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Fic - Mourning Songs - 1/1
Title: Mourning Songs
Author: Evandar
Fandom: The Hobbit
Rating: G
Genre: Angst
Pairing: Onesided Bard/Thranduil
Warnings: Canon character death
Disclaimer: I do not own The Hobbit and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: After the battle, the Elves start to sing.
AN: Written for the prompt 'melody' on my![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
100prompts table.
It’s the Elves who start it. As the dust clears over the battlefield, voices begin to rise in song. A haunting melody piping high through the valley. Bard has no idea what any of the words mean, but the sound of it makes his heart clench and brings tears to his eyes. He does not let them fall. Instead, he searches out his children and gathers them close; lets them cling to him, uncaring of the blood that’s soaked into his coat. None of it’s his, by some miracle, but the worn fabric is beyond ruined.
He watches over Sigrid’s shoulder, through the cloud of Tilda’s hair as it comes undone from her braids, as Elves pick their way through scattered corpses, collecting arrows and identifying their dead and wounded. Battered and weary, they seem to shine in the fading light. The setting sun catches in silver and russet hair, crowning them in blood. He finds Thranduil with ease. From their first meeting, his eyes have been drawn to the Elvenking; he finds him fierce and fey and fair beyond measure, beautiful and incomprehensible as the stars. Even if he didn’t, it has occurred to him that Thranduil is a being to keep an eye on as much as possible, uncanny and clever as he is.
The Elvenking alone amongst his people is not singing. No melody spills from his lips; they remain stern save for where the setting sun reveals a ruinous scar over the side of his face. Beauty turned terrible, and Bard’s lungs ache with the desire to reach out to him – to touch and hold him as he does his children.
He doesn’t move; watches instead as a willow-slim figure, golden-haired and seeming-feral in guardsman’s green joins the King. Their fingers tangle and, for the briefest moment, that golden head rests upon the Elvenking’s armoured shoulder. Bard thinks he can see a smile flicker across the Elvenking’s face. Whether his companion is a lover or a relative, Bard can’t quite tell, but he’s glad that King Thranduil has someone left living.
The song changes. New voices rise into the growing twilight. It’s the dwarves. Their voices are deep as the earth itself, and their song makes Tilda shiver in his arms. Half-chant and entirely mournful, it rumbles beneath the flowing heights of the Elves in a perfect counterpart. They too are moving through the dead and dying, falling into step with the Elves they detest so vocally; they tug at their beards in their grief, dragging at blood-drenched braids and wailing.
The sound makes Bard think of the ghosts said to haunt the mountain and the eaves of the forest alike, and he shudders, dragging his children closer. Around them, the scattered remnants of his people find their own words, their own music, and the Men of Dale and Esgaroth join the Elves and Dwarves in their chorus. Bard swallows, hiding damp eyes in his daughter’s neck.
There will be more ghosts after this, many more.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: The Hobbit
Rating: G
Genre: Angst
Pairing: Onesided Bard/Thranduil
Warnings: Canon character death
Disclaimer: I do not own The Hobbit and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: After the battle, the Elves start to sing.
AN: Written for the prompt 'melody' on my
100prompts table.It’s the Elves who start it. As the dust clears over the battlefield, voices begin to rise in song. A haunting melody piping high through the valley. Bard has no idea what any of the words mean, but the sound of it makes his heart clench and brings tears to his eyes. He does not let them fall. Instead, he searches out his children and gathers them close; lets them cling to him, uncaring of the blood that’s soaked into his coat. None of it’s his, by some miracle, but the worn fabric is beyond ruined.
He watches over Sigrid’s shoulder, through the cloud of Tilda’s hair as it comes undone from her braids, as Elves pick their way through scattered corpses, collecting arrows and identifying their dead and wounded. Battered and weary, they seem to shine in the fading light. The setting sun catches in silver and russet hair, crowning them in blood. He finds Thranduil with ease. From their first meeting, his eyes have been drawn to the Elvenking; he finds him fierce and fey and fair beyond measure, beautiful and incomprehensible as the stars. Even if he didn’t, it has occurred to him that Thranduil is a being to keep an eye on as much as possible, uncanny and clever as he is.
The Elvenking alone amongst his people is not singing. No melody spills from his lips; they remain stern save for where the setting sun reveals a ruinous scar over the side of his face. Beauty turned terrible, and Bard’s lungs ache with the desire to reach out to him – to touch and hold him as he does his children.
He doesn’t move; watches instead as a willow-slim figure, golden-haired and seeming-feral in guardsman’s green joins the King. Their fingers tangle and, for the briefest moment, that golden head rests upon the Elvenking’s armoured shoulder. Bard thinks he can see a smile flicker across the Elvenking’s face. Whether his companion is a lover or a relative, Bard can’t quite tell, but he’s glad that King Thranduil has someone left living.
The song changes. New voices rise into the growing twilight. It’s the dwarves. Their voices are deep as the earth itself, and their song makes Tilda shiver in his arms. Half-chant and entirely mournful, it rumbles beneath the flowing heights of the Elves in a perfect counterpart. They too are moving through the dead and dying, falling into step with the Elves they detest so vocally; they tug at their beards in their grief, dragging at blood-drenched braids and wailing.
The sound makes Bard think of the ghosts said to haunt the mountain and the eaves of the forest alike, and he shudders, dragging his children closer. Around them, the scattered remnants of his people find their own words, their own music, and the Men of Dale and Esgaroth join the Elves and Dwarves in their chorus. Bard swallows, hiding damp eyes in his daughter’s neck.
There will be more ghosts after this, many more.