Chapter Text
"I just happened to be nowhere near your neighborhood."
– Singles
City of Dale, 1st of November 2946 T.A.
“Tithen pen?” Thranduil knocked softly on his youngest child’s door.
“Come in!”
He entered and quickly surveyed the room. A tidy child, Tilda had made her bed, and nothing was on the floor that shouldn’t be. Unlike Bain, who dashed through his days with abandon. Hilda said she could always tell everything Bain had done that day by the trail of artifacts left in his wake.
Charlotte and Daisy, toys now shabby from constant handling, rested against the pillows, evidence of a rapidly dwindling childhood. 1 Ai, naergon, how long had it been since Tilda carried them around, or played with them in the evenings when the family relaxed? She still loved them enough to sleep with them, and that was some consolation. For now, at least. Beyond that, he didn’t want to think about. With a small sigh, Thranduil turned to examine his daughter.
Tilda sat before the mirror above her vanity, wrestling with her hair. A few pins stuck out of the corner of her mouth. “I can’t get my hair right!”
“Let me see.” The Elvenking stepped behind her, took down Tilda’s attempts and grabbed her brush. “Your hair is very long, but I hope you do not cut it.”
“You would say that,” she rolled her eyes with a smirk.
“I would?” he quirked an eyebrow as he took the front part of her hair and pinned it into waves at the top of her head. “And why is that?”
“I’ve never seen an Elf’s hair get messy.”
Her recent complaints and her threats to “chop it all off” were understandable, but Thranduil loved brushing her hair. It was part of their nighttime ritual and, just like his nightly walks with Tauriel. After getting ready for bed, Tilda would grab her brush and comb and find Ada in her robe and slippers and snuggle with them as they talked about their day and whatever whimsical subject that came to mind. And every stroke took him farther away from his cares and showed him the importance of small things like this.
He selfishly wished that it would always be so. With each small step his daughter made toward independence, her Ada showered her with praise, while another small crack in his heart appeared. He’d never tell her—what would be the point? Tilda was only doing what came naturally. Her life up to now was but a preparation for this instinctive push to leave infancy behind. To open her arms and embrace all the experiences life offered with the naïve optimism of the young. Even after enduring hardship and the horrors of battle, through sickness and the struggle to recover, those wide, azure eyes still sparkled up at him with that beautiful, naïve trust that he could always keep her safe.
Of course, Thranduil wanted her to have a long and full life, and as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t shield her from every tragedy. It is a burden that all sentient creatures in this world must bear: that first, inevitable, soul-crushing tragedy which will tear her down to her core. That first agonizing blow that would force her question everything she knew and everything she thought she was. That would force her to learn how to get up, to put herself back together again.
And she would, of that he had no doubt. Like everyone in this world, she would learn the wisdom sometimes can have an agonizing price, and that tragedy can strengthen you, but not always. And that beautiful innocence would leave those blue eyes, forever, and what remained would always be just a little harder, a little sadder, a little wiser.
In this moment, the Elvenking had an epiphany, a sliver of self-awareness that brought both clarity and shame. Had he not been terrified of this very thing with Legolas and Tauriel? So much so that it was part of the reason why he kept them at arm’s length for all those years?
“Ada?” Tilda held up a few pins for him as she scrutinized his reflection. “What’s the matter?”
“Hmm?” Thranduil blinked back to the moment, then shook himself. Why was he having such maudlin thoughts, today of all days? “Nothing, my little love. Just thinking.” He winked as he worked with the hair at the back. “Do you want it up or down?”
“Down, but could you do some braids in it, please?”
“Certainly.”
“You look really nice.”
“Thank you.” Thranduil’s robes were a deep midnight blue with a simple trim at the sleeves and the neckline, so as not to compete with the Necklace of Girion that Bard had given him just after they were married.2 The necklace, studded with five hundred emeralds as green as grass and interspersed with bright, white diamonds, shimmered in their gold filigree settings. It perfectly complimented the golden livery collar that signified his station as a ruler of the Northern Alliance. 3 His hair was, as Tilda had observed, perfect, and there was a new gold and silver diadem on his brow.
He smiled at her reflection in the mirror. “You look beautiful, as well. Do you want to wear your headband?”
“My head got bigger,” Tilda reminded her Ada.
“I suppose that means you are smarter,” he said, as he finished up. “Still, it is too pretty to be hidden away, so we will make it work.” He reached into the drawer to her right and pulled out the box. After opening it, he laid it carefully along the braid that bordered her curls and used a few more pins to secure it in place. “What do you think?”
Tilda opened her mouth to answer, but just then the King of Dale poked his head in the room. “Are you two done?” Bard fiddled with a button on his wrist. “Hilda’s got everybody gathered in the hall for inspection.”
“I believe so. Come along,” Thranduil kissed Tilda’s cheek and urged her off the stool. “We do not want to upset Auntie Hil, do we?”
“Thanks, Ada.” She jumped down.
Thranduil smiled at the way her skirts swished gracefully behind her as she bustled out of the room. Today was a good day, a day for family, and rather than dwell on regrets, perhaps he should use this new understanding to give thanks for the life he was given, and for the courage to open his heart fully, and make his peace with the cost that would surely come. He had Bard, and that was everything. His everything.
Elo did his bowman look breathtaking! The garnets on his own Northern Alliance livery collar perfectly matched the red in his brand-new tunic, heavily trimmed in black and gold with the seal of Dale on each gold button. Thranduil padded across the room and grabbed Bard’s arm. “Here,” he said and fastened the sleeve. “All finished.” He stepped back and scrutinized his husband. “Where’s your crown?”
“Percy has it,” Bard pursed his lips down at the corners. “Please don’t make me wear that thing any longer than I have to.”
Thranduil rested his hands on either side of Bard’s face and pulled him in for a soft, tender kiss. “I love you so much.”
“I love you, too,” a wrinkle appeared on the bowman’s brow. “What brought this on?”
Thranduil just smiled and softly brushed his knuckles over Bard’s cheek. This was a conversation best left to the night, in the warm shelter of arms, where in that warmth, they can whisper the deepest parts of themselves to each other.
Down the hall, Hilda called to them. “Get a move on, you two! They’re waiting downstairs.”
“Coming,” Bard answered, and took Thranduil’s hand. “Are you ready?”
“For the ceremony?” Thranduil said, as he dropped a quick kiss on Bard’s lips. “Yes. For our children to grow up? You already know the answer to that.”
“Come on,” Bard whispered and pulled him into the hall.
Hilda was next to Percy who was holding a fabric-covered box. Next to them were their five children, in new clothes and looking properly ceremonial.
Today Sigrid was stunning in green, looking every inch a royal princess. The garnets and diamonds of her parure glittered against the dark waves of her hair and against her neck. At that moment, however, the princess wasn’t behaving as regal as she looked. Her features were pinched in determination as she fussed with the collar of Bain’s tunic “Just… hold still a minute,” she hissed. “You’ve got the buttons wrong. There’s these little ones here to keep the collar standing up—”
“It’s fine, Sig!” Bain tsked and tried to jerk away. “I’m nervous enough as it is, and you’re making it worse.”
“You’ll really be nervous when you realize you look like a frump in front of everybody. Stop moving away!” She grabbed his ear to bring him closer.
“Ow!”
“Quit whining. Okay… just… there we go.” She finished and patted his chest. “Now you look perfect.”
“Are you sure?” Bain smoothed down his hair again, his eyes darting around. “Gods, these boots pinch my feet! Why couldn’t I have just shined up my other ones?”
“Now you know what women go through. Try dancing backwards, and see how you like that, too.” Sigrid stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Very princely. You’ll do great. Just keep breathing and don’t fidget.”
He gave her a shy half-smile. “Thanks.”
“I agree with your sister,” Thranduil said when he and Bard reached them. “This is your day, Ion nîn; you have worked hard, so never doubt you are worthy of this honor.”
Beside them, Legolas and Tauriel hid amused smirks. Tauriel jostled her brother’s shoulder and whispered something that made them both laugh softly.
Legolas wore his favorite silver tunic and leggings, with gold embroidery at the neck. The silver diadem upon his brow had been given to him when he reached his majority at his hundredth year.4 It was simple in style and bore no jewels, but its lines were flowing and elegant.
Their Gwinïg wore a new gown, this one of light blue, that complimented the stone in Kili’s ring on her right hand. She had put on her gold and Peridot diadem as well as her matching necklace and earrings. The sleeves were long and dropped in an elegant bell shape at the wrists, trimmed with dark blue and embroidered with small flowers.
“You both look wonderful,” Thranduil told them. Did they still suffer from his neglect all those years ago? Nay, their eyes shone at him with forgiveness, love, and that rightness that comes with truly belonging.
“Oh, my boy,” Hilda caressed Bain’s cheek. “We’re all so proud of you.”
Bain quickly dashed his thumb under Hilda’s eye to wipe away a tear. “Oh, don’t cry, please,” he said, but his smile was gentle. “If you start, then Da will, and we won’t get through it.”
“I say let them blubber,” Percy said with a grin. “That way Bard’s nose will match that big red jewel in his crown, and we’ll be so busy laughing at it, they won’t notice how nervous you are.”
Amid this relaxed, natural banter, Thranduil’s heart mushroomed, and his vision blurred. Such a simple thing it was to be seen without any of the trappings a King must bear! It was this that brought a richness to his days, and invigorated long-held friendships with a new energy that deepened all the hues of his existence and added many colorful new ones.
“Oh, no,” Bain groaned when he saw the tears that stung Thranduil’s eyes. “Not you too, Ada!” But the boy’s mouth was curved in a slight smile and his eyes held gratitude and respect. And love.
“Of course not, Ion nîn,” he cleared his throat. Percy opened his box, and Thranduil took out the Crown of Dale. After turning in his hands, he centered it on Bard’s head. “There we are. We can stop back in our chambers and exchange it for your circlet before the feast.”
“Praise the stars,” Bard said dully.
Percy set the box on one of the hall tables and took Hilda’s hand. “Come on, gang,” he said offering his arm. “We’ve got a party to go to.”
“Would you mind if I talked to Ada alone for a minute?” Bain asked, nervously smoothing down the front of his tunic.
“Sure, son.” Bard held out an arm to herd their family toward the landing to take their places.
When they were gone, Thranduil studied his face with concern .“Are you well?” he asked his hands on Bain’s shoulder.
“Oh, I’m fine, but…” he worried his lower lip. “I know it’s a formality, really. I mean, Da was King before his coronation and that was a lot more important, and I’m already the Crown Prince—”
“Do not downplay the importance of this day, Ion nîn,” Thranduil squeezed his shoulder. “It is a privilege to serve your people, but it also a burden you can never escape unless through death. Whenever your people gather to show support, it reminds them of their commitment to Dale, and hopefully deepens it.
Bain swallowed. “I knew I’d be King someday,” his voice quavered a little, “but now, it feels… real,” he murmured. “Is it stupid to be scared?”
“Of course not,” Thranduil’s mouth curved. “I wish you could have seen your father’s face when I told him he was King,” he winked.
”What happened?”
“He went white. Then got drunk.” [5] Thranduil lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I did not blame him.”
A rueful smile crossed Bain’s face. “I might have to do that once in a while.”
“Of that, I have no doubt.” Thranduil held up a finger. “But not too often, and only in private, yes?”
“I won’t.” Then Bain grew serious and met his eyes. “Thank you, Ada. For everything. You’ve taught me so much.”
“We all need the Northern Alliance to succeed,” he said, cupping Bain’s cheek, “but know this well: I do this because I love you. Very much. Never forget your heritage, my son. You are the latest in a long and honorable line of Men, which has never failed its people.”
Bard called gaily, from the landing, “They’re getting restless down here!”
Bain glanced toward them. “He seems okay.”
“That is just your Da’s way,” he said. “He puts on a front to keep from crying.”
“That’s why I asked just to talk to you,” Bain admitted.
Thranduil kissed Bain’s brow. “Take a moment if you need it.” And he left to join the others. At the top of the steps, he turned to see that Bain’s eyes were closed, bowed in prayer.
In the foyer below, the Council members and their spouses waited along with the rest of the Royal household, decked out in their best finery. Galion wore his best robes and diadem, and for once Rôgon didn’t downplay his own heritage as the nephew of Cîrdan the Great, Lord of Mithlond, for he was utterly magnificent in the colors of his homeland and several sea-blue aquamarines rested upon his brow.[6] Daeron was there as the Kings’ personal healer, so no uniform was required of him today. Beside him, Rhian looked lovely with her hair done up with the jeweled combs gifted to the couple by the Marchwarden of Lothlórien.
A hush came over the foyer in anticipation as after a short pause, Bain, son of Bard, Crown Prince of Dale, stepped out on the landing, his back was ramrod straight and his chest and shoulders were wide and proud. A soft, collective gasp reached the Elvenking’s ears as Bain slowly descended the staircase on long, muscular legs.
“Would you look at that…” Percy whispered.
“I’m not going to cry,” Hilda sniffled and dabbed her eyes.
“Oh…” Tilda breathed.
“He’s…” Sigrid’s eyes bulged. “But I just…”
Thranduil squeezed his husband’s hand. Hard, to keep Bard from breaking down. But he had extra handkerchiefs in his pocket, just in case.
“Shall we?” Lord Ben and Lady Hannah (today, titles mattered) helped gather the slightly bewildered family together into their places and line up the Council members with their respective spouses: Tom, and his wife Maggie, Rod and Catriona, Jarvis stood proudly (if a little nervously) with Siân, and Evan had his hand on the elbow of a heavily pregnant Eryn, whose hands supported their son due to be born next month. Lady Enid had recently been asked to serve on matters affecting the elderly and disadvantage was on the sturdy arm of Alun. Bringing up the rear were his son Rhys as well as Bowen, adopted son of Daffyd and Anna. They were asked to participate at the Crown Prince’s request; no ruler can lead without trusted friends.
Hands on hips, Hilda surveyed the group, and when all was as it should be, she took her place behind the Kings and poked Bard in the back.
Thranduil exchanged a glance with his husband, who lifted his right hand, palm down. The Elvenking gracefully set his on top, with an encouraging grip. Bard threw back his shoulders and commanded, “Ready!” The guards grabbed the heavy doors and opened them as the band began its ceremonial march.
The courtyard was full of Dale folk, dressed in their best. Throughout and around the area, the Elven Army kept a protective eye to ensure all could enjoy the day. To Thranduil’s right stood Commander Feren and Lt. Commander Mablung, as well as several of their Elven Captains: Turamarth, his father Ómar, Dior, and Adamar, stood in reverent attention; helmets tucked under their arms while their hands rested upon the hilt of their swords. Behind them, Lieutenants Ivran, Ruvyn, Cwën, Legron, were posted along the wall on either side of the doors, keeping careful watch over everyone on the platform. Their armor and weapons had been polished to perfection, from their shoulders hung their green capes laying in perfect, orderly folds.
Thranduil cast a quick glance at Feren, who met his eyes and jerked his chin toward a wrapped bundle at his feet. Good.
King Daín, Queen Dílna, and the rest of their extended family stood to the left. as well as the surviving members of the Original Company. All bore wide grins, with plenty of sparkles in their hair and beards. In Dílna’s hands was another velvet box, while Bofur opened it and took out its contents and rested it upon a blue velvet pillow.
The King of Dale stood forth, crown gleaming in the late autumn son, raised his arms and the ceremony began.
After Bard led the crowd in the Moment of Silence, he motioned for all on the dais to take their seats. Evan put his arm around Eryn and carefully lowered her into her chair. A soft “Aw” was sent from the crowd, along with knowing grins. The rest of the Council and Dale’s honored guests joined in the silent, well wishes.
There were speeches, of course. The Elvenking paid little attention, as he had heard most of them in practice. At the appropriate time, Bard took up the livery collar from Dílna’s pillow and placed it around Bain’s shoulders . All three Kings gave a small speech about the Northern Alliance. King Daín proudly presented his honorary nephew with his gift of a gold and ruby ring, and set it upon his finger. When it was Thranduil’s turn, he raised his hand and said to the crowd:
“It is a long-held tradition in my Kingdom that a soldier must earn his first sword, regardless of his rank or station in life.” Thranduil smiled into Bain’s eyes and said, in a voice that somehow made it beyond the sudden lump in his throat, “Today, Commander Feren and I are pleased to declare that after four years of diligent study and hard work, Bain, son of Bard, son of Brand, has been declared worthy." 7
A collective gasp filled the air as Feren stepped forward and handed the long bundle to the Elvenking, setting it into his outstretched hands. He carefully unwrapped the cloth to reveal a an ornate leather scabbard etched with golden vines. Bain’s jaw dropped as he ran his fingers over the elegant swoops and swirls of Tengwar, with Bain’s name, the date, and some other words that caused the Crown Prince to look at his fathers with wide, questioning eyes.
“Is this true?” he asked.
The Kings and the Commander all affirmed it to be so, and it was time for Bard’s gift. He motioned for him to kneel on the cushion on the step above him.
Bain did so, and bowed his head. Thranduil pulled the new sword from its scabbard, and it gleamed in the sun. He handed it to Bard and stepped aside as the King of Dale touched each shoulder and said, in a loud, clear voice. “It is with great pride that that I bestow upon Bain, son of Bard, son of Brand, the rank of 2nd Lieutenant in the Army of Dale.”
Well, he was supposed to say it in a loud, clear voice. Which he did for the most part. Unless you counted the pauses between phrases as Bard struggled to keep his emotions in check. But his people understood and forgave him. Again, Feren presented a folded bundle, and snapped it open to reveal a crimson cape, made from Dale wool, spun by Lynn and Mona, Dale’s weavers, and his rank meticulously embroidered by Anna and the rest of Dale’s seamstresses.
It was Dílna’s turn again to stand beside Bard with the most important part of the day. A weighty silence fell over the crowd as Bard lifted it above his head for all to see.
Made in the forges of Erebor by the King Under the Mountain himself, the polished gold circlet bedecked with amber topaz to honor the month of Bain’s birth, as well as opals and small garnets. In keeping with Dale tradition, this crown was for Bain alone, not to be passed down to his son or his son’s sons. [8]
Bard proudly placed the crown upon Bain’s head and pronounced him Crown Prince of Dale, and Lord of Esgaroth. The king did better than expected, his voice only wavered a little, and somehow he managed to get the thing on Bain’s head straight, through how he did it through all those tears was a miracle.
Bain closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then he stood, and after meeting his family’s eyes, turned, and faced his people.
The noise was deafening. All the bells in the city proclaimed the good news and a roar went up in the crowd. The women cheered and fluttered their handkerchiefs, the children waved small flags of Dale. An undulating ocean of white, gold and crimson, and the hats the men tossed into the air were like fish in the Long Lake, arching in the air and coming back down with a splash.
The feast was a merry one. The food was plentiful, the ale and wine flowed freely, and there was music to suit every kind of dance anyone wanted to do. Thranduil had Darryn, Liliwen, Owena, and some of the other Dale children a small circle as he tried to teach some of the steps to one of the Elven dances. It was an exercise in futility, as they mostly wanted to just jump up and down and laugh.
***
A few feet away, Turamarth was smiling into Evvy’s adoring eyes, as they turned around the floor as her father, Óhtar, looked on. He’d come for the feast alongside his good friend and colleague, Gwindor, and both were having a lovely time in Tur and Evvy’s guest rooms. As much as he enjoyed watching his daughters incandescent face, his attention was increasingly drawn to the beautiful Elleth at the next table who was looking after three small Elflings.
While Ermon and Elénaril enjoyed the dancing, their triplets curiously observed their parents as they sat with Véana, their Tírahîn, who had helped the couple since their birth and was a welcome part of their family. [9]
***
While Darryn was busy with his little friends and the Elvenking, Daeron took advantage of the situation and led his wife to the dance floor. Always up for dancing, she stepped into his arms and though she was a great deal shorter than her Elven counterparts, she executed the steps perfectly and with just as much grace. Daeron opened his mouth to compliment his wife and tell her how much he loved dancing with her, but just then she stumbled and went still.
Eyes turned toward the couple, as she mouthed, “Babe, I think I need to sit…”
Her face went white, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she went down.
“Hind Calen!” Daeron cried and scooped her into his arms.
***
Thranduil and Bard’s eyes met across the Great Hall and both headed toward Daeron, who had scooped up his wife and was carrying her outside.
Just outside the door, above the buzz of concerned voices, the bells from the South Gates rang.
Someone was coming.
ELVEN TRANSLATIONS:
Ai naergon – Oh, my (a lament)
Elo – Wow
Hênig – My child
Hind Calen – Green eyes
Tithen pen - Little one
Tírahîn – Elven Nanny
NOTES:
[1] WMAK, Ch 26: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10838010/chapters/26624727
[2] Ibid., Ch. 32: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10838010/chapters/27221007
[3] Ibid., Ch. 19: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10838010/chapters/25886361
[4] J.R.R. Tolkien, Christopher Tolkien (ed.), Morgoth's Ring, Part Three. The Later Quenta Silmarillion: (II) The Second Phase: Laws and Customs among the Eldar:
“Physical puberty is generally complete by their fiftieth year (by age fifty they reach their adult height), but they are not considered full-grown until a hundred years have passed.”
[5] WMAK, Ch. 3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10838010/chapters/24057363
[6] Legolas, Ion nîn, Ch. 31: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17088320/chapters/45733408
[7] Ibid., Ch. 11: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10838010/chapters/25037985
[8] AWC…, Ch. 9: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12026709/chapters/28115256
“At age eighteen, Dale’s Crown Prince is presented to his people, and he is given a smaller, lighter version of your father’s Ceremonial one. The design also includes things which reflect the Prince’s special talents, or interests. Bain is very interested in military matters, so his personal crown will most likely reflect this, plus anything else that is unique about him. It will also be adorned with gems reflecting the month of his birth. Each is unique to the future king, and cannot be passed down."
[9] Broken Wings, Ch. 9: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20519588/chapters/50236259