his wrist and hand, and shifts slightly so that the majority of it spatters into Bard's open mouth.
He waits.
Slowly, whatever dark power it is that keeps Bard alive begins to act. Thranduil can feel it - a cold presence that coils around his own spirit and leaves him trembling. He watches, mesmerised, as brittle bones strengthen and ash and char reform as muscle and skin. Bard's hair regrows, his tongue flexes in his mouth, and Thranduil holds his breath as he watches him swallow.
That is all the warning he has. There is no time for him to feel even the slightest bit of relief. Bard's hands are like iron bars around his wrist as he drags Thranduil down and sinks his teeth into his open wound.
Thranduil cannot stop himself from crying out. Bard is acting on instinct, he knows that, but his bite still hurts far more than it usually does. He hears Legolas move to intervene, and he throws out his hand to stop him.
"Wait! A moment longer," he hisses through his teeth. "Do this for me."
He can feel himself growing weaker. Bard has never taken so much, not even in his first days, and there are black spots dancing over Thranduil's vision by the time Bard's grip finally loosens. He shudders as his arm is finally released, but does not pull away. He moves closer instead, sliding down onto the floor – more a graceful collapse than anything else – and rests his head on Bard’s chest. There is no heartbeat; no breathing to comfort him, but there is a presence. A spirit that shines as brightly as his own. He tilts his head to look up at his lover’s face just in time to see the red in his eyes fade back to brown. He meets Bard's gaze and smiles faintly.
"Welcome back, meleth-nin," he says, his words barely more than a whisper, but Bard hears him even if he doesn't fully understand.
He feels Bard's fingers in his hair, and he closes his eyes in pleasure, content to rest a while against Bard's chest. Legolas, he trusts, will guard them as clouds draw in once more to blot out the sun.
