Nocking Point

[texasdreamer01]

Title and Platform: Nocking Point (AO3) (tumblr)
Rating: Gen
Fandoms: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Characters: Bard the Bowman, Thranduil
Additional Tags: Barduil Month 2023, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, First Kiss, Allies To Lovers, Tumblr Prompt
Summary:
"To best fire an arrow, first it must be nocked in the correct position on the string. To Bard, this was trained into instinct, and such muscle memory was what guided him in the aftermath of a war."

They watched delegation gather their papers and leave the tent. It was scarcely after noon, and yet Bard stifled a yawn, having been up before dawn to tend to all of the new duties his position inspired. Despite the restless sleep, he could almost feel the temptation of wanting to face the dragon again. He sighed as the tent flap settled after the last dwarf left, wondering idly when winter would end.

He resisted the urge to take another sip of the bracing drink unearthed from one of Thranduil’s cellars, disliking the jitters of the bitter drink if he refilled his cup too many times. The pinch of salt that had been suggested took off only the slightest bit of its astringency, and he wished heartily for a splash of milk instead.

Few of the nanny goats they had penned close to the shore of Laketown had survived, and the animals had understandably startled badly enough that it was yet another supply of food tapered off. He was glad, despite the… loud manner of dwarves, that Dain had brought plenty with his army in a feat of practicality the elf lord beside him had murmured was unusual.

Unusual for a dwarf or for Dain was yet to be seen, as most of that corner of the shared camp was concerned with the dwarf responsible for this mess.

He had kept that thought to himself when in sight of Bilbo Baggins, lest everyone in the vicinity be caught by the sharp side of his tongue. Bard gave in and took another sip of his drink, wincing as he felt his chest give a kick at the strength.

“It settles better with some food,” Thranduil said, amused. The elf himself had refrained from any refreshments, and Bard considered it a nod toward the fact that others could use much of the food more.

He bit his tongue in reprimand at the festering thought of elvish stamina, quirking his lips instead, “I’m sure it does,” Bard replied, “But I fear if I indulge now, I will simply fall asleep in this dastardly uncomfortable chair.”

A smile curved on those pale features, unearthly light a little more reachable as Thranduil stood, holding out a courteous hand, “Perhaps another means of rousing oneself?”

Bard wasn’t keen on bracing himself for another guest of wind that promised bites of snow, but the king beside him was warm despite the polite distance between them.

---

As had begun their custom, they made their rounds through the ramshackle smattering of tents, the lines between Men, Elf, and Dwarf blurring as supply lines meandered through as studiously as lines of ants.

In a fit of frustration, it was he who had suggested it as a means of practicality – whenever Balin or Dain wasn’t attending the meetings between the three kingdoms, Bilbo and some advisor he had been assured of was from Dain’s personal council had attended. Such mixed company made for worn tempers, and more than one had bitten off a curse at how irritating they found the others crammed into Thranduil’s tent.

Why an elf’s tent, he wasn’t sure, but perhaps it was by dint of wherever the Thorin’s burglar went, shaping companies up as simply as the hobbit (not “halfling”, that was one of the first orders of business by sheer ability to glare everyone down) made afternoon tea.

He was still remembering the surprised look that followed Thranduil’s first bite into what was called a teacake, and felt a smile overtake his fatigue.

An arm brushed against his, feather-light and quick as a whisper, “Does something amuse you?”

Bard shook his head, grinning, as they turned right past the compound of tents reserved for healers, their steps simultaneous upon the worn path. They took the time to nod in greeting at a few of the children running errands. It never failed to lighten his mood at the look of politely-hidden softness Thranduil wore whenever seeing a child weaseling their way through the camp.

“Just looking forward to the next shipment of fruit,” He replied, mind now accustomed to the figures an inordinate amount of dwarves and elves had instilled in him. Though he had already taken on the position long before this war of maintaining the fragile trade agreements between Laketown and Mirkwood, it was another dimension entirely to take into account provisions for an entire, languishing city in the process of repairs, “Sigrid is making noises about jam, and I’m curious to see how she’ll manage it.”

“As impeccably as her father,” Thranduil stated serenely, the subject as apparently considered and settled as the slow trickle of funds being carefully cleared by the wizard. The man tilted his head, edge of his lips tilted into a smile, “I am sure she will do well.”

His heart thumped, and he blamed it on the tea he should have left alone at the end of the meeting. Ducking his head, he murmured, “I’m proud of them.”

They continued on in companionable silence, watching the milling crowds as they went about their newly-established routines. It was too soon to settle into Dale, and the other armies – the proper ones, at any rate – had brought more than enough camp equipment to tide them over as the city was inspected for any lingering orcs.

Bard watched Thranduil as they passed by the washing women hanging up linens and clothing on lines stretched between various tents, a particular sort of blank expression on the elf’s face that he had learned quickly meant some sort of lurking memories.

He returned the gesture, being mindful not to pay too much attention to the warmth radiating from the embroidered silks, “Penny for your thoughts?”

“Perhaps only a shilling,” Thranduil murmured, voice low enough to feel. There weren’t enough of his kin around, so perhaps whatever weighed on the other’s mind was heavy, indeed, to warrant a quiet voice.

“A shilling I have,” Bard promised, letting his feet guide them to a makeshift alley, the cold winds not so prominent here, buffeted as they were by thick cloth walls.

They lingered, closer than they normally would under scrutiny but not so close that Bard’s buried, wandering thoughts could be given voice to their curiosities. Perhaps his face wasn’t so well-defended as Thranduil’s, for the other man stared at him in quiet contemplation.

“Nearly all my life,” Thranduil said, “I have wondered at the point of war. There is already so much death; what is the point of hastening more?”

And for an elf, surely there was death aplenty – they lived so long, and he was told they could see a soul as it left a body. It made his brows furrow, taking in the gaze upon him. For a Man, death was a part of life. One could not live without it, and to try and flee only made one a fool.

He could understand the disconsolancy, though. The face of his wife, especially in the repose of death, would never leave him so long as his lungs drew breath. It was an ache that would never go away, and from the fine lines of a frown on Thranduil’s own features, he knew it to be an outward expression of such familiar placement of grief.

There was only one answer he had, carried close as it was for consolation. Bard could only imagine the eons with which Thranduil had to soothe himself as he watched his kin dwindle much the same as he had on the day of the battle, and every day the healers couldn’t keep another on this side of the living. Pressing his lips against a frown, he reached a hand up, pressing gently at the crook of the other man’s elbow.

“What do you hear?” He asked, curling his fingers around the arm held in his grasp. Thranduil stared at him, and he thought it was a little helplessly, “Close your eyes. What do you hear?”

Maybe it was the level of trust that had been engendered between them over much of Bard’s life, or maybe it was the shared burden of leading one’s people, but Thranduil obeyed, eyes fluttering shut on command. There was silence around them, but only on first blush, and Bard waited with the same patience as he did waiting for a buck to stop for just the right flower.

“An inadvisable amount of tents,” Thranduil murmured, brow furrowing. Bard stifled a laugh, grinning at the sharp look leveled at him, no less potent with a shuttered gaze, “… Someone is tuning a violin. A pot is being stirred. There are… footsteps. Many of them, all across the camp. Laughter, though that joke wasn’t particularly insightful.”

Bard marveled at how much Thranduil could pick up, drifting closer, “And what does that tell you?”

“That some are in dire need of a sense of humor,” The elf grumbled, eyes still shut.

At that he did laugh, startled out of him the same way it was every time Thranduil’s droll wit came out to observe the world. Thranduil nearly twitched in surprise, and it was only then that his eyes opened, much closer than Bard had remembered. An indescribable expression was on the man’s face as they stared at each other, and he wished he could wish away his fondness at the sight.

“Life,” Bard murmured, feeling quite close and yet unwilling to relinquish his grip upon the other’s arm, “That is something worth dying for.”

It was quiet, in the way it did when one wasn’t paying attention. Thranduil looked contemplative, but it was lighter somehow, nearly youthful in a way he doubted had eclipsed the man’s age in many years.

Eons, elves lived, but it felt as quick as a breath when resolution firmed Thranduil’s face as he leaned down with a murmur he could taste, “It is worth living for.”

Bard realized with a jolt that they were a hairsbreadth from a kiss, and it surprised him to realize he had missed it. Perhaps Thranduil did as well, given the expression on his face that matched Bard’s own thoughts.

He gathered his courage, giving a brief squeeze to the elbow he had cupped in his hand, and pressed a kiss to Thranduil’s lips. They were warm against his own, so unlike the chilly demeanour that its owner wore like an impenetrable veil, softened in surprise. Before he could admit this was a risky idea at best, Bard tilted his head, nudging his mouth against Thranduil’s own parted ones – anything worth doing was worth doing well. Or at least once.

They must have been undisturbed, otherwise he was sure such a gamble would have quickly been cut before it could continue. What he didn’t expect was a recipient pressure, nor a hand resting almost tentatively upon the dip of his waist. It briefly occurred to him that they must both be a little lost about this, figuring things out as they went.

Well. Worth doing, and all that.

He learned, with a brief flit of surprise, that Thranduil preferred a certain way of kissing. Certainly it was the same for the other man, judging by how he retraced his proverbial steps to something Bard found a little more agreeable. They gathered their wits quickly, tempering their approach until it felt comfortable.

Bard thought, a little dizzily, that he would enjoy doing this again.

It was only when some birds flew past, chittering loudly enough even for his own senses to hear, that they broke apart. There was the barest trace of a flush on Thranduil’s cheeks, a sign of liveliness that gladdened his heart as much as it made it race in unexpected satisfaction, lips damp and a little plush.

Such a sight made him feel keen to reel Thranduil back in, but as it were, he thought the general direction that led to would be… ill-advised. Bard glanced at the glazed eyes tracking his tongue as he licked his lips.

“Perhaps,” He said, voice rough, “We could reconvene to discuss after dinner?”

Thranduil smiled warmly, “Perhaps.”

Notes:

For Barduil month, hosted by bi-widower-dads on tumblr. This fills the April 27th prompt of "First Kiss".

What they're drinking in the beginning is plain old black tea, probably very well-aged. Ostensibly, it used to be taken with a little bit of salt to temper the bitterness, and most tea currently isn't bitter enough anymore to necessitate that unless you're drinking it Tibetan- or Himalayan-style. Thranduil's stock of tea is likely strong enough to keep you awake when you're dealing with things like diplomacy and arguing over trade routes.