Story [Hobbit] Clothes Make The King

Written for the Hobbit Kink Meme. My first serious attempt at fiction in a long while that I've been satisfied enough with to keep and post. Constructive criticism is very welcome! Though I feel I must apologize in advance for my verbose style. Despite my efforts to edit the text down, this story of mine still reads like the obsessively detailed and structured meta essays that make up the bulk of my fandom contributions to date. I'm no great shakes at characterization either and have an odd sense of humor. Well, I did what I could, and I hope people find a little to love in it. Should be completed in two parts, but I can't make promises for the second, as I'm an abominably slow writer prone to getting sidetracked in the worst (best?) ways.

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Bard, Bard(l)ings, No Fashion Sense
King Bard is unaccustomed to fancy clothes. His advisers and subjects in Dale are commoners, and his children have strange notions of what royalty ought to wear. Their joint attempts to dress Bard properly for an official reception end in disaster, as Thranduil is offended by such flagrant disregard of style. Dáin is not amused.

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[h2]Clothes Make The King[/h2]​

Bard studied the fabric spread on his desk, brow furrowed. It was the same hue of purple as the bright flowers that grew shaded by the trees along the Forest River in spring. And it shimmered. "Is there no other cloth?"

The woman sitting across from him, one Mistress Malkin and a clothier of some repute, late of Bree, glanced down as she smoothed her skirt of invisible wrinkles. "None in the color you wanted, sir." Her hands stilled, though she did not look up from where she had clasped them in her lap. "Sire."

As it became plain she would say no more without his prompting, Bard felt a growing urge to leap from his seat, grab her by the shoulders, and shake the deference out of her. Regrettably, he'd been instructed in no uncertain terms by his self-appointed masters of protocol that he must always act as befitted a king and that this meant no tantrums in view of his loyal subjects, however much they vexed him. So, instead, he asked, "Have you ordered more cloth?" careful to keep his voice even.

"Yes, sire. I have, sire." Before her pause again lengthened into an awkward silence, Bard gestured for her to continue, suppressing a sigh. He hoped she'd be able to see the movement out of the corner of her respectfully averted eye. If he had to verbally prod her for details, he didn't think he could trust himself to speak fairly. Am I so imposing a king? He almost snorted, picturing the Elvenking and Thorin Oakenshield.

Just as his patience began to fray, she haltingly offered, "The new bolts from the south won't arrive for another three months, milord."

Too late. "Very well. This shall serve." The cloth was cool and silken to the touch, very unlike his habitual wools, furs, and leathers. "I trust the designs have been sent to you?" He received a slight nod. "Then if you've no further concerns..." Mistress Malkin was as unmoving as the Lonely Mountain, spine straight and stiff a handspan from the cushioned back of her chair, gaze now fixed on the floor between her feet. "I'll expect the finished robes in a week's time. You have my leave to go."

After his final appointment for the day all but fled out the door, reflexively bowing every few steps over an armful of purple fabric, Bard let his head fall with a thunk to his desk, which was layered in parchment and still smelled strongly of varnish. A horde of battling trolls seemed trapped in his skull. Bard thought wistfully of his bed, but there were quarterly accounts to review, a stack of construction plans awaiting his approval, import and export figures to tally, the brief on the latest census...

Rebuilding Dale was hard work, tiring and consuming, yet gratifyingly easy in a way. There was no question of what had to be done and no shortage of willing hands to do it--crofters to farm the outlying fields, long fallow; fishermen and hunters to scour the wilds for game; carpenters and stonemasons to raise houses; bakers and butchers, washerwomen and seamstresses, guardsmen, blacksmiths, cobblers, weavers, laborers--all these Dale had aplenty. And as the detritus of Dale's ruin was cleared away, the town slowly but surely reviving, merchants and skilled artisans from afar, the nervous Mistress Malkin among them, were attracted by the prospect of a market on the rise.

Sigrid paid a visit to every shop that opened. Two months past, a pastry maker had come from distant Lossarnach, and Sigrid was especially delighted with his wares. She bought a selection of breads and cakes each morn: warm, flaky sweet buns filled with fresh jam for their breakfast table and delicate honey tarts decorated with frosted roses to grace their afternoon tea service. While Bard sometimes worried that Sigrid spoiled Bain and Tilda too much, he had only to remember the hardships they suffered the winter following Laketown's destruction to find he couldn't deny them such small pleasures.

Then, the Laketown refugees were utterly dependent on the charity of their Elven and Dwarven neighbors, who had little enough of their own to spare with harvests postponed by war. Mass starvation was narrowly prevented by strict rationing, but many sickened and died. That the children of Dale could stuff themselves silly with cookies and candied fruits less than a year later was a reassuring sign of the town's and, indeed, the entire region's increasing prosperity. The halls of Erebor rang day and night with the sounds of industry, hammer and pickax bringing forth the wealth of the Lonely Mountain. Trade routes stretched deep into the south and west, the roads safer since the Battle of Five Armies saw the greater part of the Wilderland's orcs and goblins slain. Colorful paper kites flew where once the fear of the dragon lay heavy upon the land. All this was as Bard had wished when he first claimed lordship over Dale.

What Bard had not foreseen, however, and the reason for his current headache was the avid interest his people would take in their king's life as soon as they no longer teetered on the edge of survival. There had been no King of Dale for near two centuries, and the novelty of his existence was slow to wear off.

It started innocently enough, with a collective realization that the royal family still lived in a modest two-story house on the outskirts of town with a kitchen, two bedrooms, a common room used mostly for dining, and no room at all for holding court. Rather, Bard routinely walked his realm from end to end meeting petitioners in their homes, shops, or wherever they happened to be. The consensus was that, though this may have been an acceptable stopgap measure when Dale could boast no more than a few hundred inhabitants in makeshift shelters, as Dale was to be restored to her former glory, her acclaimed king, the famed dragonslayer, should live in kingly comfort.

The Men of Dale had long grown accustomed in Laketown to deciding matters of importance in a crowd, so everyone convened in the town square early this spring to see about building a royal palace. Girion's estate was situated atop a gentle hillock overlooking the market, but naught remained of it except the foundations and a half dozen shattered walls. Smaug had torn the rest down with claw and fire in his search for treasure.

Nonetheless, all agreed the king's residence should not be moved from that prime location, which offered some of the best views of the surrounding countryside. The lead architect was likewise an unanimous choice: Master Findegil, who'd apprenticed in Minas Tirith under a guild draftsman in his youth and whose son was learning his father's trade so well the lad's work had already won praise.

Where contention arose was in the debate on what amenities the new palace ought to provide besides such requisites as a grand audience chamber and a grand feasting hall that could seat a hundred each. Bard had to veto a surprising number of ideas he deemed extravagant follies.

"No, there will be no moat. How did you come by this fancy?"

"I've heard tell, my lord, that the ancient capital of the Sea-kings was on an island in the middle of a great river. The court could while away the hours taking pleasure cruises and watching the white swan ships. Isn't that marvelous, sire? If you would but consent to the addition of a wide moat, lined with gardens perhaps--"

"Holte, have you forgotten that Long Lake lies only a day's trip down the River Running? If I want to revisit my past as a bargeman, I'd just as well do it there and do right by my crown also in paying my respects to the people of Laketown or even the Wood Elves."

"You are of course wise, my lord. What say you to fountains instead? And I still urge you to consider gardens, topiaries or one of those hedge mazes--"

Weeks of pleading his case to Bard and the townsfolk later, Holte got his gardens, complete with a couple fountains, some topiaries, and a small hedge maze in one corner. Master Findegil, his son in tow, had set out at the start of summer to find with the aid of Dwarven guides a suitable quarry or three to supply Dale with the quantities of marble and other fine stone needed. The last Bard saw of the floor plans, the palace had expanded around the great halls to include sprawling living quarters for him and his family plus dozens of guests, a warren of kitchens, housing for servants and barracks for guardsmen, stables, smithy and armory, a healing ward, treasury, and library. When Findegil returned, Bard intended to finalize the designs. He wanted no more well-meant additions to a place he had enough difficulty imagining anyone ever calling a home.

It would be years before the palace was ready. Bard, meanwhile, held court in a one-room extension to his house, built seemingly overnight once it was decided (by referendum) that it wasn't proper for the king to go about running errands around town at all hours, unescorted. He'd nearly put an arrow through a startled carpenter's eye when he awoke one morning to the sound of someone sawing a hole in a wall downstairs.

His new study was walled in wood, but the floor was tiled stone, the peaked ceiling supported not by rough hewn beams but arching columns, sanded smooth and ringed top and bottom with carven ivy wreaths. A broad fireplace and stone chimney dominated one end, a row of tall, narrow windows with shutters for winter along the adjacent side.

Bard thought it a wonder that this was meant for him, with more to come. And the feature he was most grateful for were the shelves that lined the wall facing the windows. Ever since the first shipments of parchment from the Elves were received, the paperwork of his kingdom had been accumulating like snowdrifts in a corner of his bedroom on the barrels and planks that passed for a desk.

Also of help were his personal guards, two weedy, fresh-faced lads of ten and nine who'd otherwise be underfoot in their mothers' kitchens. Bard had no illusions that Dreng and Ingvar could defend him, of course, armed with half a bargepole each against a stray orc or warg--in truth, he would never allow them to try--but they did good service as pages. He gave Ingvar care of his bow, too, and Dreng, his quiver when he made his daily rounds to the construction sites and weekly trips to the outlying farms, the boys at his heels.

Thus Bard settled into his office as spring turned to summer, like wearing a pair of new boots, not yet comfortable but becoming so. He hoped he'd be prepared to assume all his royal panoply in a few years' time when the palace was livable. He didn't expect his loyal subjects to keep pressing upon him the trappings of kingship. Not until the first furniture maker showed up unannounced on his doorstep as summer waned.

Master Léofwine took one look at Bard's then desk of barrels and planks, empty crates stacked next to the entrance for petitioners, and left without a word before Bard could ask him his business. He returned two nights later with small scale models of a monstrous semicircular bureau and matching chairs. While appreciative of the drawer space, Bard was far less keen on Léofwine's designs of elaborate scrollwork gilded in gold and inlaid mosaics of precious stones, finally talking the man down to the compromise of a bit of gold leaf for edging and leave to craft in different woods by dint of claiming (falsely) that his attention to his duties would suffer with too eye-catching a desk. Léofwine was not long gone to the lumber yards when another of his trade came to Bard with a sweeping proposal to furnish every bedroom in the king's residences, current and future, with four-poster and canopy beds.

Tables, desks, wardrobes, cabinets, chests, chairs, benches, and beds of all shapes and styles imaginable--Bard had never in his life to that point seen so much furniture as he did in the month following his commission of Léofwine for a six-piece study set. He at last was able to curb his people's enthusiasm by posting a public edict that, until further notice, the crown would not be hiring any artisans for the palace except to build its essential structure. Under this was a listing of rejected commodities that continually grew as Bard refused one offer of service after another: No furniture. No draperies or linens. No tapestries or carpets. No paintings, sculptures, or curios. Candlesticks, mirrors, vases, clocks, and musical instruments not desired. What he was supposed to do with a clavichord besides pile the top high with books and papers, Bard didn't know.

In the end, the most persistent of the lot proved to be the tableware makers. Their argument that Bard and his family had to eat, however, that the king could do with a set of silver or fine china to impress distinguished guests with had merit, Bard decided. So, he agreed to review their designs and select two, one for formal occasions and another for more regular use, though it all seemed excessive for a man accustomed to plain wooden plates and clay bowls. To his bemusement, Bard quickly found these craftsmen were as fanciful as the rest.

"--commemorating Your Majesty's slaying of the dragon Smaug. The rim of each dish will be plated with overlapping layers of shaped gold to create the effect of scales. Framed in the centers will be the famed black arrow, inlaid in galvorn across etched scenes of Smaug atop his hoard, Smaug in flight, Smaug setting Laketown ablaze, Smaug--"

"Thank you for your presentation, Master Fastolf. Your services won't be required. Call it an eccentricity, if you will, but having killed the beast and nearly died doing so, I have no wish to see Smaug's face at the bottom of my soup tureen. Please send in the next in line on your way out. Good day to you, sir."

A set of silverware molded with the raised forms of harvest fruits and vegetables, engraved with borders of grain and studded with cut emeralds the size of grape seeds. A set of glazed porcelain inked in shades of blue with views of Laketown and Dale of old, accented in gold. Matching utensils and a set of crystal glasses. Bard chose a couple of the less ostentatious designs that would still satisfy his people's expectations of kingly luxury and thought the matter settled, figuring he'd check that all was in order when the dishes were delivered, then box them away in some corner of his home and continue eating as he had his entire life, on wood or clay with a single spoon and knife.

Only Bard was in for a rude awakening when the first place settings of china were presented for his inspection several weeks ago. The plates were lovely, to be sure, but there were more of them than Bard really knew what to do with and a bewildering number of spoons, forks, knives, and glasses. He realized that, should he be seated at a table laid with such a spread of flatware and cutlery, whether his own or another's, he would be as lost as if he were at sea far from the sight of shore. And an embarrassment to Dale, his title and his heritage, Bard did not want to be.

His children came to his rescue. In addition to housework and helping their father with odd jobs, Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda were learning history, figures, geography, and languages. Bard could read and write well enough to get by, find his way east of Mirkwood south to the Old Forest Road with confidence, and count his realm's wealth, years of borderline illegal trading under the Master of Laketown's cumbersome system of tariffs and tolls giving him a decent head for finance. But, Bard felt, his children should have the noble's education he could never have dreamed of and, towards that end, he sent to the Elvenking for a tutor as the new year began.

Gilvagor was not by training a scholar, as Bard understood it, but a warrior in the woodland guard with an unusual inclination to travel. Like all Elves, however, he was fluent in Sindarin and proved an engaging teacher of history by virtue of having lived through much of it, as he originally hailed from Doriath.

Every two months, Gilvagor made the trip from the Elvenking's halls to Dale with the weekly supply shipments and stayed a fortnight, instructing Bard's children and ranging the lands to the east on daylong rides. Though he boarded with the family when in town, Gilvagor declined Bard's offer of room, preferring to sleep in an enclosed platform--"called telain, Da, flets"--he constructed himself in the treetops of a grove on the far bank of the River Running.

"You are generous, Master Bowman," Gilvagor told Bard, "but even so curious an Elf as I wearies of the press of Men and would take rest in some green place under the light of Elbereth's stars, if he can." A smile brightened his fair Elven face like sunlight flashing on the water of a clear forest brook. "Worry not! You are a fine host and your children, a delight." Then Gilvagor slung his bow over his shoulder and ambled off to join a hunting party, with a merry tune on his lips and one last carelessly graceful wave at Bard. Who wondered if the lighthearted abandon of these ancient creatures in their joy would ever fail to startle him.

Conscious that Dale's prosperity depended on good relations with the Dwarves as well as the Elves, Bard requested of King Dáin and was granted permission for Bain to regularly visit Erebor. There, he observed the Dwarves as they labored in the mines and at the forges, even attending public audiences, as the King Under the Mountain and his folk allowed. Bard suggested to Dáin that his son not be spared hard work, so Bain spent much of his day in Erebor, when not studying arithmetic and geometry under a Master Dofur, running messages, bringing food to those too busy to sit for meals, and doing other small tasks. He always came home for the night swaying on his feet in exhaustion but happy and would regale the family over their breakfast rolls with tales of what he had seen and who he had met.

Bittersweet it was for Bard to watch his children's world grow beyond the one he knew. Bain could speak of the Battle of Azanulbizar with authority, and Sigrid read by the fireplace in the evenings, engrossed in a book of the lays of Beleriand gifted to her by Gilvagor. Her favorite was the story of Beren and Lúthien, showing a romantic streak Bard had believed dead in his eldest with her mother. Tilda asked questions that Bard could not answer about people, places, and things he had never heard of. Though it amused him to no end that Tilda once stumped Gilvagor with her demand that the Elf explain why he could walk atop the snow when he was bigger than her and she couldn't.

In retrospect, it was no surprise that Sigrid, Bain, and even Tilda knew more of court protocol and etiquette than did Bard, for their learning in many respects far surpassed their father's, to his great pride but also to his sorrow, for they no longer needed him as they once did.

The sun was setting when he opened his eyes, his study aglow in red and orange like a smoldering fire. I must have dozed off, Bard thought, and he silently berated himself for leaving his papers untended. He stretched, trying to unknot the muscles in his neck, then shivered. It'd been getting colder faster the past week, before the last light faded, as winter approached.

A knock sounded on the door to the hallway that led to the house. "Da, you're late for supper. I thought you might be busy, so I brought you some food." Sigrid let herself in, carrying a wooden tray with a bowl of stew and loaf of bread.

Bard ran one hand through his hair while shoving account books aside with the other to clear space on his desk for Sigrid to set the tray. "I'm sorry, Sigrid. I fell asleep." Curls of steam rose from the stew, a hearty mix of vegetables sprinkled with herbs; the warm bread looked good and smelled better. Bard suddenly realized he was famished. "Are Bain and Tilda finished eating?" he asked, as he spooned himself a mouthful of stew.

"Don't you worry about them," Sigrid said, the corner of her mouth upturned as she broke a chunk off the bread and handed it to her father, who thanked her with an absent nod, spoon still moving steadily between bowl and lips. "Bain's reading to her from the Elvish picturebook Gilvagor brought last time." The shadows had darkened and lengthened as they spoke. Sigrid looked at the unlit candles and fireplace, then rounded on Bard in reproach, a frown on her face and hands planted on her hips. "Were you going to work all night again, Da? In the cold, with no light?"

"No, of course not." Bard could not help but smile at Sigrid. How like her mother she seemed! Brow creased in angry concern, back straight and feet spread, ready to kick an offending miscreant into obedience if necessary, eyes bright and color as high on her cheeks as her temper ran hot. "We have etiquette lessons tonight, remember?"

Sigrid drew a small bundle of matches from her dress pocket and lit the candles on Bard's desk. "That's right. Now you finish eating while I go fetch some quilts. You can work a couple more hours--I'll get my knitting and sit with you--but I won't have you falling ill." She eyed Bard critically, who tried his best to look cowed. "Lessons later tonight, then it's off to bed for you," she declared with a firm nod, before sweeping from the room, every bit a regal princess.

Bard was amused to see traces of Gilvagor's light carriage and gait in Sigrid's walk, the haughty tilt of her head and her measured but swift steps. The Elf was as effective a model of deportment, if an entirely unconscious one, as he was a tutor of history, geography, and languages.

Reminded of his own lack of refinement, Bard grimaced, even as he scraped his bowl clean of stew with the last of the bread. Sigrid and Bain had been teaching him how to act as befitted a king since Tilda found him staring one afternoon at his new china place settings, frustrated, and helpfully shifted the rows of forks and knives to their correct positions on the left and right of the plates, respectively; Bard had them reversed, for his habit was to hold his knife in his left hand. Gilvagor wasn't due back until next month, but the children, taking to their self-appointed mission wholeheartedly, sent to him for books on the customs of Men. The response came within a week: a single large and heavy tome as thick as Bard's thumb penned by a Breelander with the curious name of Marcus Pokeberry titled Book of the Marvels of the World, With Especial Discourses on Court Fashions.

Gilvagor wrote an accompanying note of apology, explaining that the Elves of the Woodland Realm didn't have much traffic with Men, as did their Noldorin kin west of the Misty Mountains, save only the people of Esgaroth and Dale, so there was regrettably little to be read on the subject of Mannish cultures in King Thranduil's library. A Lord Erestor, curator of Lord Elrond of Rivendell's far more extensive collection of lore, might be of more aid, and Gilvagor offered to make inquiries on Sigrid's behalf. Imagining a bevy of dignified ages-old Elf-lords earnestly combing shelves and rooms filled with hundreds upon thousands of books and scrolls to remedy his ignorance, Bard had Sigrid decline.

Instead, Bard paged dutifully through Marcus Pokeberry's ponderous treatise with Sigrid and Bain two nights a week, hoping to glean some insights on how the kings of Men arranged matters of court. Bard in truth thought many of the ceremonies and traditions described exceedingly odd.

"Petitioners had to kneel and touch their foreheads to the floor over their crossed hands? That sounds... uncomfortable."

"Says here you had to do it every ten paces when approaching the high king and couldn't get up until he let you. You won't have everybody bowing like that, will you, Da?"

"Bain, can you see fat Agmund bending over his knees without flopping onto his side? Or old Birna staying on her stiff joints and not stripping the skin off your poor da with curses? No. What else is there?"

His dedicated assistants' current interest was royal regalia. Bard had not even a crown to his office at the moment. Dale's fourteenth share of Smaug's treasure included wrought gold, jewels, and other precious things as well as unwrought, but Bard left that portion in the vaults of Erebor for safekeeping and as a line of credit in trade with the Dwarves. Rather, he opted to draw exclusively on the gold and silver coinage, which was of better practical use than gem-encrusted goblets and circlets as legal tender in Bree, Rohan, Gondor, and beyond.

One item alone did Bard request of King Dáin--the emeralds of Girion. Five hundred of the purest stones ranging in color from the light green of spring leaves to a green so dark as to appear black at first glance, set in a necklace made of white gold and silver filigree, chased with platinum. This Bard gifted to the Elvenking before he returned to his forest home last year in gratitude for the succor he gave the Lakemen in their direst need.

King Thranduil would come again to Dale in one month and King Dáin, as well, for the one-year anniversary of the Battle of Five Armies, which though unlooked for and terrible saw the allied forces of Elves, Men, and Dwarves victorious, to be bound in friendship ever after. The long expected meeting added a sense of urgency, if not quite outright panic, to all that the Men of Dale did.

The rebuilding proceeded apace, for while it had been decided their guests would be hosted in tents on the grassy knolls west of town, the townsfolk wanted their home to seem fair regardless. Every able body that could otherwise be spared was put to tending the outlying fields and orchards. The bleak and barren Desolation of Smaug proved surprisingly fertile, as if the land itself had been awaiting but the dragon's death to sprout anew, and this autumn's harvest would be bountiful, enough for the weeks of festivities planned, supplemented by the Elven and Dwarven stores to be brought for Dale's kitchens. Busy also were the weavers and tailors, carpets and tapestries flying off the looms to decorate the pavilions while bolt upon bolt of cloth was stitched and embroidered into finery for the occasion. Dale had regained some of her beauty and prosperity of old this past year, and her people were eager to show it.

Naturally, the frenzied preparations did not miss Dale's king. Silverware and china of the two designs Bard chose earlier this summer would grace the banquet tables before the Elvenking and King Under the Mountain in the welcoming and farewell feasts. And Bard had finally conceded to Master Fastolf's pleas that three large golden platters commemorating Smaug's demise at His Majesty's hands be used as centerpieces, but only after Fastolf presented to him a petition in favor with the signatures of three-quarters of the town.

Dreng and Ingvar, faces flushed beet-red, told Bard of a scheme hatched by a dozen of their agemates to stand together as his honor escort. The protection afforded Bard by teenaged guards, the eldest of whom had just turned fourteen, was not much improved by numbers, but the gathering would already be well defended by the contingents of Elven and Dwarven warriors in attendance, so Bard saw no reason to deny the boys their fun. No doubt they were excited at the prospect of seeing great lords up close and hearing war stories from soldiers with centuries of fighting experience.

More alarming was the fact that the boys' mothers wanted to know what uniforms their sons would wear, and this inevitably led to the question of what the king himself would wear. Between months of hearing construction proposals, fending off overly solicitous craftsmen, and working daily rotations on the farms when the harvest reached its peak, the thought that he might wish to be attired more richly and formally than was his wont never once occurred to Bard. Nor did he have the faintest idea what would be appropriate.

It was with relief that Bard let Sigrid--who'd been asked many times, to her amusement, about the contents of her father's wardrobe on recent trips to the market--take charge of dressing the family for state events. She and Bain consulted Marcus Pokeberry, Mistress Malkin, and others of her trade without much input from Bard aside from his measurements and approving selections of fabrics. The latter proved tiresome enough, however, in choosing which colors he preferred. "Mustard yellow or goldenrod, sire?" What did it matter, Bard wondered, so long as he was warm and his modesty preserved?

What truly concerned Bard was that he not fail in diplomacy. Thranduil and Dáin had long been rulers of their people, king and lord, while Bard poled barges on the Forest River. Before my line was born even! He was bold in speaking to Thorin Oakenshield before the gates of Erebor but, looking back on his actions then, Bard thought he showed less patience than was warranted and the barest civility, weary and heartsick as he was in considering the plight of his people if Thorin refused to relent. Admit, too, that you would not easily surrender your hopes of hearing golden bells ring again in Dale. After watching the black arrow in flight towards Smaug as Laketown burned around him, knowing there would be no second chance, war with the Dwarves, the Elvenking at his side, held no fear for him. Negotiations went ill, and events may have gone worse, had all not found common cause against the orcs and goblins. The blame for that could not be laid solely at Oakenshield's feet, Bard had since admitted.

Not that I fear a wrong word will start a war. Bard hoped he, Thranduil, and Dáin were beyond that; the Battle of Five Armies taught that they were better friends than foes, and the lesson would not soon be forgotten. But Bard was more aware now that missteps on his part could cost Dale in custom and good will. And the image of the survivors of Laketown huddled cold and destitute on the shores of Long Lake as the ashes of their homes sank into the water beside the agent of their ruin wasn't so fresh in his mind, making him brave, almost insolent, in treating with his fellow leaders, theoretically his peers in rank but in actuality his superiors in experience.

So, Bard pored over Dale's accounts, trying to learn the needs of his realm inside and out. It helped that the greater part of Dale's expenses was still financed by the crown's gold in the form of subsidies for agriculture and infrastructure. Though, Bard realized, he'd eventually have to hire an Alfrid or two of his own, preferably more honest, as Dale's internal market grew, food exports to Erebor rose, and imported luxuries, like silks from Far Harad or the hundreds of white and rosy pearls from Belfalas received by the town jewelers not four days ago, made Dale a major center for trade.

He groaned thinking of the interviews he must hold and nearly put his head back down onto his desk. Bard's petitioners seemed to be either determined to see him living in as much wealth as Smaug, his sensibilities be damned, or deferential to the point that carrying on a conversation was as painful as pulling an arrow out of his arm, a comparison Bard could personally attest to. He liked speech with the builders and crofters he met on his rounds best, men too occupied to dwell on his kingship.

Finally, shaking his head at his woolgathering, Bard reached for the brief on the latest census--a report of Dale's increasing population sorted by family, gender, age, and vocation tallied and in fact taken by Bain. Sigrid would soon return, too, ready to enforce the schedule she'd set for him tonight. Bard had wasted enough time. Resolute, he began reading.

TBC​

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In writing this, I had to work out a general timeline, included below for the curious, so that buildings, furniture, and tableware weren't finished too quickly. As it is, I suspect the Men of Dale still end up veritable prodigies in construction and manufacturing given the materials and level of ornamentation I describe, but whatever! Artistic license! Just handwave it as the townspeople collectively giving it their all--the craftsmen Bard dismisses volunteering to help the ones whose designs are selected, for example--to pay homage to their beloved king the only way he'll allow.

-- III 2941 --

21-22 June, Midsummer's Day: Bilbo Baggins, Thorin Oakenshield, and company depart Rivendell on the Quest of Erebor. (The Hobbit, Chapter III, "A Short Rest")

22 September: The Company arrives in Laketown.

[Bilbo:] It is also, if I may be allowed to refer to ancient history, the anniversary of my arrival by barrel at Esgaroth on the Long Lake; though the fact that it was my birthday slipped my memory on that occasion. (The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, Book I, Chapter I, "A Long-Expected Party")

October: Durin's Day. Smaug attacks Laketown and is slain by Bard the Bowman.

November: The Battle of Five Armies.​

-- III 2942 --

January: Bard sends to King Thranduil for a tutor on behalf of his children.

March: Gilvagor makes the first of his bimonthly visits to Dale. The Men of Dale begin planning a royal palace. Bard is voted a provisional privy chamber without his knowledge.

May: Construction on the study extension to Bard's house completed. Bard writes King Dáin asking permission, which is granted, for Bain to take day trips to Erebor.

June: Findegil and son depart to inspect every quarry within reach of Dale.

July: Bard commissions Léofwine to build him a desk and five chairs. The Men of Dale show enthusiasm in offering their services to furnish Bard with all that he requires and much that he does not. Bard refuses them all, except for two sets of silverware and fine china.

September: Four place settings of Bard's new china finished and presented to him. Bard realizes he's unschooled in court protocol and begins etiquette lessons with his children.

October: Léofwine delivers to Bard his new desk and two chairs. Bard orders a set of suitably royal clothes with his children's advice.

November: Dale hosts the Elvenking and the King Under the Mountain on the one-year anniversary of the Battle of Five Armies in renewal of the friendship between Men, Elves, and Dwarves forged then.​

-- III 2944 --

Bard rebuilds Dale and becomes King. (The Lord of the Rings, Appendix B: The Tale of Years)

Presumably the completion of Dale's reconstruction and Bard's official coronation, seeing as the survivors of Laketown were already proclaiming Bard king before the Battle of Five Armies and could hardly have waited years to begin work on Dale if they were to have any place to live.

​

 

Frankly, when it comes to fic in general and Tolkien in particular, verbose is fiiine with me Enjoyed the details and Bard's down-home yet regal blend. Love how you also have the geography and timeline down also. Not an easy task believe me!

 

Thanks so much for reading, Mira_Jade, Nyota's Heart!

Sadly, there aren't a great many stories featuring Bard and the Men of Dale, probably because of the relative lack of canon about them compared to, say, the Dúnedain or even the Rohirrim, whom the Northmen are kin to. I tend to think the first few years of Bard's rule were quite... interesting, lol, basically one long exercise in trial and error. Given that he hasn't the benefit of Aragorn's fine Elven education or seventy-year practicum in leadership, catapulted to fame and really excessive wealth after living most of his life in obscure poverty. Not to mention, he's likely king of, at least initially, people from Laketown, with its weird (for Middle-earth!) pseudo-democratic government--an elected Master and some kind of legislative/advisory council, maybe also elected.

One of the things this prompt, originally meant to be more crack humor, developed into is a light exploration of poor Bard's insecurities in his new position. While he has the character to be a good king--his grim resolve, his loyalty and dedication to duty, compassion, and generosity, his pragmatism, his uncommon common sense--and the popular support, even if that's rather embarrassing for him at the moment, lol, there's much he just doesn't know. Especially in the company of an Elf who's been king since the Last Alliance, literally an age ago! Misunderstandings over fashion aside, lol, Thranduil will have sound counsel for Bard, an experienced ruler to another much younger but already respected for his deeds.

Yeah, those are fun to sneak in and always make me feel in some little way closer to Tolkien, whose world is imbued with such richness of history. There will be more references to First and Second Age stuff when Thranduil has his conversation with Bard, er, two chapters from now. Of course, Bard's largely shrugging and going "whut?" even if he has no trouble grasping the greater moral of the Elvenking's story. C'mon! Bard, who's just a regular dude in the Third Age, lineage and dragonslaying aside, can't be expected to know ancient history that doesn't even concern his race when Gondor's highest nobility and most learned masters of lore can't identify Narsil or the Ring and barely Rivendell in a pretty obvious ditty.

Funny you should mention this, but after I wrote this, I did a closer analysis of the timeline and decided it's more likely that Dale was reestablished in III 2944 and finished in the following five years before Gandalf and Balin visit Bilbo in the Shire, from The Hobbit's ending, in III 2949. During the interim between the Battle of Five Armies and his crowning, the start of work on Dale, Bard would've continued to live in Laketown, rebuilding Esgaroth first, in line with his earlier sentiments before marching on the Mountain with the Elvenking. That's a fairly interesting scenario in itself, IMO, because you can bet the Master isn't too pleased with this arrangement, Bard usurping his power. Yet he can't outright antagonize or remove by whatever means Bard, whose fourteenth share of Erebor's gold comes to Laketown on the strength of his two personal claims--slayer of Smaug, heir of Girion--recognized by the Dwarves. Ah, political intrigue!

Again, really appreciate the comments! Chapter 2 is already written, and I'll post it here soon as I figure out how to split it. I'm glad verbose is fine with you, Nyota's Heart, 'cause that's what you're going to get!

 

Looks like this fic's going to be in three parts, folks! I spoke too soon in my optimism that I could rein in my verbosity and, as is often said by writers, the tale grew in the telling. Enjoy! Constructive criticism would be much appreciated. And I will strive to update with the third and (hopefully!) final installment in a timely fashion.

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[h2]Clothes Make The King[/h2]​

A month passed, and Bard had entirely forgotten about his order of new clothing until Sigrid came home from the pastry shop one morn with not only breads and cakes but a large bundle wrapped in heavy brown paper and a chest of dark wood. He hurried to take both package and box from her; the first was heavier than expected and the second lighter, as if empty. Bard set the items on the common room table and eyed them warily. "What's this?" The chest gleamed with lacquer and was inlaid with intricate geometric patterns in mother of pearl.

"Your clothes, Da," said Sigrid, placing her basket on the kitchen counter. "For when the Elves and Dwarves come." She rummaged around until she found a wide and shallow wooden bowl that she then wiped cursorily with a clean dishcloth before filling with their breakfast sweet buns. "I ran into Mistress Malkin, and she told me the robes you wanted were ready, but you never came for a fitting." Crouching down next to the hearth, Sigrid used the poker to stir the fire Bard had kindled in the predawn hours. "I said you were probably too busy and that I'd take the clothes. She had a chest from the hatmaker for you that she gave me, too." Sigrid laid out a cast iron pan and selected several eggs from a basketful, ready to wash and fry them when Bain and Tilda woke. "I promised her you'd stop by her shop next month to settle accounts."

"Fitting?" Yes, Bard asked Mistress Malkin to have designs finished for a few weeks ago, didn't he? His one audience with the woman left him with the distinct impression that she'd rather never suffer the terror of his royal presence again, but she was a professional, after all, with her trade pride, and he supposed she must've called on him at some point between then and now...

"Oh, Da..." Sigrid turned to face him, leaning back against the counter, and crossed her arms with a sigh, expression stern but for the slight upturn of her mouth at one corner. "You forgot, didn't you?"

And Bard suddenly remembered. Mistress Malkin did leave him a message while he was surveying the site where Dale would host her distinguished guests in a couple days. He and a group of builders had marked with wooden stakes areas for the tents and tables, fenced a paddock for the Elven delegation's horses on the lightly forested outskirts of the fairgrounds not too far from the river, and dug numerous firepits that they lined with stones. Bard was clumsy with exhaustion by the time he returned home that night, thoughts slow and hazy. He read Mistress Malkin's request that he come to her shop for a fitting but filed it aside to answer the next day.

Except, in the morning, he left early for the orchards to settle a heated dispute between, of all people, the cider pressers and pie makers over four bushels of apples that the former had ground up for juice when the latter had already earmarked that particular batch for baking. Or so it was claimed. Bard was more than a little suspicious of the whole episode because, within an hour and a half of his arrival, it happened that there was no need for his mediation, another four bushels of apples having been produced to satisfy the wronged party. Instead, Bard spent most of the day touring the cider mill and orchards, with which he was not in fact unfamiliar, drinking apple juice and eating apple pie under the anxious eyes of their suppliers. When he finally escaped, he was weary to the bone of public attention, prepared to swear off apples for possibly the rest of his life, and laden with proposals to expand the orchards, to experiment perhaps with vineyards and raise glass gardens, that were presented to him every third slice of pie. Somehow, Mistress Malkin's note had been lost in the shuffle.

At least the cider and pie was good. In smaller portions. Bard studied the bundle of clothing and ornate hatbox, brow furrowed, and said slowly, "I'm afraid I did forget, Sigrid." His schedule in the last two days leading up to the arrivals of Kings Thranduil and Dáin was packed from dawn to well after dusk with meetings, save for these early morning hours when he could feed the chickens and tend the fire, blessedly alone with his own thoughts, then break his fast with his family. Bard didn't know how he could find time to see Mistress Malkin for a fitting. "Do you think it'll matter if I don't go?" He hoped not.

From upstairs came the sounds of feet scuffling across the floorboards and doors opening as Bain rolled out of bed and went to the girls' room to wake Tilda. Sigrid bit her lip, the fingers of one hand tapping against her elbow. "No, I guess not," she admitted. "Mistress Malkin and the rest had your measurements, and the robes should be in layers, all loose."

They could hear Tilda protesting around a yawn that Bain ought to allow her to sleep until noon--"blame Da" was the curt reply--and shared a smile at the younger two members of the family's daily routine. Sigrid nodded decisively to herself, then took one of their breakfast eggs and dunked it in the pail of water in the sink, carefully washing the shell of grime. "Can you get more wood for the fire, Da? We can look at the clothes once we're finished eating, before your first appointment today." She caught Bard's eye with a steady gaze. "Together, Father."

Bard let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, reassured that he could trust Sigrid's judgment in this matter he was so helpless to grasp. He might even be just the tiniest bit eager, too, to discover what fashions Sigrid and her co-conspirators had in store for him.

* * *​

Two days later, outriders had come with word that the Elves and Dwarves were within an hour of Dale, and Bard again donned his finery. The first two or three times Bard dressed in his full regalia, with Sigrid's aid, he worried that he'd never manage the many layers, but he'd since practiced until the order seemed almost natural and he could persuade the fabric to lay flat where it should, to drape and fall becomingly. Sigrid was downstairs helping Bain and Tilda into their clothes, confident at last that her father could handle himself with his. Don't disappoint her.

First were the undergarments: a long-sleeved robe, cuffed securely at the wrists with flourishes of lace, in plain white wool the finest and softest Bard had ever worn that extended to mid-thigh and wrapped around to tie at the waist. Under this, Bard pulled on a pair of matching woolen hose.

Next came the trousers, of a style that was strange to Bard. Wide at the bottom and belted at the waist with a knot in front, the folds resembled nothing so much as a pleated skirt, though the legs were split to above mid-thigh for surprisingly great freedom of movement. The pants were striped with dark violet bands of differing widths and subtly differing shades, bordered at irregular intervals with needle-thin ribbons of gold.

Over this, Bard wore a shirt of sheer silk in palest yellow, gathered and cinched at the wrists just above his lacy cuffs and at the waist. The sleeves billowed and gradually darkened to a burnt ochre at the ends. The next layer was an embroidered vest longer than the shirt. It was made of cloth of gold and stitched all across in purples with flowing abstract designs that brought to mind waves and leaves both at once.

Bard buttoned up the vest with steady fingers, then put on the modified tabard. Though it covered his shoulders and was open at the sides, as many tabards were, the drape both front and back was a single length of fabric down the middle no wider than one of Tilda's baby scarves. This was much longer in the front, where it reached to his knees, than on the other side, where it abruptly stopped mid-back. Bard smoothed his hand down the velvet, dyed a medium purple that matched some of the embroidery on his vest, stiffened with heavy stitched borders and fan patterns in yet more gold thread. The forked front end was additionally weighted with two golden tassels.

Finally, Bard shrugged on the sleeveless surcoat, open down the front like a jacket. The stiffest garment in his ensemble, the coat was a heavy silk brocade in light purple that dropped to mid-calf, narrowing slightly at the waist before flaring out and lined with piping in hues of medium yellow. Mistress Malkin and her fellow clothiers had truly outdone themselves, Bard thought. The coat glittered over the shoulders and around the slit bottom with what looked upon closer inspection to be tiny faceted glass beads sewn into spiraling swirls. More bemusing than impressive in Bard's opinion, though, was how the coat came to rigid, upturned points at the corners of his shoulders, jutting out a short distance over his arms. These made Bard feel as if he might poke the eyes out of the unwary when he moved too quickly or sharply.

There were still accessories to don--a ruffled collar, short cape, and hat--but Bard first sat on his bed to pull on his boots. He had not ordered a new pair from the cobbler, not wanting to suffer the inevitable pinching of his feet as he broke them in. Besides, he reasoned, his old pair was clean enough and could barely be seen from under the broad folds of his pants. And they are a comfort to me.

Boots on, Bard turned his attention to the last three articles of clothing and the most troublesome. He grimaced, then sternly reminded himself that he had no time to delay.

He shook the cape out and swept it around his shoulders. It was two-toned: a bright, shimmering purple on the outer side, edged at the top with a collar, but lined inside with a dark yellow felt, trimmed at the bottom in golden fur. The cape fastened diagonally across his chest from over his left shoulder to under his right arm. Though not a fashion he was accustomed to, Bard supposed wryly that a more conventional cloak wasn't practicable with the points on his coat ripping holes in it.

What he was less comfortable with, however, were the chains of amethyst-studded gold that fastened the cape, hanging in ever longer loops almost to his waist. The only jewelry of any note Bard had ever held was a necklace, lost with Laketown, made of a half dozen strings of small multicolored glass beads twisted together that he bought as a bridal gift. He felt self-conscious, the weight of true gold heavy on his chest.

With a sigh, Bard forced himself to pick up the next piece of his costume--a collar of layered ruffled lace. The collar rested in a tight frilly circle around his neck atop his other clothes, and Bard had to constantly fight the urge to tear it off. Once his collar was unhappily in place, he lifted the lid off the lacquered chest Sigrid had brought home two days ago and removed his hat from its bed of deep red velvet. And what a hat!

Remarkably light, the hat had a rigid frame of fine gold wire mesh, stiffened on the sides with wider strips, and fitted on Bard's head not unlike a helmet. Its most striking feature was the rectangular board, also of reinforced gold mesh, that extended more than a finger-length from the crown out past the front and back of his head. From the ends of this board dangled long strands of round beads in different sizes and shades of purple, a larger amethyst at the very bottom of each string no bigger than a blueberry. The beads were spaced just far enough apart that Bard could see through the curtain they formed before his face. They swayed and clinked together with every movement; he found them rather distracting, if his mind was not kept occupied. Behind each of his ears hung two silken purple ribbons. One was for securing the hat with a knot under his chin, but the other was in fact a continuous loop that dipped to mid-calf and served no purpose that Bard could discern beyond decoration.

Bard decided that the hat could wait and merely tucked it under one arm before heading downstairs to check on his children's progress. All three were dressed and groomed, Sigrid making final adjustments to Tilda's headpiece. The children had been amusingly secretive about their outfits for weeks, even his usually talkative youngest, so this was Bard's first look at Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda in their finery.

Sigrid wore a loose blouse and petticoats in patterned greens and gold, delicate embroidered flowers and vines branching across the cloth. A long, wide swath of light green silk bordered in stitched golden fronds and trimmed along the lower edge in white fur covered her hair, bound there with a circlet of gold filigree, a single dark emerald hanging low from the center on her forehead. The silk wound about her body: one end draped in front across her left shoulder to wrap around below the right knee and finally over her left arm, trapping the other end as it fell down her back behind her right shoulder. His eldest had grown much indeed in grace and poise, Bard thought in wonder, carrying the folding style with ease.

Leaning against the common room table, feet crossed, was a tall, lanky young man Bard hardly recognized as his son. Bain had hit a growth spurt this past year and would soon be able to look his father level in the eye. His clothes, cut in straight vertical lines, emphasized the extra height.

Bard grumbled a bit at seeing that Bain's attire was much simpler than his--just a knee-length tunic, unbelted, in light blue over dark blue pants. Both tunic and pants were lightly decorated, the latter pinstriped in gold and the former embroidered in purples with the same flowing abstract designs Bard recognized from his own vest. The needlework ringed Bain's neckline, spread across his shoulders a ways before narrowing to a border along the row of buttons down the center, and at last settled at the hem like water collected at the bottom of a well. There was some stitching at the end of Bain's long sleeves, too, above his lacy cuffs. And Bard was mollified to note that his son also had to suffer a ruffled collar, which though shorter than Bard's was stiffer, sticking out at right angles in a circle of puffy ridges webbed together with lace.

Yet more startling was the purple fabric that completely swathed the top of Bain's head, leaving not one curly hair in sight. Bard couldn't begin to guess how the strange hat, if it was a hat at all, stayed in place. It was crowned in front with a light sapphire the size of a small bird's egg set in a large silver brooch, three silver chains studded with lesser sapphires looping around to the back on either side. A soft white feather the length of Bard's index finger curled at the top, shaft held by the brooch.

"Da!" cried Tilda. "How do I look?" She twirled, bold red dress billowing out in a truncated cone, layers of white and pink petticoats underneath. Tied at her side were two golden cords, one longer and the other shorter, that ended in white tufts of fur.

"Lovely, dearheart," Bard said, crouching to give Tilda a hug before holding her at arm's length and obligingly admiring her dress. Closer to, the skirt shaded from red to a dark pink at the top, which was actually above the waist about level with Tilda's bottom ribs. It was embroidered in gold at the hem with a thin margin of flowers and vines. "A proper princess."

Tilda blushed, suddenly shy. She fingered the strands of small pink and white pearls hanging unevenly at her right temple down to her shoulder, a matching set on the other side. Her headpiece was a beaded band of reds and gold, a single dark ruby like a teardrop at the center resting low on her forehead. "You look very handsome, too, Da," she whispered in Bard's ear, as if telling a secret.

Bard gave Tilda another one-armed hug, hand smoothing down the white silk of her tunic. It was trimmed in white fur at the wrists and along the edge of the cloth as it wrapped diagonally across from left shoulder to waist, a cascade of stitched light pink flowers tumbling at the neckline.

"But he hasn't tied his hair back or put his hat on," said Sigrid. "Da's hopeless, Tilda, so don't you go about flattering him." Bain stifled a chuckle into a cough, hiding his grin with a hand.

" 'Tis true, Tilda. Da's been remiss," Bard intoned solemnly, "and your sister's quite right to take me to task for it." He was rewarded with a giggle, Tilda turning daintily from side to side, still fascinated with the silken fall of her dress. Oh, it is indeed lovely to see her so happy with girlish things, Bard reflected. Life in Laketown had been hard, and Bard watched his youngest grow old beyond her years, just as did Sigrid before her, expecting nothing in the way of the frivolities that so pleased little girls, aside from the array of scarves her mother had knit her before her birth and the occasional bracelet of woven hemp, strung with the odd wooden bead, her father made her while waiting for barrels to float down the Forest River.

Sigrid laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, a smile curving her lips that didn't reach her eyes, as if she sensed the somber cast of Bard's thoughts or felt the same herself. "Why don't you sit, Da? I'll tie back your hair." She searched in the pile of colored ribbons on the table until she found a suitable length of dark violet silk, as Bard took a seat in one of the chairs. Bain led Tilda to the door by the hand, nodding to his father as they passed.

"Come, Tilda," Bain said. "Let's leave Da and Sigrid to their"--he smirked, though Bard deemed that unjust--"preening and go pay a visit to Dreng, Ingvar, and their friends outside. Don't you want to see what they're wearing?" Tilda had taken a liking to Ingvar, who was scrupulously careful to call her "my princess," even if he stammered over the words half the time, face going bright red. One to watch in the coming years. Bard couldn't help but glower at the prospect. For now, Tilda bobbed her head excitedly and, hand in hand, went with Bain out the door.

An aggrieved huff came from behind him, and the tenor was familiar to Bard. "Bain been giving you trouble again?" he asked Sigrid, amused.

"Has he ever!" Sigrid's hands moved surely to untangle Bard's hair with a fine wooden comb, gathering the strands into a short tail at the nape of his neck. "Always he teases me for worrying so over our clothes!" With a few quick and expert twists, she knotted the silk in a tight bow around his hair. She gave her handiwork a final tug, then pulled away from Bard.

"Not that he can fool me," Sigrid mumbled, haphazardly stuffing the leftover ribbons into her sewing basket. Bard turned to watch her, concerned at the quaver he heard in her voice under the exasperation. "He worries as much as I, being the crown prince and your heir." She stared at the cloth strips in her hands, winding them together into a loose coil of green and blue.

"Sigrid." Bard shifted to cover her hands with his, stilling her repetitive motions. He waited until Sigrid, biting her lip, met his gaze before speaking, lightly squeezing her hands. "Whatever happens this day or in the next few weeks, know that you and Bain have made me very proud. As proud as a father can be." Now Bard was the one to look away. "I'm no man of words, Sigrid--never have been--and for that I'm sorry." He hesitated, then forced himself to go on. It is no easy task for a man to admit his failings. Bard glanced at Sigrid, not long enough to read her expression. Even to those he loves best. "If I haven't shown you the care and attention you--"

"Oh, Da!" cried Sigrid. "Don't apologize!" She lifted their joined hands and kissed his knuckles. "You listen to me here. We've never doubted your care for us. Not once." Sigrid raised a hand to coax Bard's head up so he could see the smile in her eyes. "We only don't want to reflect poorly on you."

"You couldn't, Sigrid," Bard said, startled that she and Bain would feel insecure on his behalf. "Good children you are. I can ask for no better." Sigrid's smile went watery and, for an anxious moment, Bard feared there would be tears. Thankfully, a polite knock sounded on the door.

It was Dreng. "Sire? Are you and Lady Sigrid ready?" A pause, so Dreng could fidget, Bard imagined. "Prince Bain says we must away."

"Enough of my nonsense!" Sigrid straightened and visibly steeled herself, hands aflutter adjusting the fall of her silk drape. "Put your hat on," she commanded, and Bard hastened to obey. After his hat was secured, though, he caught Sigrid by the shoulder on her way to the door.

"If... you ever need to talk..." Not for the first or even ten thousandth time, Bard wished her mother yet lived. He was a poor substitute as confidant.

Sigrid nodded, said, "I know, Da," then flung open the door and swept outside, head held high. He sighed, understanding that her royal mask was firmly in place for the day. And she's right. Duty calls.

Bard followed and was greeted as he stepped across the threshold by a boyish, piping voice shouting, in as manly a tone as it could manage, "Guards! Attention!" Fourteen pairs of brand new boot heels clicked smartly together as his honor escort assumed positions in two orderly lines of seven to the left and right of the door--Dreng at the head of one and Ingvar, the other--forming a short corridor for Bard to walk down to where his family awaited him.

Eyes were fixed front, spines stiffened, and arms locked in place along sides. Only two facts marred the martial bearing of his young guards to any great degree, Bard noted wryly. They were armed with half a bargepole each. And the tops of these were festooned with bursts of gaily festive streamers in every shade of the rainbow.

More curious hats, too, Bard saw, pacing down the ranks and inspecting his "men" as they seemed to expect him to. Black with broad, rigid brims that shadowed all of the face but the chin, the hats were topped with long orange tassels that hung over the rims, one each, and the brown feathers, striped with black, of some bird of prey. A braided rope of orange and black closely circled the raised center of the hat, resting on the flat brim. The hat was secured under the chin with a black tie but, similar to his own headgear, a purely decorative string of polished light brown beads, a cat's eye shining in each, looped to mid-chest.

He examined the loose dark orange pants, bottoms neatly tucked into black calf-high boots. Bard gravely nodded his approval at the sleeveless, wraparound black tunics, belted with silver buckles over bright orange shirts that lightened to yellow at the wrists, where the boys wore black bracers studded with more silver. Finally, he reached his family, Sigrid with an arm around Tilda and Bain with hands clasped behind his back, posture straight but relaxed, the picture of a young lord. Bard then turned and found that not one of his escort had moved a muscle. He frowned.

"They're waiting for you to dismiss them," Bain whispered, smirking again. He didn't show so much cheek before, Bard thought. Just what has Gilvagor been teaching him?

Bard tried to remember the orders he'd been given during his stint in the Laketown guard, a time he didn't much like to dwell on. Not only because he was green as grass and naive as to the corrupt ways of the Master, but because he'd resigned upon the death of his wife, passing up a promotion to captain of a company of archers. In the difficult months from then until he was hired as a bargeman, Bard often wondered if his grief and, yes, anger at the Master's denial of his request for compassionate leave led him to a poor decision. For surely the wages of a captain of guards would've better supported his children.

"At ease!" Bard at last commanded, hoping he sounded more authoritative than uncertain. To his relief, Dreng, Ingvar, and the others shifted to rest positions. What now? Bard was at a loss and, knowing they were on a schedule, settled for a less than military and decidedly impatient, "Let's go." Bain's hand covered his mouth, no doubt hiding another grin, though he was courteous enough to not outright laugh at his king and father.

"Guards! Move out!" yelled Dreng. He and two friends took the lead while Ingvar marched his own contingent of three to the rear. The remaining eight guards prepared to pace the royal family, four in a line on each side. Bemused at the practiced evolutions of this little company, Bard realized the boys must have drilled together to learn and perfect these formations. Shaking his head, he offered his arm to Sigrid, who accepted with a gracious smile. Bain behind them followed Bard's example and escorted Tilda, who blushed as pink as some of her pearls, clearly pleased by the courtly gesture. Thus they proceeded at a stately walk to the fairgrounds.

As they drew closer, they met more townspeople, not yet garbed in their festival finery but rather practical working clothes. Men rolled casks of cider, ale, and wine, some containing the fine Dorwinion red ordered special for the occasion. Women balanced tall stacks of plates, bowls, and cups, lugged pots and kettles filled with utensils, trailed by children with armfuls of banners and hangings in reds, blues, and greens. Trestle tables and long benches, baskets of fruits and vegetables, sheep and pigs still ignorant of their fate, candles and white paper lanterns--it seemed half of Dale was lending a hand to make ready for tonight's welcoming feast. And Bard knew the pavilions had been raised at first light, that the bakers were laying out their loaves for the ovens and the hunters returning with their catches, fresh venison and fish. Dreng was gleefully clearing a path, bargepole swinging as he cried, "Make way! Make way for the king!"

Heads turned. Those who could put down their burdens and bowed, doffing their hats if they had any. The rest cheered, calling his name, Sigrid, Bain, and even Tilda's. "Right fine you look, Your Majesty!" "Prince Bain! Blow us a kiss!" "Fair Lady Sigrid! Princess Tilda!" Bard acknowledged his enthusiastic subjects when he could with what he hoped were regal nods, Sigrid doing the same beside him, one hand tight on his arm above the other nestled in the crook of his elbow. Bain and Tilda waved, smiling madly, while their guards tried to keep appropriately serious countenances, mindful of their duty, though their efforts were quite in vain. Bard resisted the urge to break into a run.

After an interminable fifteen minutes or so being thronged, the royal party separated from the crowds, to many disappointed looks, continuing on a more westerly course to the site where Bard had arranged to meet the Elvenking and King Under the Mountain before throwing them to his people's curiosity. A bit of foresight Bard himself was now exceedingly grateful for. He and Sigrid heaved twin sighs of relief as soon as the townsfolk were out of view, then exchanged wide smiles at their own nervousness, safely behind them.

They walked briskly but comfortably, the day fair and the air bracing, reminiscent of early autumn. The weather had turned unseasonably warm after the bitter frost of a couple weeks ago and was ideal for strolls, though they'd all be glad for the blaze of the firepits on the fairgrounds come evening. Bard kept his silence, reviewing what he planned to discuss with Thranduil and Dáin. Bain and Sigrid respected their father's apparent wishes, quietly peering around at the scenery, but Tilda hummed to herself, a lilting melody that struck Bard as vaguely Elvish. Their escorts were wholly preoccupied with intently scanning the hilly swards, broken here and there by a stand of trees, for potential threats.

Suddenly, Sigrid laughed delightedly. "Bain," she said, a sly glint in her eyes, "since when did girls start asking you for kisses?"

Bain sputtered, all decorum lost. "They... They're just..." He collected himself and glared at Sigrid. "Being a prince is considered very dashing, is all. Or so they tell me. What do I know about girls?" He shuddered.

Bard raised an eyebrow. "Bain, don't tell me you've been bandying your title about to woo girls." He rather liked the return of this less self-assured Bain and didn't mind helping Sigrid roast her brother. He no doubt deserves it, Bard thought, amused as always by the impudent affection between his eldest children.

"What? No!" Bain cried, horrified at the mere suggestion. He recovered quickly, however, and pointed an accusing finger at Sigrid. "It's her you should worry about, Da. She's 'Sigrid the Fair' to every young man in town, who all act as besotted as if she were Lúthien come again."

"Oh, don't exaggerate. I'm hardly an Elven enchantress!" Sigrid sniffed haughtily at Bain's inept literary citation, then patted Bard's arm reassuringly. "Besides, every young man in town is far too afraid of Da to play at suitor." Her expression was sweet and convincingly ingenuous.

Tilda, who'd been all but forgotten by her siblings in their feud, chose to make a pertinent observation. "Sigrid's always getting bunches of flowers from people, mostly boys."

"Tilda!" Sigrid drew in a sharp breath and rounded on her sister with a wounded look. "I thought we agreed that would be our little secret."

Bard's other eyebrow was climbing his forehead to join its counterpart. "You didn't pick those yourself?" Every few weeks, there would be a fresh bouquet of wildflowers on their table in a painted clay vase. Bard had assumed Sigrid gathered them when collecting herbs for seasoning and medicines. That would've been unusual for his ever practical daughter, were it not for the romantic streak Sigrid was showing lately, so Bard suspected nothing.

I've been blind. ("Ha! I knew it!" crowed Bain.) Bard struggled to recall exactly what flowers Sigrid had received: small anemones in blue, purple, and white; stalks of heather; white water lilies; fragrant wild roses in every hue of red. ("I'm sorry, Sigrid," said Tilda, forlorn. "I forgot.") He was beginning to think there might be some ambitious young men in Dale he ought to take hunting. To have a talk in the woods with my bow.

"Da, can you not look so grim?" Sigrid pleaded. "The flowers don't mean anything."

"Names, Sigrid. I want names."

She refused to tell, of course, chiding Bard for being overbearing, which he did not appreciate in the least. Bain heckled them both, though he carefully stayed out of scolding range, not willing to jeopardize his escape from parental attention. Tilda lost interest in the entire episode. Dreng, Ingvar, and the other guards feigned deafness, with limited success. And so it was a rowdy group that arrived at the appointed meeting place. Two figures awaited them there, a Man and an Elf.

Holte had volunteered to keep a watch for the Elves and Dwarves, with instructions to make Bard's excuses with his glib tongue and lead the dignitaries to the fairgrounds, if necessary. Bard had no intention of missing his first opportunity to confer in person with his fellow rulers in a year, but he figured there was little harm in letting Holte feel useful to his king, as the man plainly wanted to be. The Elf Holte entertained wore the dark green and leathers of the woodland guard, though the armor seemed more ornamented than the Wood Elves' war gear to Bard's eye, with elaborate silver tracery, and a silver-green cloak fell from the Elf's shoulders. He was also armed not with bow and arrows but a tall spear of golden white wood and a fine, curving sword belted at his side.

"--until you see King Bard, the young prince and princesses, Master Elf. My darling wife--she's a draper, and she's had nothing but praise for the fabrics she and her associates provided the clothiers. Rich silks in so many colors, lovely brocades, the softest lamb wool and ermine fur!" Holte had clearly been speaking for a while, hands waving in the air with his excitement. "Ah! Here comes His Majesty with his family now. I'll be off then, leave you lords to your great councils."

The Elf laughed musically at this, bringing to mind wind chimes. "Holte, how many times must I tell you that I am no lord among my people?"

Holte simply shrugged, as if to say the Elvish reckoning of lords was of no import to him, then trotted away towards town. But not before bowing deeply to Bard with a quiet, "With your permission, sire." Bard nodded his dismissal, only slightly awkward.

Tilda let out a joyous cry. "Gilya!" She threw herself into the Elf's arms as he turned to greet them.

Gilvagor picked the running girl up in a swoop, graceful despite the spear still in his other hand. He brought Tilda's face close to his and said, voice brimming with mirth, "Glad as I am to learn that I've been missed, you shall soon be too heavy for me to lift, Tilda." He gazed at her with mournful eyes. "I beg of you, my lady, to take pity on the back of this poor old Elf!" Tilda giggled as Gilvagor staggered and groaned in exaggerated pain. "You would not have me lose standing in my king's guard, would you, my lady?" he asked in entreaty.

"No!" Tilda said, though she continued, "I don't think you very old, Gilya. For an Elf." Her face scrunched in consideration, then she nodded solemnly. "But you may put me down now," she granted, gracious as a queen. "And I will excuse you in the future."

"Thank you kindly, my lady," said Gilvagor. He set Tilda gently back on her feet and sketched a bow to her as Bard chuckled at this display of the Elf's youthful good humor.

Sigrid and Bain greeted Gilvagor with far more courtesy, which the Elf answered in kind before looking at last to Bard. Something of a curious smile had grown across Gilvagor's face as he spoke to the children; this expression froze as Bard stepped forward to welcome him. Bard thought Gilvagor resembled in his arrested motion nothing so much as one of his beloved beech trees or perhaps a startled woodland creature and instinctively sought the cause of his alarm, finding only bare grass nearby.

Puzzled, Bard was about to ask Gilvagor what troubled him when he saw the Elf's equanimity was restored, fair features once again as placidly pleasant as Long Lake on a clear summer's day. Was I mistaken? Elves! Who besides another Elf could know the inner workings of an Elven mind, and Wood Elves were more mercurial than the rest, as changeable as the seasons in their forest home.

Bard dismissed the matter as a passing Elven fancy and said, "Gilvagor, your arrival has been much anticipated," with an indulgent smile at his children, who all seemed abashed to varying degrees, Tilda the least. "I thought that you might travel with the Elvenking's party, though."

There was a slight pause, barely noticeable, before Gilvagor responded. Bard hoped Gilvagor had not slipped away without Thranduil's leave to see his students, even if that did strike Bard as unlikely given the Elves in question. With an understanding glint in his eyes, Gilvagor assured, "My king granted me permission to ride ahead for a private reunion." His focus shifted from Bard first to the south, then north; Bard was disconcerted to notice that two groups of riders were suddenly approaching, having rounded obscuring hills. Bard had chosen this meeting place for ease of access to both town and fairgrounds, reachable by short walks no longer than ten minutes on level grassy paths. But, he realized, he had not foreseen the effect standing in what amounted to a bowl-shaped hollow would have on his visibility--namely that he'd have little warning of the coming Elves and Dwarves. A shiver of anxiety curled up Bard's spine.

His abrupt feeling of near panic was not relieved by the uncertain note that crept into Gilvagor's voice as his gaze stayed distant. "King Thranduil and the King Under the Mountain will soon be here, but you..." The Elf hesitated, apparently at a loss for words, which was rare indeed. "When Sigrid asked of me lore on the customs of Men, I did not think to give you counsel." Bard watched in confusion as Gilvagor slowly shook his head. "It... is not my place and too late besides," he finally said, subdued from his earlier high spirits, eyes fixed on the lead rider in the Elven cavalcade. "I shall take my leave, Master Bowman. After you meet with my king, I will find you and make amends." To Bard's surprise, Gilvagor, who'd never stood much on ceremony with him in their yearlong acquaintance, made a full bow, arms swept wide, before sprinting lightly towards town in the next breath, leaving Bard no time to wonder at his strange behavior or speech.

Sigrid and Bain were as perplexed as he when he looked to them for an explanation, Bain offering a shrug. And then Bard could afford to think no longer on anyone's mysterious actions, motioning his children and young guards to take their places in preparation to formally greet their distinguished guests. Bain stood to his right, as his heir, Sigrid to his left and Tilda to her left. Dreng and Ingvar stood at attention a few paces removed from the ends of the line Bard and his family formed, the rest of the boys arrayed in two additional lines a few paces back. Bard took several deep breaths, silently rehearsing his words of welcome.

TBC​

---

Since I'm no fashion designer, in dressing Bard, his children, and his young guards, I relied on real historical and traditional costumes. In keeping with the film's Venice on the Volga concept, the people of Laketown wear clothing that's either perfectly fit for a Renaissance Faire or vaguely Russian but, to my eye, with additional Himalayan and Mongolian influences. So, I thought, why not have Bard et al. adopt the styles of the Far East?

There could conceivably be an analog to the Far East in Tolkien's world past Rhûn, Khand, and Harad, on the shores of the eastern sea perhaps, where Men first awoke. Far Eastern costumes and those of southeast Asia, as well, would strike the inhabitants of Middle-earth's western lands, whose tastes are generally medieval, as bizarre enough to fill the prompt without stretching credibility too much by being absurdly impractical. Thus, Marcus Pokeberry is intended as an expy of Marco Polo, whose account of his travels in central Asia and China so inspired the early European explorers, Columbus among them. (Headcanon: The Edain never developed a similar interest for fear of Mordor and Sauron's dominion over the eastern peoples.)

Bard's hat is one famously worn by the Emperors of China [1], chosen for the fiddly dangling bits that I figure would drive Thranduil, with his sharper senses, mad as Bard hasn't the training in court etiquette to keep his head still. Bard's pants and coat are inspired by the clothing of the Japanese samurai: split hakama, skirt-like trousers, and jinbaori, usually hip- or thigh-length kimono jackets worn over armor that I've done in western fabrics and extended for Bard to wear as robes. The overabundance of bling fastening Bard's short cape is a nod to the Indian Maharajas' fondness of bedecking themselves with garlands of jewels for photographs.

Bard's lacy collar is called a ruff [2], popular in Europe sometime in the 16th and 17th centuries. His shirt, vest, and cape are likewise western in style. As for the embroidery on Bard's vest and cape, think Rococo. My basic idea's that none of Bard's garments alone is really all that unfashionable, but it's the mélange of clashing sensibilities that makes his outfit as a whole a bit of an eyesore.

The ensembles of Bard's children and his honor escort don't have this problem of cohesion, being drawn primarily from a single culture each. Sigrid and Bain's clothing is Indian, notably her sari and his turban. Tilda is in traditional Korean dress, called hanbok, but her headpiece is Mongolian in origin. Dreng, Ingvar, and friends are in hanbok, too, specifically the modernized look most often featured in South Korean television serials [3]. Their hats, I believe, would've marked them as soldiers in the feudal Korean army.

Nor is anybody else's color scheme quite as unfortunate as Bard's, though together the group spans the entire rainbow. I chose purple and yellow for Bard's clothes because both have been favored by emperors--Roman and Chinese, respectively. Just not in combination, though I don't think these colors look bad together per se, so much as being too overwhelming for Elven senses with the multiple layers and elaborate needlework I describe.

Finally, I've modified all the clothing to accommodate Dale's colder climate. Sigrid, for one, is not baring her midriff, as is common among the sari-clad young women of India and southeast Asia. Long sleeves and heavier fabrics are preferred, and some of the outerwear is lined and trimmed in fur, everything layered atop woolen undergarments. Also, boots, not sandals. Hopefully, these mismatched costumes come across as humorously and/or horrifyingly eccentric, especially to Elven eyes, but still plausibly fashionable and suitable as court attire to the Bard(l)ings.

 

Did love the fashion details and Bard with his children, each of whose personality is shining through endearingly. Looking forward to the upcoming meeting, momentous and portentous as Bard must be thinking it will be.

 

Re: Fashion

Taste is a funny thing. I actually have a reviewer over at ff.net who thinks Bard's clothes are pretty awesome, with the exception of the uncomfortable frilly collar. There's really no accounting and all.

As a result, Thranduil's biggest objection to the fashions of Dale is ultimately rooted in a (created) difference between Elven and human perception. Which I've likened to the way the profusion of detail and loss of depth in a high definition picture can make people nauseous. This is a problem that The Hobbit production had to deal with, in fact, as mentioned in the AUJ EE, when the costume department was forced to scrap the original dressing robe Bilbo wears when he first meets the Dwarves in Bag End because the colors and textures were dizzyingly garish in the high frame rate 3D. So, think of Elven eyes as 3D cameras that roll at ten thousand frames per second.

Besides this, the Bardings tend towards a greater variety of bright, verging on flashy colors than do the Wood Elves or Elves in general, who seem to prefer more sedate whites, grays, blues, and reds, burnished golds and other metallics, greens, browns. And I didn't totally make this up either! Canonically, the paths of Dale are paved in multicolored stones. Of course, I'm choosing to freely interpret this as rainbow brick roads...

Re: Sigrid, Bain, Tilda

It was a lot of fun to write the interactions of Bard and his children! Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda's roles, especially Sigrid's, have expanded greatly from, essentially, the cameos they had when I still optimistically thought this would be under, oh, ten thousand words or so, lol. Just as Bard has a steep learning curve in adjusting to his new kingship, so do Sigrid and Bain to being public figures of some authority, insofar as they represent their father and Dale's re-established royal house. Not so much Tilda, though, as she's young (quick to adapt, protected by her family) and quite excited to be a princess!

More Sigrid to come as, if you'll recall, she had a guiding hand in selecting Bard's clothes. I hope to also touch a bit on Thranduil and Legolas's father-son relationship. Since this is another potential point of connection between Bard and Thranduil.

ETA: Next part tomorrow! Yay!

 

I present for your reading pleasure the second half of Chapter 2! Wherein there is yet more wordy description, talk of politics and, uh, a fashion faux pas turned minor diplomatic incident?

---

The Elves and Dwarves arrived together, which Bard suspected was no coincidence, neither delegation willing to surrender precedence to the other. Both groups were ahorse, the Elven mounts as tall and fair as their riders, silver bells jingling on their bridles, and the Dwarven ponies as stout and long in hair as theirs, coats brushed to a lustrous shine and tack agleam with gems.

Like Gilvagor, the Elven escorts, some twenty strong, wore dark green and leathers tooled in silver, the ends of their silver-green cloaks draped over their horses' hindquarters. Each was armed with a pale spear, about half of these actually topped with streaming green pennants, and a curving sword belted at his side. The Dwarven escorts, of similar number, wore what must surely be ceremonial armor, so intricately wrought the metal was in geometric patterns that dizzied the mind, every piece polished sun-bright. They were unhelmed, however, Bard thought the better to display their braided hair and beards, clasped with gold and silver, beaded with jewels. Each was armed with a pair of small single-bladed axes as finely decorated as his armor, and four bore dark blue banners with the hammer and anvil device of Durin's folk stitched in mithril, though Bard could not vouch for the last.

Bard swallowed his nervousness, stepped forward, and said in a carrying voice that he steadied by force of will, "Hail and well met, my lords. Dale welcomes her honored friends and allies, the Dwarves of Erebor in the Lonely Mountain"--he nodded to King Dáin--"and the Elves of the Woodland Realm"--he nodded to King Thranduil--"on this most auspicious occasion, the one-year anniversary of the great events that could forever have sundered our three peoples but bound us together instead in good will and amity for the peace and prosperity of all." Bard then paused to await responses from Dáin and Thranduil, wishing his lacy cuffs were a bit longer so he could hide clenched fists in them. Don't fidget! He trusted Bain and Sigrid not to, Sigrid to manage Tilda, and hoped Dreng and Ingvar were too overawed by their visitors to do much except stare if their soldierly dedication failed them.

At last, Dáin dismounted, his lords and escorts after him, closing the distance between him and Bard on foot. The King Under the Mountain was resplendent in velvet robes of black and a deep, rich wine-red, collared in dark fur and embroidered generously in silver as well as with tiny gemstones, flashing blue and purple. Dáin's beard was by far the most magnificently adorned of the Dwarves', and he wore much gold jewelry besides in his hair--a broad belt, rings of different fashions on every finger, and finally a crown that was striking in its relative simplicity until one examined it closely. Bard had never seen gold nor any other metal so cleverly shaped and engraved, the geometric reliefs almost seeming alive with light and shadow.

"Hail, Bard, King of Dale," Dáin intoned resoundingly. "I, Dáin son of Náin, son of Grór, King Under the Mountain, do hereby graciously accept Dale's offer of hospitality on behalf of my people, who would honor our friendship and alliance with the Men of Dale until the world is remade." He inclined his head at Bard, who reciprocated, while behind them Dáin's lords exchanged courtesies with Bard's children. Greetings done, both Bard and Dáin turned their attention to the Elvenking.

Who did not look as if he intended to answer Bard's welcome, in truth. Thranduil's face was forbidding beneath his crown of bone-white wood, autumn leaves and berries red as heart's blood. He stared unblinkingly at Bard, eyes narrowed.

Is he offended I greeted the Dwarves first? Bard thought. The Men of Dale would not forget the kindness shown by the Elvenking after Laketown's destruction but, after all, their town lay practically on the front doorstep of Erebor. No, Bard decided. As difficult as he knew relations between the Elves and Dwarves to be at times, he did not believe Thranduil could be so easily slighted. But I know not why he is displeased. Though perhaps the more pressing question was how to salvage the situation.

Just as Bard opened his mouth to speak again--of what he wasn't certain--the Elf to Thranduil's right declared, voice ringing, "I, Legolas, Prince of the Woodland Realm, do hereby graciously accept Dale's offer of hospitality on behalf of my lord father, Thranduil Oropherion, and my people, who would honor our friendship and alliance with the Men of Dale for so long as we live."

Legolas smiled warmly at Bard, but the glimmer in his eyes was mischievous. "Elven years being numbered beyond count by the reckoning of Men and Dwarves alike, you and your descendants, may they be many, can rely on our promise, King Bard of Dale." Bard nearly didn't recognize Thranduil's son, who he was accustomed to seeing in dark gear of war, bow and white knives at hand. This Legolas wore luminous silver and white robes, delicately stitched with branching ivy and clusters of leaves, a circlet of silver filigree crowning his golden head. The Elf seemed somehow lighter in spirit, as well, merrier and not so grim, though Bard would be the first to admit they met in unhappy circumstances.

Thranduil turned sharply towards Legolas, father and son locking gazes in a queer wordless, expressionless conversation. Finally, Legolas tilted his head almost imperceptibly, half at Thranduil, half at Bard, and the Elvenking said slowly, "Yes. As my son says, so shall it be." Contrary to his earlier behavior, Thranduil now avoided looking at Bard, intent focus shifted discomfitingly to a point in the air over Bard's head. This confirmed Bard's growing unease that the trouble was him specifically, but he was unfortunately no closer to divining the exact nature of Thranduil's objections to him.

In a fluid motion the eye slid from, Thranduil dismounted, the other Elves following suit. He swept his silvery mantle from his shoulders with a flourish, the long cloak's velvet lining a ripple of flame, and handed it to an attendant who all but materialized at his elbow between one heartbeat and the next. Underneath, the Elvenking was, like Prince Legolas, a figure of mingled starlight and moonlight, clad in a close cut silk brocade of white embroidery on silver, perfect white pearls stitched into curling designs along collar, hem, and seams. The robes fell full-length to the ground, slit at the bottom into four panels that flared as Thranduil spun, revealing the dark gray-green velvet insides.

Bain again bowed and his sisters again curtsied, Tilda wobbling a little. The Elven escorts, led by their prince, returned a salute, right hand over heart and a solemn dip of the head, though with a distinct air of amusement. The Elvenking remained aloof, however, and Bard hurried to speak before an awkward silence could descend. "My lords, with your leave, my pages will guide your parties to where they may see to your horses and thence to the fairgrounds while we three continue there on foot under light guard." Bard hoped he, Thranduil, and Dáin would be able to settle into an easier rapport before facing public scrutiny. And maybe I can find out just what is the matter with the Elvenking, he thought, frustrated. He'd felt Thranduil well-inclined towards him in their dealings prior to the Battle of Five Armies, and nothing in their regular correspondence since even hinted otherwise.

Dáin nodded his acceptance. "I have no objections to doing as you propose, King Bard," he said, "if you'll allow me to first make arrangements with Lord Glóin." At Bard's soft and surprised "of course"--the King Under the Mountain hardly needed to so graciously seek Bard's permission to order Dwarves, Dale's host status notwithstanding--Dáin stepped away to confer with a redheaded Dwarf Bard dimly recognized as one of Thorin Oakenshield's company. He hadn't realized this Dwarf was of high rank among the nobles of the Lonely Mountain but now took careful note of Lord Glóin's face and proud bearing. Perhaps later he might question Bain more closely as to what his son had seen of the workings of Dáin's court.

With a glance at his father, who studied the surrounding hills with unwarranted interest, Legolas said, "We agree, as well. A few moments to assign duties, and we shall be ready to depart." Bard thought he detected a faint note of exasperation in Legolas's voice and was glad to hear he was not the only one who found Thranduil's odd mood vexing.

Legolas's gaze lit then upon Bard's young guards, and he continued, eyes lively, "If I might offer a suggestion, King Bard, our escorts would make better time should your children and pages consent to ride with us. The Elves who are to accompany my lord father would gladly loan their horses to Lady Sigrid or Prince Bain, and none of the rest would mind sharing a saddle."

"Aye, we Dwarves have a couple ponies to spare, too, and would be pleased to take your pages as passengers." Glóin's expression was almost tender as he watched Dreng, Ingvar, and their friends struggle to keep their composure at this unexpected chance to ride such impressive mounts in such an impressive retinue. Bard quickly surveyed his charges and inwardly laughed at the pleading looks cast his way.

"Then I will simply thank you, my lords, and accept this great honor," Bard said wryly, "on behalf of my very grateful party." From behind him came several squeaks of joy followed by a hissing sound, the guilty being shushed, and Bard saw a number of the Elves hide indulgent smiles while some of the Dwarves chortled discreetly into their beards. Legolas leaned in to carry on a whispered conversation with Thranduil, the liquid tones of Elvish blurred together into an indistinct stream barely audible to mortal ears. I had best instruct my own, thought Bard.

He gestured for the children to gather around, all of them suppressing broad grins at the prospect of riding to the festival with the Elves and Dwarves. "Sigrid, you and Tilda are to go with the Elves. Bain, take one of the Elven horses but go with the Dwarves. I'm relying on you two to make sure our guests feel welcome." Bain and Sigrid nodded soberly at this reminder of their royal responsibilities. Bard, though, softened seeing their suddenly anxious faces and, placing a hand each on their shoulders, said, "You will both do well. I know it." He glanced at the Elven and Dwarven escorts where they stood, relaxed and talking amongst themselves, some brushing gentle hands over the necks of their mounts, as they waited for their kings to dismiss them. Many snuck darting looks at Bard's huddle, always turning away with the corners of their mouths quirked upwards. "Our guests seem quite charmed by you--all of you--already." With their longer lifespans, they likely don't see very many children born to them.

"Dreng, Ingvar." The two boys straightened to attention with a crisp yessir. "Split your men"--Bard couldn't help smiling at this exaggeration or at how Dreng and Ingvar puffed up with pride--"into two groups of six, one for each of you to lead and one to escort the Elves, the other the Dwarves. I leave the choice of assignments to you." Dreng, Ingvar, and the others in their small company began eyeing the Elves and Dwarves, both races strange and fascinating, as well as their friends-cum-rivals, and Bard figured they'd fight about who would accompany whom, then end up drawing lots as a compromise of last resort. Just as their fathers would do in their places.

Before his guards grew hopelessly distracted, Bard finished, "When you arrive at the fairgrounds, Dreng, Ingvar, I want you to find Nethir, in charge of the pavilions, and tell him to have the tent we discussed prepared to receive Kings Thranduil, Dáin, and me in ten minutes. Then all of you are dismissed for the duration of the festivities tonight. Understood?" The boys nodded, answering with another yessir as crisp as the last.

And so matters were arranged. Thranduil and Dáin chose two warriors each to guard the kings while their remaining escorts mounted up, this time with Bard's children and young pages. Sigrid rode one of the Elven horses sidesaddle, Bain another, falling back to pace the Dwarves, and two of the older boys took the riderless ponies. The rest rode with an Elf or Dwarf, in total six with the former group under Ingvar's command and six with the latter under Dreng's. Tilda was seated securely before Prince Legolas himself, who she happily chattered at, not self-conscious in the least. The colorful cavalcade, green Elven pennants and dark blue Dwarven banners brightened by the addition of fourteen half bargepoles topped with rainbow streamers, moved off at a slow trot towards the river where the paddocks were located. Bard was left with his fellow rulers. One of whom still refuses to look at me, he thought glumly.

Bard raised a hand to run through his hair, then remembered he was wearing that cursed hat, his fingers tangling in the curtain of beads, which clinked. Feeling Thranduil's gaze fix upon him again, a burning brand, he froze mid-motion, hand half lowered. What did I do now? Bard gritted his teeth and swept his hand out like he'd always meant to. "Shall we, my lords?" He inclined his head towards the path that led to the fairgrounds.

Dáin shot them both an unreadable look, one hand stroking his long beard thoughtfully. With a nod at Bard, he began walking down the path, guards trailing, their sturdy Dwarven boots tromping across the grass. Bard waited for Thranduil to precede him, but the Elvenking stared at him, seemingly sunk in reverie, and finally Bard followed Dáin, huffing a bit and stomping the grass flat as heavily as if he were a Dwarf, too. Trying to track the light footfalls of the Elves was futile, of course. Instead, Bard glanced back when he caught up to Dáin, sighing in relief to find Thranduil and his escorts only a few steps behind rather than the Elvenking rooted in place like a pale tree.

Intent on being diplomatic and, frankly, writhing inside at the imagined torture of walking in uncomfortable silence for ten minutes, Bard asked Dáin, "How goes the reconstruction of Erebor?" Given what he'd heard from Bain, the Dwarves had much to be proud of, and Bard was certain Dáin would relish an invitation to laud at length his people's efforts. Dáin did not disappoint, eyes kindling in joy as he recounted the repair work done on the magnificent halls of old and the new sections of the famed gold mines reopened daily.

"Erebor was the mightiest of our realms after Khazad-dûm was lost," said Dáin, face momentarily grim at the mention of Moria. "And so shall it be once again," he continued, resolute, "the halls of Thráin, first King Under the Mountain, and Thrór after him restored to their former beauty and glory." Bard frowned at Thrór's name, the Dwarf-lord whose love of gold had, as he understood it, brought the dragon to Erebor and Dale. Nor did Thrór's gold do his grandson any good. Seeing this, Dáin assured, with a not entirely mirthless chuckle, "Don't think, King Bard, that we Dwarves are incapable of being taught."

Chagrined that he didn't better mask his sentiments on this touchy subject of the rulers Dáin succeeded, Bard started to apologize before Dáin forestalled him with a shake of the head. "We have learned, though the lesson was costly, the dangers of hoarding treasure, especially that which a dragon has long brooded over. Besides Dale's fourteenth share, recompense paid to the surviving members of Thorin Oakenshield's company, and a discretionary fund for Erebor's annual expenses, plus some minor miscellaneous accounts, much of Smaug's gold has been sent to our kin in the Iron Hills and Blue Mountains, to spend as they will." Bard had no doubt Dáin knew whither went his kingdom's vast wealth down to the last coin. "I deemed it prudent to keep that gold in circulation, and my council agreed." Or was made to, thought Bard, having taken a measure of the Dwarf beside him. He suspected Dáin's shrewd mind was as the finest steel blade in determination.

"Fabled though the Dwarves are for their riches," Bard said, "I think perhaps Durin's folk should win more renown for their wisdom in finances, King Dáin." One of Dáin's bushy eyebrows lifted at this rather cheeky remark, but the smile near hidden in Dáin's bushy beard told Bard all was forgiven. Then, to Bard's surprise, Dáin turned to the Elvenking, who'd drawn level with them and now walked on Bard's left. Whatever fault Thranduil found in Bard, it apparently didn't deter him from using Bard as a buffer to keep Dáin at a distance.

"Word of Erebor's reclaiming has spread far and wide, and those of our people who've long wandered can look towards home at last." Dáin sounded more satisfied with this than with any other news he had to share. "Travelers have skirted the forest all summer but, with winter fast approaching, several large companies from the Blue Mountains would take the forest road." Dáin gripped his broad belt with both hands. "They will be slow and with their families. Is the forest safe, Elvenking?" he asked Thranduil.

Thranduil tilted his head to one side and said, "Safer than it has been since before the shadow fell upon the woods but not without danger. The spiders have been driven south of the road, yet the old fortress is a place of dread still, its master's mark clear though he is fled, and there many foul things dwell, drawn by an evil greater than they." The wizard Gandalf had brought to the Battle of Five Armies tidings of not only a host of orcs and goblins, then slain, but of an assault on the Necromancer's stronghold in southern Mirkwood. Bard did not envy Thranduil such a dangerous neighbor.

"Could you not, King Thranduil, provide guides for the Dwarves?" Bard suggested, hesitant to put Thranduil in a position where he'd have no choice except to make Dáin an offer he didn't necessarily wish to. "I would volunteer the services of Dale's foresters," he added to Dáin, "but Men are no match for the Elves in woodcraft, and none know this forest better than the Elvenking's wardens." Thranduil's eyes raked him from head to toe, and Bard bit the inside of his cheek, fearing he'd presumed too much. He could feel his spine stiffening under the intense scrutiny, not hostile but not exactly friendly either.

It was with relief that Bard heard Thranduil finally say, "The Elves would not deny aid to travelers who mean no ill, if the Dwarves ask it of us." Though this was addressed to Dáin, Thranduil continued to watch Bard, who wanted to squirm like a worm on a fishhook. The Elvenking's gaze was sharp but not focused on Bard's face for some inscrutable reason, as if Thranduil could shear Bard of all royal trappings with his eyes alone. Does he find me unworthy of my finery? thought Bard. He fingered the chains that fastened his short cape where they hung low across his chest, heavy with gold and amethysts.

"That would be a welcome kindness, aye." At Dáin's voice, Bard realized with a jolt that he'd been staring at his feet. His head jerked up to see that he was beginning to lag behind. He cursed silently and quickened his steps.

At least Thranduil's attention was on Dáin as they arranged for Elven scouts to meet the Dwarves at the forest's edge, Dáin agreeing to command his folk to make this leg of their journey together in one party if Thranduil would send three full patrols to act as escorts. Thranduil refused to divert so many of his forces from defenses elsewhere--there were several reports to confirm of spider nests that had escaped this summer's offensive--but he and Dáin compromised on two patrols, slightly understrength due to last year's casualties, then moved on to haggling over the dates. Dáin pushed for earlier so that the Dwarves may reach Erebor before the snows while Thranduil wanted later for more time to carry out raids on the spiders, even the Elves unwilling to risk battle in the deep of winter as, despite being largely immune to the cold when hale, injury made them vulnerable.

The negotiations grew heated, neither side giving quarter. Bard worried that his people's first impression of Dale's closest allies would be the Elvenking and King Under the Mountain arguing. The fairgrounds were in clear view, a hive of activity. Figures gathered on the slope facing them; they'd been spotted.

"Why not winter in Laketown?" Bard asked Dáin during a lull in the debate. "Or if the company doesn't wish to delay there until spring, wait out the first storm of the season only and resume the journey to Erebor after." The early December snowfalls were typically light and broken by weeks of relatively mild, if chilly and overcast, weather.

Dáin considered this, one hand again stroking his long beard thoughtfully. "I've heard that the town's removed farther northward up the shore. Beyond this, we Dwarves know little of the Lakemen's doings." He eyed Bard. "A share of Dale's treasure goes to the rebuilding of Esgaroth." Bard nodded cautiously, though it was not a question, starting to suspect he'd put one foot in a trap with his unsolicited advice. "Do you not work closely with the Master?"

With a grimace he tried to smooth into a more neutral expression, Bard said curtly, "Yes." He and the Master had never been boon companions, but over the years, they'd reached an uneasy understanding: he would remain the Master's loyal servant, not aspiring to any higher station, provided the Master did not overtly abuse his power. When Smaug died by Bard's hand, however, so, too, did his chances of maintaining even a facade of amicability in his dealings with the Master. He glanced at Thranduil, who studied the growing crowd set to greet them with disinterest, and wondered if the Elvenking knew that his joining the march on the Mountain had not initially been by choice.

Bard gritted his teeth against the memory of his anger at having his claims bartered away by the Master without so much as a by-your-leave. He had not wanted to part so soon from Sigrid and Tilda, fear for them slow to release its grip on his heart after learning of how they'd fared in his absence from Prince Legolas, nor had he wanted to take Bain with him into dangers unknown before the gates of Erebor when his son had already braved dragonfire and lived. But the Master gave him no recourse.

"Is your ambition not to restore Dale to its past splendor? Are you not being hailed by all as king?"

"That may be so, Master, but winter is almost upon us, and there are still preparations to be made. Dale can wait, as it has for generations. Even the wealth of the Moun--"

"You were quick enough to issue orders in my name, inviting the aid of the Elves. I have but returned the favor, on behalf of the now stricken people you've ever sought to champion. You did not imagine that the Elvenking's largess would be without price, did you? Best you mind your duty to them, if not to me, Bard the Dragonshooter."

There was some wisdom in the Master's words, Bard grudgingly admitted, but he couldn't forget the bitter twist of the Master's mouth, his tone at once mocking and envious. Bard knew then that his days in Laketown were done. The Master would tolerate no usurpers, and Bard did not mean to be one. In their last, brief meeting, it'd been impossible to convince the Master that he was not intentionally stirring up dissent against the Master's rule with his call for men to follow him to Dale.

Shaking his head sharply to silence the Master's remembered voice, Bard said, "I suppose you want me to arrange matters with the Master?" Hard as it was to read Dáin's face between his jutting brow and immaculately groomed beard, Bard was nevertheless left with the distinct sense that Dáin was no stranger to the Master's contentious ways, contrary to his professed ignorance of happenings in Laketown. He, in fact, seemed the slightest bit apologetic.

It is mine own idea, Bard thought with resignation, and so he nodded, fighting the urge to sigh. "I will see to it." The Master had declined his invitation to the festivities, sent as a formality, citing poor health, but Bard did not doubt that many others from Laketown would come. Surely, he could find a trustworthy messenger among them? Or else dispatch one as usual with the next shipment of gold downriver, if time wasn't too short. The Master tended to respond to errand riders with shrill accusations that Bard infringed on Esgaroth's sovereignty by pressing his demands with unwarranted haste. Just as well the Wilderland is at peace. While he'd kept his focus on Dáin, he again felt Thranduil's assessment, as keenly as he would've a knife held to the nape of his neck, point barely grazing the skin. For the most part. "If you could tell me how many are expected and when?"

"Once I receive word from Lady Dís of the company's departure," Dáin promised. A tall man--Nethir, Bard was pleased to see--stepped forth from the onlookers, hands wringing his hat. Nethir was an able organizer of tents and everything that could be in them, people included. Formerly a quartermaster in the Laketown guard, he still worked with military haste and precision, as if he were preparing an army to march on the morrow, but was nervous in what he deemed high society. Despite Bard's efforts to put the man at ease, that meant him these days, too. "Elvenking," Dáin said, turning to Thranduil, "have you any objections to this?"

"None." Thranduil drew his answer out, the sound of it stretching insouciantly; his eyes never strayed from Bard, who tensed. Reminding himself that it'd be impolitic to punch the Elvenking in his haughty nose before half of Dale, Bard forcibly relaxed and resolved to ignore Thranduil until they could speak in private about whatever he had done to merit such ill regard. Gaze sweeping over their audience, Thranduil added, tone mild, "I suggest that further conversation be kept from untoward scrutiny."

More an order than a suggestion, thought Bard, irked, though he and Thranduil were of the same mind on this at least. "Of course," he said, jaw tight. "I've made arrangements for us to take refreshment and counsel, my lords, before the welcoming feast tonight." Their four escorts fanned out wordlessly with surprising coordination to keep the curious townsfolk, quiet except for some awed murmuring, at bay. He beckoned to Nethir.

The other man had been hovering anxiously on the perimeter watched by the Dwarven guards in front but now shuffled closer with a weak "sire." Sweat beaded on his brow, which he mopped with his hat. His eyes, whites a stark contrast to his skin, darted back and forth between Dáin and Thranduil. He's going to worry himself into a panic. Bard hastily gripped Nethir's shoulder and, smiling in what he hoped was a comforting manner, commanded, "Lead the way, Master Nethir." Not until Nethir nodded shakily did Bard release him, giving his shoulder a quick parting squeeze. Their progress across the fairgrounds was uneventful, to Bard's relief, even if Nethir walked as though on wobbly stilts whenever he recalled who followed him.

Semicircular arbors had been raised around the broad, flat green atop the largest of the three connected knolls chosen to host Dale's guests, which together formed a wide angle that opened towards the river. Men on ladders were hammering the final nails into the simple but sturdy wooden frames. Others spread rectangular awnings in the spaces between the overhead beams; the red, blue, and green banners dipped down at staggered intervals from their anchored rope stays. Below were arrayed dozens of trestle tables and long benches. Women and children scurried amongst these with clattering stacks of dishes and sloshing buckets of water; they wiped clean every horizontal surface and readied serving tables, already laden with baskets of fruit and casks of cider, ale, and wine.

Impressed, Bard glanced speculatively at Nethir's too stiff back. When he granted Nethir a free hand to build with the carpenters some structure to shade the tables, he'd expected a more utilitarian result, not this roof of billowing waves of color, slices of sky reaching inwards from the outer edge. He caught glimpses, too, in the milling activity of a trio of women with a tall hooked pole unhurriedly hanging white paper lanterns in a curving row along the length of one arbor. Not yet lit, the rounded lanterns would bathe the tables, each with its own brighter candle centerpieces, in a diffuse glow come dark.

No doubt there are also less sightly oilcloth tarps nearby, Bard thought fondly, in case of rain or snow. He was proud of his people's ingenuity--their artistic flair, which he appreciated far better when not directed at him, and their pragmatism, in matters that didn't involve kingly commissions.

Beside him, Dáin surveyed the scene of productive industry with a glint of approval in his eye. Feeling strangely paternal, Bard ducked his head momentarily to hide his smile. Thranduil's face, meanwhile, showed no change in expression, but the straight line of his body softened indefinably at the look of the arbors.

Which, Bard abruptly realized, resembled in rough form a stand of thin trees, branches interlocked above. Though no seating had been reserved, he wondered if the Elves might not be more at home beneath a green awning--one in particular was of a sheer fabric, patterned so the light that shone through dappled the ground--and planned to speak with Nethir about it. After my council with Thranduil and Dáin, he decided. Bard did not intend for their talks, unofficial in deference to the occasion, to last until supper began at dusk.

The path Nethir led the royal party on skirted the arbors at an almost inconvenient distance. Bard could only assume Nethir wished not to tempt his small army of workers with distraction, given the pointed glares he sent at any man, woman, or child--and there were many, Nethir's scowls in vain--who dared stop to gawk at the Elvenking and King Under the Mountain.

Even less cowed by Nethir's temper were the children playing on the grassy hillside. The troupe of a dozen or so boys and girls, all too young to reliably do chores but old enough to slip the leash of parental supervision, abandoned the pastime of rolling giggling down the gentle slope for the much more interesting challenge of stalking Dale's visiting dignitaries. Fortunately, their shadows were content with crouching behind piles of firewood to spy on them. The Elves and Dwarves found this utter lack of subtlety amusing, if the studied way they managed to always miss catching the culprits in the act was anything to go by, but may not be as willing to humor a tackle to the knees or barrage of impertinent questions.

Finally, they arrived at their destination--a group of tents in muted sunset colors that closed the semicircle of the arbors. Dominating the center was a large pavilion, one whole side left open facing the green with its firepits to reveal a richly appointed interior: a floor carpeted in layers of plush rugs and furs; walls draped with tapestries, a couple of which, depicting the valley before the coming of Smaug, had surely been salvaged from the ruins of Dale, dusted off, and restored; three long banquet tables arranged in a half square, laid with an elaborate silver service upon pristine white cloth, gold candlesticks and crystal glasses glinting. Belatedly, Bard recognized the silverware as his.

Nethir, however, brought them to one of the less conspicuous adjacent tents. He held the flap for them to enter, teeth worrying at his lower lip, while their escorts took up guard positions in the surrounding area. Motioning for Dáin and Thranduil to precede him--both acknowledged Bard as they passed, the former with a brief nod of thanks and the latter with a stare that had his skin itching--he drew Nethir aside with a hand on the other man's shoulder.

"You've done well," he said as reassuringly as he could after years of practice soothing the hurts of three children. "None could ask for a finer setting. Or a more festive one." His gaze went to the streamers in every shade of the rainbow heaped next to the tent, most strung across the tops of posts double his height that would, if Bard were to guess, mark off space for dancing. Several of the musically inclined men were coming with their instruments and probably greater enthusiasm than skill.

"Truly, my lord?" Nethir's hesitant smile was a mirror image of a younger Bain's, though Nethir was a man grown. With some of his tension lifted, Nethir's exhaustion showed more noticeably. Bard frowned at the web of wrinkles, hairline cracks in the skin, about Nethir's eyes, fearing he'd not slept at all the night before, mind consumed with accounting for the innumerable details and contingencies. In the last year, that feeling had certainly become familiar to Bard.

"What's been demanded of you is perhaps too much for any one man," he apologized, thinking that he'd have to hire an Alfrid of his own sooner rather than later to share in such duties. Nethir opened his mouth to protest, brow creasing, but Bard forged on heedlessly. "Though you've surpassed my every expectation, I would not burden you beyond what is right and proper. I know you still have many tasks to see to, that I've no doubt you'll carry out with dedication. But afterward, Nethir, put aside your worries and enjoy the fruits of your hard labors." The corners of his lips quirked up. "You've more than earned an evening's rest."

"I shall, sire," vowed Nethir, the words slow and contemplative. There was a sudden spark of insight across his expression that made Bard wary. He squinted at Nethir suspiciously. "You ought to listen to your own advice, Your Majesty, if you don't mind me saying so." And with that parting remark, Nethir bowed, flashed him a cheeky grin, and left for the arbors. Bemused, Bard joined Thranduil and Dáin in the tent.

His guests had helped themselves to the refreshments at the center of the round table--cider, ale, and wine, a silver pitcher of water, and a steaming pot of tea. Bard poured himself a glass of shade-cool water, with an inward chuckle at the mug of cider before Dáin and the delicate teacup Thranduil drank from, slim fingers curled as gracefully around the handle as the enameled flowers, red and blue and gold, around the porcelain.

Taking a seat that faced Thranduil and Dáin both, Bard was pleased to see on the table a thick sheaf of parchment, a bottle of ink and quill; at the top of his agenda was scheduling the shipments of additional supplies, mainly foodstuffs, from Erebor and the Woodland Realm, which he would prefer not to have to commit solely to memory. A lit lantern hung above, supplementing the sunlight that seeped through the tent fabric. Pushed to one corner were chairs for the banquet tables in the large pavilion and, leaning against these, Master Fastolf's golden platters commemorating Smaug's demise. He hoped Dáin and Thranduil had not noticed those.

For a moment, Bard floundered, unsure how to proceed. He sipped at his water until his throat wasn't quite so dry, then, after a few fortifying breaths, decided that the courtesies had been observed already and commenced with business. "How many more of your peoples plan to attend the festivities, my lords?" he asked.

Between the celebration tonight and the farewell feast two weeks from now, Dale would host a farmers' market and traders' fair, followed by a series of games ranging from archery to horseshoes. The grassy fields around the knolls had been divided into lots, all of which were spoken for, quicker than anyone anticipated, by artisans showcasing and selling their wares. The vendors were mostly local Dwarves and Men, but among them were also some Elves and merchants traveling from distant Rhûn.

Meanwhile, the arbor tables would be cleared to display produce, with stalls and benches on the slopes and other two hills for extra space as well as seating. Courses for the foot and horse races were marked with white flags, the latter fording the River Running twice in the shallows at the base of the Mountain as it looped around the valley. Locations and times for the majority of the events had yet to be determined, however, weather permitting. There was no lack of eager competitors despite this. Whether the participants, not to mention the spectators, would remember that they were engaged in sport, not war was another matter. Granted, Bard judged that the chances of the ring toss or apple bob ending in bloodshed were vanishingly small. Now, the wrestling...

"Nearly all of Erebor," said Dáin. Luckily, before Bard's alarm could balloon into panic, Dáin continued, "With the exception of the metalsmiths who would not leave their works untended in the fields, I've commanded my people to return to the Mountain come midnight. Dale will not have to find accommodations for any Dwarf, and we shall present ourselves in the mornings with full stomachs." Bard tried to mute his relief at hearing this but was not entirely successful. He felt sheepish at Dáin's raised eyebrow. "You wish to know what provisions we will bring and when?" Nodding, Bard reached for a sheet of paper, dipping pen in ink. "The lords of my council will lead in turn predawn supply trips every two days, starting with Lord Balin the day after tomorrow. Flour, salt, and sugar we have in great quantities, purchased by our kin from the Iron Hills in the months following the battle and stored ever since. Cheese also and cured meats we can..."

As Dáin listed what the Dwarves could send, Bard dutifully wrote it down, head bent low over the parchment. Though the butter, kept chilled underground, and mead especially would be much appreciated, they were short on greens and fresh game, which Thranduil had earlier agreed to ship up the river, eggs, milk, and honey. The beaded curtain dangling from his hat touched the table, coiling and jouncing about as he rubbed his forehead with the back of one hand. Laketown was the only source of more eggs and milk in the vicinity, supposing the Wood Elves had honey to spare or could at least contact Beorn on Dale's behalf. Bard did not look forward to negotiations with the Master.

There was plenty of everything else, he figured, including enough barrels of pickled fish that they could serve nothing but for three to four months. No danger of starvation this winter, he thought wryly, unless men born and bred on the waters grow too weary of fish to eat it. A possibility Bard counted as a deal less likely than the dragon swimming up from its grave to claim vengeance on him.

"I'll need to see how our stores stand," Bard finally said, looking up from his scrawled tally of supplies, the beads on his hat swaying and clinking with the abrupt movement. "But I should have a fair copy of the delivery schedule for you before you depart tonight." Dáin grunted congenially, head tipped back as he quaffed cider.

With a smile for the apple growers and cider mill runners, who'd been so anxious that their goods meet with royal approval, Bard turned his attention to Thranduil and was surprised to find him quietly, deliberately drumming his fingers on the table, a slight grimace twisting his face. Why is he in such a foul mood? Bard hesitated, then gathered his courage. "Elvenking, if you could conf--"

"I have a proposal for you, Bard of Dale," Thranduil interrupted. No titles, Bard noted, setting down his quill before he snapped it in half. "Let us adjourn--"

"What?" cried Bard, unable to stop himself. They had barely even begun to discuss arrangements to keep Dale and her guests fed, housed, and entertained for the next two weeks. And the Elves posed the more difficult challenge, coming as they were from too far for day trips. Gilvagor had assured Bard that his people would bring their own shelter or else sleep with only the stars overhead, but the current plan was to convert the large pavilion for use by the Elvenking and his son until the farewell feast.

Thranduil spoke over him as if Bard were a buzzing fly, distracting and annoying but ultimately inconsequential. "--until you are clothed more fittingly." Pale eyes raked his form again, narrowing in distaste as they lingered on his hat. "This is not how one of your stature should be attired."

Bard gaped. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dáin bury his face in one hand, groaning and mumbling something uncomplimentary about Elves, Men, or both probably. Of all the...! Not in his wildest imaginings had Bard guessed that Thranduil would hold so, so... frivolous a matter against him. Thranduil was not done faulting his style of dress either, cutting words so smooth and sure the Elvenking must have been silently rehearsing them, but Bard's awareness of anything except the roaring rush of blood in his veins had dimmed.

"Since my appearance is 'an insult to your senses,' King Thranduil," Bard said, tone polite and each flat syllable carefully enunciated, "I shall remove myself henceforth from your presence." He had stood without realizing it, though he could vaguely recall slamming his hands against the tabletop, where they curled into trembling fists, palms stinging. He burned with humiliation, with anger that flared hotter the longer he was forced into company with the Elvenking and his bland reserve, unfazed even now. Suddenly fearful that he'd suffocate--his heart thudded behind his ribcage, his breath rasped in his throat--Bard ducked stumbling out of the tent, dazed, the late afternoon glare a lancing pain through his eyes. His head ached, and he felt bruised.

"Sir?" Dreng was waiting outside with Ingvar. "Are you..." He gulped. "D-Do you require something?" The question was tentative, almost scared. Bard watched blankly as Dreng fidgeted, exchanging a nervous glance with Ingvar, and thought that he must seem a mad fool. A mad fool in motley, more jester than king. From within the tent, he heard Dáin's voice, sharp and clipped, rising in volume. He did not wish to stay until he could understand what was being said. About him. His stomach churned.

Ripping off his lacy collar with a snarl--he was glad to be rid of it, at least, the damnable choking hazard--Bard threw it at a shocked Ingvar, who fumbled to catch it, and gritted out, "You're dismissed. Both of you. All I require is some peace." The Elven and Dwarven guards stared blatantly, curious and alert, as did the children they'd been amusing--the same troupe that had so inexpertly spied on them, shyness overcome. Bard's skin crawled with the knowledge that so many eyes were upon him; he felt stripped naked by them, his flesh bared and slowly peeled from his bones. I could hardly have made a worse impression if I'd worn nothing at all, he concluded bitterly. Though, as soon as the notion crossed his mind, he admitted to himself its absurdity, born of the writhing mass of emotion that lodged in his chest. He could not stay. His instincts screamed at him to flee, away to some dark and secluded place so he might lick his wounds alone like a beaten dog.

His feet began striding between the tents towards the back slope without conscious decision. Behind him, his name was called, prefaced by the titles he'd never been less deserving of, but he ignored it, skidding down the hillside, taking little care for dignity or decorum, only haste. He headed in the direction of the river and wooded outskirts of the fairgrounds. No one followed. A very small mercy, that, to be spared the concerned pity, however well meant, of subjects and guests alike. Still, Bard was grateful, the taste of failure sour on his tongue.

TBC​

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Posting here is now all caught up to what's been archived elsewhere and, er, written. The next chapter will, unfortunately, be a long, long time in coming because I'm currently working on my other story. Which has grown into a monster that's eating my brain! I'd actually like to post that here, too, in the interest of garnering more feedback, but I understand slash is prohibited under the forum guidelines? To be sure, the fic reads like gen at the moment and will probably continue in that vein for the next ten to twenty thousand words... So, maybe selected excerpts? Please let me know what, if anything, would be acceptable, mods.

 

Excellent details of the gorgeous setting and the initial courtesies and negotiations - splendily written. Then: everything screeched to a halt, no kidding! Loved Legolas' smooth diplomacy and tact at the beginning. I'm with Bard -- the thing about taste is nothing to get all bent out of shape about. A word to the side maybe after the first g-round but before supper

 

I love the look into the Dalemen's lives -- there isn't enough about them. You hit the perfect blend of tenderness, humour and drama. Thranduil, Legolas and Dain are really well done. And your Bard and his children are so full of life! I feel like I could reach out and touch them. They're so very much living and breathing, and you made them feel so familiar, like people I've known well my whole life (although I've never read fanfic with him as the main character before!). I felt Bard's humiliation so keenly; I think that's the truest-to-life portrayal of that particular emotion I have ever seen in any fandom.

Thank you for sharing this really beautiful and profoundly human story I'm very much looking forward to more as and when you're able to get back to it!

 

Glad you think so! This fic probably has the most elaborate descriptions of the setting out of everything I've written, whereas now I'm making a conscious effort to pare down the details. While I'll never be a minimalist author--I'm too fond of metaphor, for starters, lol--I'm also pretty sure that I don't ever want to spend so many consecutive paragraphs as I have here on clothing and the like. It's really hard not to get repetitive by the third or fourth embroidered hem!

Legolas I bet is similar to Balin with Thorin in this. He's become practiced, by necessity alone, at stepping seamlessly in to enlighten confused/angry people as to his king's meaning and generally make nice when Thranduil just can't be bothered to.

It's funny, but I think amateur king Bard, rough as he is around the edges, might be more diplomatic than either Thranduil or Thorin. The former is too ancient and superior, the latter too defensive, prickly as one of Radagast's hedgehogs, both proud and set in their ways. Bard, OTOH, is young in comparison--with the adaptability of Men to offset his inexperience and moments of rashness--has far, far less political/cultural baggage, and comes from humble origins, lineage aside. It'll certainly be fun to watch the three of them play off each other in the third film!

Well, I am almost exclusively writing Bard, though others do play key roles (Thranduil, in this case), so I've spent a rather lot of effort working out his characterization and that of those closest to him, his children. It's my very own fandom niche! And a very small one, at that, most Hobbit fanfic authors being more taken with Bilbo, the Dwarves, and/or the Elves. It's always something of a relief to hear that I'm doing the characters justice, believably fleshing out their book/film portrayals. The lack of stories featuring Bard and the Men of Dale means I don't have much fanon to fall back on, and that's a little scary, taken together with the sparseness of canon, if creatively liberating at the same time.

This may sound like a contradiction, but I actually find it quite difficult to convey emotion or, perhaps, judge whether my words do so adequately. I'm not an emotional person myself--having never really felt anything more upsetting than stage fright, lol, passing quick, my temper usually cool and slow to heat--so the process of putting my characters through the psychological wringer is, like much of the rest of my writing, more cerebral than visceral. I basically have to checklist potential physiological responses and think of character memories that might be associated with that particular emotion, all in a very methodical manner. Also really helpful in figuring out what works and what doesn't is my readers' reactions. Though this makes me seem like a mad scientist...

Yeah, Thranduil's kind of an arrogant jerk. An extremely articulate one endowed with otherworldly beauty and grace, lol. The way Elves speak and move--Dwarves, too, for that matter--is noticeably different from human norms, partly through actor choreography and makeup/wardrobe, partly through movie magic, such as slowing the playback of their lines and Galadriel's eye spotlights (in FOTR, for starry reflections). When I write, I do tend to visualize scenes on the large scale in terms of spatial relations, almost like I'm shooting a film in my head, trying out camera angles. Sound's usually the next sense to fall into place--dialogue and foley, though not music as is actually more common, lol. Likewise, I weirdly don't think much on the characters' hair or eye colors, probably the most used establishing descriptions in writing. Well, each to his or her own, right?

Understood! I won't post links to the prompt and full story either, and I'll scrub the author's notes of mature content, remove the summary... Still, I'm expecting thirty to forty thousand words of gen, which I'll likely post in shorter installments than I did for this fic. Hopefully worth reading!

 

It's been more than a year, but at long last I've begun making progress on this story again. Slow, frustrating progress, granted, which unfortunately means updates will be sporadic and piecemeal. You can also probably tell I'm out of practice and, well, hoping to figure out just what the heck I'm writing as I go. At any rate, a big thank you to everybody who's stuck around! I'll try to make it worth your while.

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[h2]Clothes Make The King[/h2]​

The sun kissed the lip of the Mountain's southern spur, but still Bard did not move. His presence was expected at the welcoming feast, he knew, and a part of him insisted sharply that skulking in the woods like a chastened child would only serve to compound one blunder with another, more insulting. And as gossip was the lifeblood of Laketown as much as fishing was its trade, so continued the Men of Dale; Bard had no doubt that word of his quarrel with the Elvenking had spread to all and sundry. He should, he knew, make an appearance of reconciliation, lest discord between their kings cast a pall over the revelers.

Instead, he sat upon a fallen tree trunk at the river's edge, a useless lump, the memory of Thranduil's face and its chill perfection, hard eyes that found him wanting, locking his joints in place. His clothes lay heavy about his shoulders, cape over surcoat atop vest and shirt weighing him down as if fashioned from stone rather than silk and velvet. The fabrics, though finer than any he had ever worn, itched against his skin worse than the rash he'd suffered as a boy from stumbling headlong into a patch of poisonous ivy. Bard did not, however, move to divest himself of cape, coat, or vest. What would be the point? Damage to his repute already done, he was not so fool as to fall ill, too. Above, the branches were half bare, their shadows stretched long across ground painted red by shed leaves and the oncoming dusk.

His hat he had ripped off as he stormed past the paddocks earlier, to the judgmental gazes of Elven horses and Dwarven ponies alike whose grazing he'd interrupted. When he reached the river, he'd had some notion of tossing the hat in and watching it sink or be carried away by the current, swift here so near the spring under the Mountain, until it was lost to the waters. If only his shame were as easily drowned.

But the spasm of anger died quick as it rose, and he stayed his hand. Instincts taught by a lifetime of counting and pinching every coin rebelled at the waste. After all, it was not the fault of hat or hatmaker that no amount of craftsmanship, gold and precious gems could disguise his low birth, a heap of suddenly acquired treasure and a noble ancestor several generations removed no substitute for good breeding. Bard's mouth twisted in a smile, a bitter taste at the back of his tongue. How easy it'd been to let his people's attentions lull him into a false confidence that he could be the king they deserved with a few short months of study, when his goodfather had the right of it twenty years ago.

Perched crookedly on the log beside him, the hat gleamed bright as his wife's hair had, gilded by the light of a crisp winter's morn as she bent her head over the ledgers in her father's shop. He was a rootless tramp when he first met her. Father a guardsman of no rank, mother a washerwoman and seamstress; both gone to the grave before he'd seen fourteen summers, taken from him by the sweating sickness that came upriver from Rhûn as the weather turned cold.

The generosity of Father's friends in the guard kept him from the orphanage. As did the promise of a position in the archery companies when he was of age, money from selling home and possessions, most to Mother's friends at better than fair prices. Everything he owned then had fit into a sturdy oaken trunk larger than he was--coin and his mother's prize sewing kit tucked beneath clothes and a down quilt, a bar of soap, wooden bowl and spoon--that he lugged with him from attic to hayloft or wherever he was sleeping that night. All save the black arrow that was his father's sole bequest to him. Carefully wrapped in oilskin and slung across his back, it jutted past his shoulder half as tall again as him, though thankfully there was always a loose floorboard to stash it under or a rafter hung with herbs, twine, and the month's washing.

It was a boy's pride that let him cast his eyes upon the daughter of one of Laketown's wealthiest merchants. Like Bain, Girion's doomed stand had seemed to him more heroic than tragic, that the blood of kings flowed through his veins very impressive indeed, and never mind that his kingdom was a crumbling ruin stalked by a dragon none had managed to slay despite the draw of its hoard. He dreamed of one day reclaiming Dale, Smaug the Terrible vanquished at long last in some feat of arms worthy of song. Golden bells would ring again from the heights, the city made fairer than before the dragon and all the valley green, the people's smiles the warm ones of simple folk who did not lack for food or comforts and expected that their children would lead lives richer still. Bard supposed his wife found his youthful ambitions charming, in an artless way, but then he'd never understood why she favored him in return nor dared to ask.

His wife's father was not so pleased that she sought the company of a messenger boy while spurning her other suitors. An ambitious man, he was determined that each of his children would marry well. The eldest had already wed as befitted her station, to a councilman who brought the family private first bids on contracts from the trade commission, and the middle daughter, though willful on occasion, was lovelier than her sister and wittier, effortlessly accomplished in the social graces and the running of a household both. Looking back in the years after their marriage, it was clear to Bard that his goodfather hoped for a match with the Master, newly elected to his office and in want of a wife. But at the time all Bard knew was that the girl he had come to love and who, he thought, might just love him was direly unhappy to be courted by men a decade or more her senior.

Staid, she dismissed them as, walking hand in hand with Bard along the lakeshore. Disgust thinned her mouth; her brows drew together into a deep crease his thumb ached to smooth. Grasping, she added, sweet voice curt. She would not be made an ornament in her husband's parlor, like a particularly expensive vase, desirable only for her dowry and as young flesh to slake his lusts on in bed. Even if she had to defy her father until she was a spinster, not a copper to her own name. And then she raised their joined hands to her lips and pressed a tremulous kiss to his knuckles with such a light in her eyes that it stole Bard's breath, chest tight with a feeling that bordered on pain.

Yet he would not have his wife estranged from her family if he could help it. Despite being Laketown's greenest recruit, he was entitled to a uniform, and no matter how ill at ease he felt in the paneled woolen tunic, pantaloons bloused at his boots, he deemed it more presentable than his usual garb. He spent his days in drill and patrol, his nights scurrying between crowded tables at the local alehouse, arms laden with mugs and plates when not hauling water by the tubful for the kitchen. At least he was fed two hot meals for his labors in addition to his wages, plain fare but filling, though sleep fast became a luxury, to be snatched on a wobbly bench in the guardhouse during the wee hours of the morning before the duty roster was posted or, more often than was soldierly, while standing an uneventful afternoon's watch. His captain, luckily, was a tolerant man, with something of a romantic bent, and a few long months later, Bard was in proud possession of a new cloak, velvet dyed a dark blood-red, and a fine pair of leather boots, trimmed in fur.

Clothes freshly laundered, face and hands scrubbed clean, hair brushed, and brightly polished helm wedged under his arm, Bard called upon his goodfather to win the man's approval, if he could. What followed was the most uncomfortable audience of Bard's life, surpassing even his meetings with the Elvenking, whose haughty demeanor was never spiteful. Too high to resent the failings of inferiors, he thought sourly, but not to chide them. Hard eyes that found him wanting--that was the same--and the crawling itch, humiliation and anger mingled. Bard could only be grateful he was not again wearing boots that pinched his feet.

A servant had shown him to a small anteroom so richly appointed that he stood at rigid attention where he'd been left to wait in the center of a plush rug. He kept a full arm's length from the pristine slope of patterned upholstery on settee and chairs, as the gilt hands of the tall, encased clock across from him circled its face once, twice, the ticking swing of its pendulum the only sound except his own breathing. The clock and the furniture: all was of a near black wood, elaborately carved and varnished to a muted shine. Heavy draperies the shadowed green of the forest's depths that hung from ceiling to floor and the chandelier over his head, unlit, lent the space a stifling air of gloom. He could not picture his spirited wife in that room; a lingering smell of smoke and crystal decanters of an amber liquor on silver trays suggested it was the province of her father.

When the man himself finally deigned to greet his unwanted guest, he offered Bard neither seat nor drink. Attired in a silk brocade dressing gown of a rather severe cut, he flicked a gaze over Bard from head to toe that burned with contempt, before turning so all Bard could see of his face was a clenched jaw and the profile of an imposing nose. Half a dozen ticks of the clock passed, each a sore trial on Bard's nerves. And then his goodfather spoke, low and coldly deliberate. Words Bard had strove to forget in the loving embrace of his wife's arms and his children's laughter, food warm in their bellies and a fire in the hearth as he shared with them travelers' tales, from the taverns and trading ships or the distantly remembered lore of Dale.

"Unable as I am to dissuade my daughter from this folly, neither must I encourage her in it. For the affection I bore my late wife, I shall continue to provide for her needs for a year or two yet, but the day you wed her is the day she is sundered from this house forevermore, my daughter no longer."

Bard had been sick with miserable doubt for weeks afterwards. He was not a man of means--this he knew to be true. Could he support a wife accustomed to wealth? Or the family he hoped to one day have? He could not watch her marry another. Would sooner depart Laketown altogether, wander south and east until balconies did not remind him of her, much daring, climbing down a curtain rope to tarry with him, the scent of lilies of the satin handkerchiefs she gifted him, honey and cream of the taste of her kisses in summer. She, however, was unyielding in their course.

She refused to brook his haltingly confessed fears that her life would be kinder if she agreed to a more suitable match. She, in fact, was furious at her father for answering honor with such ill-disguised malice and at him, as well, for being too dutiful and thinking her a spoiled child who was not sure enough of her own mind and heart to brave hardship. They would make a good living, she promised, by the work of their hands. Not extravagant, save perhaps in feeling, but comfortable. There was opportunity for advancement in the guard, and she was skilled with needle and thread, her embroidery far excelling his mother's, letters and figures, music, cookery.

"My blessing I withhold. Not a coin shall you receive from me, unless you or she scorns this union. Your children I won't acknowledge."

A year's toil in the alehouse bought them a modest home in one of Laketown's outlying quarters. Creaky walls and leaky roof aside, it did not seem so poor with her curled up next to him in their cramped bed, an old toolbox planted with lavender brightening the worn wood of their windowsill. He had thrown off the boy's fancies of Dale revived for a husband's duties and, eventually, a father's. What was the impossibility of a lordship restored, a treasure won to the reality of his wife, joy undimmed by her exhaustion, presenting to him his newborn son or the shy, gap-toothed smile of his daughter? The black arrow hung forgotten above their heads as they broke their fast and supped day after day, a rack for onions, netting like cobwebs, and drying dishcloths.

"How low the Lords of Dale have fallen! To become common laborers of no fortune who rule over nothing. Even if you were to slay the dragon on the morrow in amends of Girion's failure, you would not be fit to wear a crown. Breeding always tells."

The light was fading, red giving way to a gray that flattened the landscape; there was no one to see. Bard buried his face in his hands and tried to breathe around the lump in his throat, his eyes stinging dangerously. He had not felt the loss of his wife so keenly for many a year. Tearing as it was, time and the echoes of her he found, to his wonder, in their children as they grew had gentled his grief into wistful remembrances of their all too brief life together, images limned in gold like the slow breaking of dawn upon hushed woods and fields.

But it was she who never faltered in her belief that he would amount to something more than what her father expected or his father had achieved. It was his own folly that had him refuse a promotion to captain, resigning his commission in the guard to barge the Forest River for a pittance, and in the flush of victory after the battle, Smaug slain by his hand and such wealth to his name, perhaps there was a small part of him that wished to vindicate her hopes for him, even if she could not be with him to share in it. Bard would not deny either that he took a certain mean satisfaction in proving wrong his goodfather, who lived still. The insults paid him he could have forgiven, for they were not without a hard kernel of truth, had only the old man not turned away his grandchildren in their need.

Now, those same grandchildren were heirs to a fortune far greater than the old man's. They would abide in a palace, a little too lofty though it might be, with a bevy of servants to wait upon them. Their education was a credit to their mother's manners yet broader, as befitted nobility that consorted with Dwarf-lords and Elven princes and whose realm may reach beyond one town in the decades to come. Sigrid and Tilda would not want for finery or, Bard grudgingly admitted, suitors of distinction, and Bain would be king after him.

TBC​

 

I enjoyed the flashback and the reflections of the past and present. You can really feel Bard's steely resolve to always act with honor.

 

Thank you both for commenting! My pseudo-flashbacks always read a bit like digressions to me, on account of their length and the dense exposition, but I've yet to figure out how to structure my stories so as to avoid or at least minimize the use of such massive infodumps. For now, I'm glad to hear Bard's memories of his wife provide some context for his present situation that seems fitting.

It's also quite interesting (and helpful!) to hear how you perceive Bard's characterization, because in writing this I've discovered that I don't really have a clue what I'm doing, lol. Foolishly, I never gave Bard's tacit denial, then acceptance of his lineage and kingship much thought. His feelings about all that strike me as hopelessly muddled. Not only a reluctant king, but an accidental one?

For starters, Bard most certainly did not kill Smaug with the intention of crowning himself King of Dale. And Bain apparently didn't learn of Girion's last stand from his father, given his ignorance of the black arrow--possibly doesn't even know of his family's noble descent--yet Bard is visibly disgruntled, swallowing his ire, when the Master and Thorin more or less defame his ancestor. Later, Bard basically defaults into leadership of the Laketown refugees by keeping a sensible head while everybody else unproductively tries to lynch Alfrid. I wouldn't be surprised if people saw Bard's dragonslaying as an excuse to foist on him the unenviable duties of treating with Thranduil and Thorin, lol, who naturally come to the conclusion that Bard's their equal in rank among the Men, aside from his claims on the treasure.

Hmm. Clearly, I still have a lot of thinking to do! Thanks again! You've both given me good stuff to work with as I wing my way through the rest of this chapter.

---

When he called for men to aid him in rebuilding Dale, Bard caught a glimpse of his goodfather at the back of the crowd for the first time since her death and the bitter argument that followed. How frail he looked! Gaunt and hunched over a cane, his worried son at his elbow, the old man was a foot in the grave, swathed in shabby black, and Bard... He was not sorry. Rather, that the old man had been laid low gladdened a dark corner of his heart and that his wife's family chose to remain in Esgaroth, where he would not have to treat them graciously or provide for them, was a relief.

It was ill thought. Laughter welled sharp in his chest, and he had to bite his cheek to stifle it. A mark of my breeding. Behind closed eyes, Bard pictured Thorin Oakenshield lit by torches on the steps of the town hall, exhorting the gathered masses to support his doomed quest, and the Elvenking riding his massive elk at the head of his army, perfectly willing to go to war over treasure that he didn't need. Somehow even their fool stubbornness was touched by majesty. Oakenshield's stiff-necked pride and the way he nursed past grievances was imposing, in him a brooding reserve where in lesser men it would have been but pettiness. Greed was likewise in Thranduil transformed from base desire into a show of such terrible resolve that it commanded belief in its rightness. Bard, on the other hand, held no illusions that he was capable of anything so awe-inspiring.

He hadn't their regal carriage, that allowed for no fault or hesitation, and in truth he was loath to exercise his power. His kingly authority was a greatsword made unwieldy in his untrained grip by its weight and honed edge. He couldn't escape his history--his feet had taken him to the river before he'd decided what to do, in memory of hours spent with no company but the calming lap of water against his barge's sides--and he couldn't confront it. If his goodfather asked an audience of him, for one, he did not think he could curb his tongue. And it'd be an uncontrolled burst of emotion as ugly as their last conversation, no display of royal wrath to cow a little man who'd done him injury.

Worse, the old man could apparently still force him to doubt his worthiness. This time the chuckle slipped out, thin and shaky. He needed no help in that regard. It seemed now as absurd as the dreams of the boy he'd been to hope he might, by dint of sheer effort and consultation with advisers who knew no more than him, be adequate to a task that others were sore tried to master though groomed from birth to shoulder it.

Suddenly, the years ahead filled him with dread, where once he would have rested assured that they'd be years of peace and plenty. What if a lord's duties were not a thing to be learned, at least by him? How many negotiations and state banquets could he bungle before his people came to their senses and realized his ineptitude?

As Bard considered the diplomatic consequences of snubbing the Elvenking and King Under the Mountain for the duration of the night--he could claim an urgent matter had arisen in town that required his attention, he thought halfheartedly--against his swelling desperation to shut himself in the quiet of his empty home until he could again face his loyal subjects and fellow rulers without flinching, the sound of voices drifted through the trees, faint but drawing nearer. He flexed his hand, wishing he had his bow or his sword, even one of the too numerous knives and forks in a formal place setting. Though there was unlikely to be any threat inside leagues, he felt the muscles of his back bunch in tension. He supposed, with a not entirely mirthless smile, that his cape would do.

"I see you are correct, child." Mantled in white like fresh-fallen snow, the Elvenking glowed with unearthly splendor in the soft light cast by the paper lantern he carried before him, barely bobbing at the end of what bore a suspicious resemblance to a shortened fishing rod. Bard scowled. Did he pull this new cloak from his saddlebags? If Thranduil meant to rub salt in the wound he inflicted, then mayhaps he deserved to have a pile of shimmering purple fabric and gold chain flung in his face. When the second figure stepped out from behind Thranduil, however, all else became unimportant.

"Sigrid," Bard rasped, guilt hitting him hard as a battering ram, "I'm sorry." It was selfish of him to shirk his responsibilities and leave to his children the burden of playing host to the whole town, two visiting kings, and their retinues. "I should not ha--" He made to stand but was tackled back onto the log with a whump by Sigrid, who'd dropped her lantern and rushed forward in a wild flutter of green silk, falling to her knees.

"Da, I'm sorry!" she cried, ducking her head against his side, her hands clutching at his coat. Bard was at a complete loss. Though at the first muffled sob, his arms gathered his daughter to him of their own accord, one hand rubbing circles on the flat of her shoulder and the other finding one of hers.

"Gilvagor told me there was a, a problem with your clothes," said Sigrid, with a sniff that was very young and unsure. "That they w-wouldn't please the Elvenking"--Bard spared a glare at Thranduil, half turned away from them--"a-and, oh, I don't know how I could've been so stupid! One design would've been quite enough and one color, but there were so many to choose from, and I just couldn't decide between them!"

Her voice held a distinctly watery note. A part of Bard flailed in panic, as he patted her hand consolingly; Sigrid's tears and her sister's had always had the power to unman him. "I heard from the dyers that purple and yellow c-complement each other, so I thought..." Her fingers twisted in the stiff brocade of his coat. He stared down at the top of her drape-covered head, heart twisting.

"Well, it doesn't matter what I thought," she berated herself harshly. "Gilvagor says the combination is a little too bold for Elvish tastes, too bright and too clashing." With a small dismayed moan, she pressed closer to him, grip tight to the point that Bard feared she'd rip the fabric. "And now I've ruined your talks with King Thranduil and King Dáin and the feast, too, because it never even occurred to me that you might need a change of clothes. I'm so embarrassed!"

Bard's mouth was dry, his tongue leaden. As am I, darling. If only it were as simple to soothe Sigrid's worries in this as it was to deflect her questions when she reached no taller than his waist about why she and Bain had never met their mother's family. But his eldest was almost a woman grown, and Bard would not do her the disservice of offering her a half-truth that she'd surely see the lie in. Dale had to impress today and in the next two weeks of festivities, to assuage any Elven and Dwarven qualms that their aid over the past year had not been well spent. The King of Dale fleeing the welcoming feast was not the best beginning.

To his surprise and Sigrid's, the both of them jolting, it was the Elvenking who spoke. "It is no fault of yours, child," he announced to the branches above, "that the fashions of eastern courts were not made with Elven eyes in mind." Before either of them thought to dispute this--and Bard wondered how different an Elf's vision could possibly be from a Man's--Thranduil continued, "Nor is Gilvagor forgiven his part in leading you astray, for well does he remember the dress of Dale of old. He has become too much a scholar in his tutelage of you and your kindred."

At this, Sigrid gasped in horror, hand slipping from Bard's to fly to her mouth as she spun on the Elvenking. Bard could not blame her for her alarm. Thranduil's tone, deep and frosted as Long Lake in midwinter, was suggestive of some punishing months-long border patrol, in the barren, rocky foothills of the Grey Mountains shadowed by Gundabad perhaps, that would send Gilvagor far from them, home and hearth into dangers untold. "Oh, no! Please don't!" she begged. "Gilvagor has been nothing but kind to us, and he certainly doesn't deserve to be reprimanded or, or demoted for trying to be of help." And with a belated flash of insight, Bard guessed that Gilvagor's strange behavior earlier was an attempt to warn him, tactfully, of Thranduil's reaction. So, when Sigrid looked to him for approval, he nodded. "We won't stand for it," she finished, with a determined lift of her chin.

Thranduil glanced between them, a glitter in his eyes that could have been anger or amusement, then said, "It is not like Dale to concern itself with the disposition of the woodland guard, unless you mean to contest my right as king to order my warriors as I deem fit." Sigrid faltered, flushing, and Bard gritted his teeth. Why was it that every conversation with the Elvenking felt as fraught with hidden shoals as navigating unfamiliar shallows in fog, trees and rocks looming out of the haze to imperil the unwary? He gave Sigrid's shoulder a gentle squeeze.

"None would deny you your prerogative to sit in judgment over your people, my lord Thranduil," he replied coolly, "but we ask that you grant Gilvagor clemency in this matter, as is our right, being the party caused offense." Bard was startled anew when one corner of Thranduil's mouth pulled upwards in a smile so slight and fleeting that it left him pondering whether it wasn't a mere trick of the light. He narrowed his eyes. Was there more smugness than usual in the tilt of the Elvenking's head--an air not unlike that of a cat about to pounce? Is Sigrid the mouse here, he thought wryly, or am I?

"So you would fain absolve Gilvagor of erring in good intent," said Thranduil, to all appearances carelessly disinterested. But, an incredulous laugh bubbling up in his throat, Bard had an inkling where Thranduil might be leading them.

While it was oft averred that only those not in haste should seek counsel of the Elves, for they always answered in riddles, the Elvenking had not thus far struck him as one to mince words when a swift, if cruel, bluntness would serve. Yet at Sigrid's slow nod, Thranduil concluded, "Then you also are absolved and by your own reckoning. Or am I not due my say on your behalf, as the offended party?" with a delicacy that Bard wished he'd shown this afternoon.

Any grumbling about Thranduil's inconstancy, a queer trait in one so ageless, was forestalled by the cautious hope dawning on Sigrid's face. "You are not angered, Your Majesty? Truly?" she asked. Thranduil's reply was short but kindly said: "I am not, child." Sigrid breathed a sigh of relief, slumping a bit and shoulders drooping as the greater part of her tension fled at the Elvenking's benediction.

The muscles of Bard's back, too, loosened a touch; a weight that he hadn't realized sat upon his chest like a troll eased, though he did not wholly believe all was forgiven. It can wait. Dusk was long past. He stood, stretched his stiff legs, and savagely quashed the self-conscious impulse to straighten his clothes. Offering his hand to Sigrid in a gallant sweep, he said, "Let us return, my lady, before the feast begins without us." Sigrid's gratifyingly brilliant smile as she let him act the gentleman was spoiled not a moment later when she half stumbled over her trailing drape at his sorry jest, a furtive expression on her face that Bard was more used to seeing from her younger, mischief-prone siblings. And as with them, he raised an expectant eyebrow, his own expression mild.

Sigrid busied herself with her drape, rewinding the silk about her body with studious attention. "To tell it true, Da," she mumbled, "the feast's already begun, half an hour ago." At Bard's puzzled noise--had his ceremonial role become defunct so quickly in his absence?--she hurried to elaborate, eyes still lowered and fingers restlessly smoothing her petticoats. "It was King Dáin's suggestion, actually. Since no one knew when you would return and there was no sense in keeping everybody hungry while the food cooled on the tables or burnt on the spits." Bard groaned inwardly. He hadn't spared a thought for Dale's beleaguered cooks, whose daylong preparations were not so readily upset.

"King Dáin sent at once to Erebor for Prince Thorin, and he, Bain, and Prince Legolas presided over the start of the feast." As Bard blinked at the simplicity of this solution, it seemed that Sigrid's admiration got the better of her chagrin. "It really is very clever," she enthused, "An allegory: the future of the kingdoms in their heirs." Her eyes danced with suppressed glee when they finally met his, a sly grin tugging at her lips. "You'll be glad to hear that Bain comported himself well. Even delivered a speech, yours, and with only a few... teething stutters."

"Dáin excused himself," added Thranduil, "as did I." Bard bit down on a curse; he had nearly forgotten Thranduil was there. Which was so uncharacteristic of the Elvenking as to be inexplicable. Mirkwood's wardens could pass unnoticed if they wished, lithe shades flitting silently through the treetops, but Thranduil's was not a presence that could be ignored, tall and proud and graced in exceptional measure with the starry beauty of his kind, or so Bard would have said. "We are nevertheless expected before the revels are done." Thranduil could've been a statue of himself, graven likeness an unobtrusive part of the scenery despite its exquisite artistry.

"Ah, the tale we spun," Sigrid said, her anxiousness creeping back, "is that you and King Thranduil went to see that all was in order with the first Elven stores to come by water." Well, everything sounds to be in hand, Bard thought, bemused. And he owed Dáin a debt of gratitude, for having a more level head on his stout Dwarven neck than one might assume given his blustery temper. Sigrid's brow furrowed lightly. "I hope I've done as you would have wanted."

Such a fierce pride bloomed in his breast then that he couldn't help wrapping his arms around Sigrid in a breathless embrace, the fur trim of her drape a tickle where it lay against his cheek. "You and Bain, too," he said, voice a little choked, "You did good, both of you. I could not have asked for better. Strong of heart are my children and quick of wit, to make up for their old man's failings." He brushed a kiss over her forehead and the emerald that hung there, bound with a circlet of gold.

When at last they separated, Bard eyeing Sigrid in renewed appreciation, it was as if there were two images of his daughter imposed one atop the other: her smile was girlish, open and trusting; her easy blush at the praise harkened also to her youth; the imperious angle of her chin--shoulders squared, spine straight--belonged solely to the great and noble lady she aspired to be. That she already is. From the moment he cradled her downy head in the hollow of his palm, all five of her fingers curling about his one, he had tried to be teacher and protector. Yet in these past months it was she who instructed him and she who guarded his dignity this night as staunchly as he had ever her innocence.

No, she doesn't need me as she once did. Pride laced now with bittersweet memory, he said, "I fear I must leave the celebrations to your capable charge for a while more." He was careful to keep his eyes from wandering in Thranduil's direction as he explained, tone deliberately cheerful, "Best that I actually confer with King Thranduil, so as not to make a liar of you or King Dáin." It was the thinnest of excuses, but Thranduil raised no protest and, with a glance at the unmoving Elvenking, Sigrid nodded.

"Very well, Father," she said, face serious. Her gaze was keen and knowing upon him. "Don't be too long, though, or there's not like to be any food left." Gathering her skirts in one hand, Sigrid curtsied prettily to Thranduil, then turned to depart for the feast, dipping to retrieve her lantern. The smile she flashed Bard over her shoulder was soft around the corners. A sudden lump in his throat, he stared after her back.

How like her mother she seemed! At the same time, there was something in the way the fallen leaves whispered under her feet that reminded him of Gilvagor, Prince Legolas, and even the far haughtier Elf at his side, ancient as the forest itself. He should, Bard knew, be pleased at the opportunities afforded Sigrid to learn from the Elves and be counseled by them, no matter the occasion. And he was, he told himself. The heaviness in the pit of his stomach would not always be an anchor dragging on his heart; it was only the day's troubles that caused him to almost resent Thranduil for being able to find the right words when he couldn't. He immediately shook his head of the unworthy sentiment.

"Thank you, for..." Bard swallowed. The bobbing glow of Sigrid's lantern disappeared between the trees. "I would not have thought to use her affection for Gilvagor so." He had been in no position to comfort his daughter, he admitted. Leastwise not convincingly, when he felt a failure just as she did. Thranduil acknowledged him with a barest dip of the head, before turning to gaze at the darkened shape of a copse across the river.

TBC​

 

Sigrid is resourceful and outspoken. She is a great blend of girlish enthusiasm and dignified maturity. I like Thranduil also in this scene. He's not as prickly as he might be and I think Sigrid's forthrightness and Bard's too won his respect. He feels compelled if he did not before to treat Bard as an equal in status if nothing else.

 

I like your portrayal of authority greatly magnified by his new status in life - Bard had authority as a parent and minor league status in his community until his marvelous deeds, and growing into kingliness suits him well. LOL at the hangers-on, such as the contractor or architect in the first part, pushing for a water feature for the plans! Thranduil would seem a tough character to write and keep him somewhat likable, but this fic does that.