Barduil Month 2024

Thranduil was unusually silent. He was tenderly stroking Bard’s arm, his gaze lost toward the ceiling. After a long moment, he murmured, in a low and solemn voice:

“I want to be with you… forever.”

He had said it with that elvish gravity that characterized him, as if pronouncing an ancient oath under the stars. His words carried all the weight of his long existence, of his fears, of his deep and sometimes clumsy love. Bard, who was half-dozing, opened his eyes. He remained silent for a second, then a small nervous laugh escaped him.

“Forever?” he repeated, amused. “Is this a marriage proposal under a sacred tree with ancient chants and all the tralala?”

Thranduil stiffened slightly, offended.

“It was a sincere declaration.”

“I know, I know!” Bard replied, smiling, still shaken by a contained laugh. “It’s just that… you say it with such solemnity. It’s like you’re going to make me sign a contract in front of the Valar.”

Thranduil turned his head toward him, eyebrows furrowed.

“You’re making fun of me.”

“A little,” Bard admitted, moving closer to kiss his shoulder. “But it’s because I love you. And that ‘forever’ with you, even if it’s a little scary… it suits me very well.”

Thranduil remained silent for a moment, still a little miffed. Then he sighed and slipped an arm around Bard to pull him closer.

“You’re a real drama queen,” Bard murmured against his neck. “But I love that.”

“King, please,” Thranduil corrected.

“No no, I said Queen.”

They stayed entwined in the dark. Thranduil eventually smiled despite himself, his chin resting on Bard’s hair.

“Forever, then?” he asked more softly.

“Forever,” Bard confirmed. “Even if we argue, even if the boys set the house on fire, even if you become unbearable with your elvish rules…”

Thranduil let out a small laugh.

“Deal.”

In the calm of the bedroom, the promise floated between them, a little awkward, a little solemn, but sincere: a perfectly imperfect “forever,” just like them.

“I want to learn to shoot a bow,” he announced one morning with touching determination. “Like you, Ada.”

Thranduil was surprised, then visibly moved. He accepted. After breakfast, he took Bain into the garden, an ancient elvish bow in hand, and began to explain the posture, the breathing, the concentration. Bain, too enthusiastic, drew the bow with far too much force. The arrow went into the Greenwood forest.

“We’ll start again,” Thranduil said, stoic.

The second arrow ended up in the roof of the toolshed. The third ricocheted off a stone and came dangerously close to Bard, who was watching from the terrace.

“Maybe we should take a break,” Bard suggested, slightly worried.

But Bain refused to give up.

“No! I can do it!”

He insisted on trying elvish calligraphy. The result: three hours of work, a bottle of ink spilled on the living room carpet, and a parchment where you could vaguely read “Ada” provided you turned the sheet 90 degrees and squinted. Thranduil, who had spent the day patiently correcting Bain’s posture, picking up lost arrows and cleaning up the ink, was exhausted. His face remained calm, but his shoulders were tense. That evening, Bain, covered in ink and dirt, sat down at the table, looking dejected.

“I’m useless…” he murmured. “I just wanted… to be a little more like you.”

Thranduil froze. He looked at this human boy, stubborn and full of good will, who was trying with all his might to fit into a mold that wasn’t his. He approached and placed a hand on Bain’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to be like me, Bain. You’re perfect as you are.”

Bain looked up, surprised.

“But… I wanted to make you proud.”

“You already make me proud,” Thranduil replied with rare softness. “Every day.”

Bard, who was watching the scene from the kitchen, smiled softly. Bain eventually smiled too, even if his shoulders remained a little hunched.

“Can we still continue the lessons? I promise not to destroy the garden this time?”

Thranduil sighed, but a small smile tugged at his lips.

“We can try. But I think I’ll invest in foam arrows first…”

That evening, the boys had gone to a party. Silence reigned in the house, so unusual it was almost unsettling. Bard joined Thranduil in bed, kissing him in a hungry, even brutal embrace. Thranduil settled on top of him, his breathing already short.

“Finally…” he murmured, leaning down to kiss his neck.

Bard let out a raw groan, his hands gripping Thranduil’s hips.

On the other side of the wall, in Legolas’s room, the console turned on with its characteristic sound, immediately followed by shouts and laughter. Bain had clearly come back with him.

“GO ON! SHOOT!” Bain yelled.

A barrage of virtual gunfire and panicked horse neighs exploded through the speakers, followed by a resounding “BOOM” and the victorious screams of the two teenagers. Thranduil froze above Bard.

“What are they doing here…?” he growled.

Bard closed his eyes, frustrated.

“Ignore them.”

Thranduil tried, but he pulled out of Bard.

“What are you doing? Stay!” he tried to grab him by the arm.

“Wait. I’m just checking.”

He slipped on his expensive silk robe and went to knock on Legolas’s bedroom door. He entered:

“Didn’t you have a party tonight?”

Bain had his mouth full of candy:

“S’all cancheled. Aragorn and Arwen got gachtro”

Thranduil raised a perplexed eyebrow:

“Okay. Try not to make too much noise. We’re trying to sleep.”

Legolas and Bain exchanged a knowing look, giggling as soon as the door was closed.

Just a few seconds later, as Thranduil tried to make love to Bard again, a victorious cry from Bain pierced the wall:

“I GOT HIMMMM! DID YOU SEE THAT?!”

Legolas burst out laughing, followed by a new round of gunfire and explosions. Bard let out a desperate laugh.

“This isn’t possible…”

Thranduil collapsed on top of him, his face in his neck, shaking with silent, frustrated laughter.

“Even when they’re not in the room, they’re in the room,” he murmured.

They persisted anyway. Their movements became more urgent, almost angry, as if to compensate for the noise coming from the neighboring rooms. But when Bain screamed “TAKE THAT!” and the game music started up again at full volume, Bard completely broke. He burst out laughing, a desperate and exhausted laugh.

Thranduil lifted his head, his cheeks red, half-frustrated, half-amused.

“We’re cursed.”

They stayed like that for a moment, naked, entwined, laughing softly in the surrounding sound chaos. The frustration was real, but the ridiculousness of the situation was too strong.

Bard finally kissed Thranduil tenderly on the lips.

“Tomorrow, we’re sending them to the Dwarves. All day. And we’re cutting the Wi-Fi.”

Thranduil smiled against his mouth.

“Good idea.”

On the other side of the wall, another victory cry rang out, followed by a dramatic “OOOOH NO!” from Legolas.

Bard and Thranduil looked at each other: the desire was still there, burning. But tonight, it would have to wait. Again.

The teenagers rushed outside shouting with excitement. The adults followed them, calmer — on the surface. Bard threw the first snowball, which hit Thranduil square in the chest. The Elf narrowed his eyes, picked up a handful of compact snow and aimed with frightening precision. The snowball struck Bard right in the forehead.

“It’s war!” Bain shouted, wanting to defend his father.

Legolas joined the battle with formidable grace, sending fast and precise snowballs. Bain, more chaotic, threw them any which way while laughing. Thranduil tried to maintain a certain elegance until Bard sent him a huge snowball that made him stagger back several steps.

“Watch out for the slope!” Bard shouted.

Bain, carried away by his momentum, slipped on a patch of icy snow. He tried to grab onto Legolas, who lost his balance in turn. Legolas instinctively grabbed Bard’s arm to steady himself. Everyone fell: Bain dragged Legolas, who dragged Bard, who dragged Thranduil. The four of them tumbled down the small garden slope in a shapeless pile of arms, legs, and shouts. They rolled over each other, snow flying everywhere, until they ended up in a big tangled heap at the bottom of the garden, completely covered in snow.

A stunned silence settled for two seconds.

Then Bain burst out laughing. Legolas followed, then Bard. Even Thranduil, lying on his back with snow in his hair and on his eyelashes, let out an incredulous giggle before laughing heartily, head thrown back.

They stayed like that for a long time, in a heap in the snow, laughing like children. Thranduil eventually put an arm around Bard, while Legolas leaned against Bain.

“We should have just made a snowman,” Thranduil murmured.

“That’s true,” Bard replied, laughing, before kissing his snow-covered temple.

In this great white mess and this collective burst of laughter, their little blended family had never been so beautiful.

The dinner had started rather calmly, then the conversation had drifted, as it always did between Dwarves and Elves, toward old grudges. Someone had mentioned Thror — Thrain’s father. Thranduil, who had remained silent and dignified until then, suddenly straightened up. He knew he should have stopped, that it was dangerous territory. But the old wound, the old guilt resurfaced.

“Thror mocked me,” he began, his voice calm at first. “He used my wife’s death to hurt me.”

The table fell silent. Once started, Thranduil could no longer stop. He was lost in his memories, in his justification, in the regret he had carried for centuries.

“I had warned him that I would take revenge. I had told him I would not forget. But he was as stubborn as all you Dwarves. He preferred to make me his enemy.”

His voice grew more intense. He didn’t notice that Thrain had stopped eating. He didn’t see Thorin’s jaw clenching tighter and tighter.

“You got your necklace back, didn’t you? Isn’t that the main thing?” Thrain cut in coldly.

The tension skyrocketed. Thranduil continued speaking, trying to explain, to justify, to make himself understood. He was completely lost in his own words, in his guilt, in his need to be understood. His usual icy control had vanished. Bard watched the scene with growing horror. He tried to catch Thranduil’s eye, to signal him to stop, but the Elf was too far gone. At the end of his patience, Thrain finally slammed his goblet on the table.

“By Durin’s beard, are you going to keep talking much longer?”

Thranduil blinked, as if coming out of a trance. He looked around the table: everyone was staring at him. Some amused, most annoyed. Bard had his face in his hands.

“I… appear to have lost track of time,” Thranduil said stiffly, his ears slightly red.

Bain snickered, Thorin hid a smile behind his cup. Bard finally intervened, his voice strained with suppressed laughter:

“Yes, my love. You spoke for twenty minutes straight.”

Thranduil remained seated, mortified but trying to maintain his dignity. He cleared his throat.

“A thousand apologies. Old wounds run deep.”

Thrain looked at him for a long moment, then, against all expectations, let out a low chuckle.

“Stubborn Elf. At least you admit it.”

The tension eased slightly. Old grudges didn’t disappear in one evening, but the dinner continued without bloodshed; between Dwarves and Elves, that was nothing short of a miracle.

“It’s going to be epic,” Bain had said, eyes shining.

“We’re going to call it ‘The Tribute to Bard’,” Legolas had added.

Thranduil was away for the day, which left them free to do whatever they wanted without him on their backs. They had spent the afternoon tinkering in the garage with the rockets provided by Fili and Kili, black powder, and an adorable childlike enthusiasm. In the evening, when it was dark enough, they set everything up in the garden to test their creation. It was only a rehearsal before the real evening.

“Ready?” Bain asked, lighter in hand.

“Ready,” Legolas replied, slightly less confident than his brother but not showing it.

The first rocket went off, barely rose two meters before exploding in a ridiculous “pof,” sending sparks everywhere. The second was worse: it shot horizontally like a missile and crashed into the hedge, which immediately caught fire.

“Shit shit shit!” Bain shouted, running with the garden hose.

Legolas tried to put out the other rockets with his feet, but one of them lit up by itself and spun off, whirling around the garden with a whistle.

At the height of the disaster, Thranduil’s car pulled into the driveway. Legolas’s father got out of the car, still in his suit, staring at his garden turned into a war zone: sparks everywhere, smoke, the hedge on fire, and his two sons running around like headless chickens.

“But what the…?!”

He dropped his briefcase and ran toward them in his expensive suit, grabbed the hose from Bain’s hands and started spraying the hedge like a firefighter in full crisis mode.

“Are you completely out of your minds?!” he yelled over the noise of the last fireworks still exploding.

Bain and Legolas froze, covered in soot and grass.

“It was for Da’s birthday…” Legolas tried in a small voice.

Thranduil turned toward them, hair disheveled, a black smudge on his cheek, and an absolutely furious expression.

“You nearly set the house on fire for a birthday?!”

At that moment, Bard arrived on the doorstep, alerted by the noise. He looked at the charred garden, the smoking hedge, his two sheepish sons, and Thranduil in a soaked suit, hose in hand.

He burst out laughing, genuinely, an uncontrollable fit of laughter that doubled him over. Thranduil shot him a murderous look.

“It’s not funny.”

“Oh yes it is,” Bard gasped, wiping his eyes. “You’ll understand when you look in the mirror.”

Bain and Legolas, seeing that Bard was laughing, started giggling nervously too. Thranduil stood there, dripping wet, surrounded by his devastated garden, and let out a long, defeated sigh. Bard approached, still shaking with laughter, and kissed him on the temple despite the smell of smoke. Thranduil groaned as he looked at Legolas and Bain who were giggling uncontrollably:

“Next time you have a brilliant idea, warn me. I’ll lock myself in the basement.”

“Good night, my love,” he said with an innocent smile before leaving for the bedroom. Thranduil stared fixedly at his reflection in the mirror, frustrated. But Bard had forgotten who he was dealing with; and Thranduil was certainly not going to let it slide.

He waited until the next evening: he joined Bard in bed, slipped naked against him. He caressed him slowly, languorously, from his neck to his crotch, which he barely touched just enough to make him hard. Bard let out a moan of desire, grabbed his hand to pull him closer but Thranduil pulled back with a satisfied smile.

“Good night, my love,” he repeated Bard’s unbearable tone from the day before.

The game lasted a few days; each caress became bolder, each kiss deeper. And each time, one of them would stop just before the other lost their mind. The tension between them built up, until it became unbearable.

One evening, Thranduil pinned him against the mattress and spread his legs. Bard thought he was finally giving in. But he only rubbed against him, never penetrating.

“Stop playing,” Bard begged.

“You’re the one who started it,” Thranduil growled.

As the days passed, the game became more and more chaotic. They lost control at the same time one evening, half surprised to be on the same wavelength. They made love furiously, clumsily, desperately, both like two teenagers who couldn’t wait any longer. They made the bed creak as if threatening to break it, knocked over the bedside lamp. Thranduil banged his skull hard against the headboard while changing position. They came at the same time, in a mix of moans and curses. They then stayed lying down, sweaty, pressed against each other, trying to catch their breath.

The argument had been forgotten long ago. All that remained was this ridiculous, clumsy, and wonderfully chaotic revenge. But neither of them wanted to complain about it.

“Stop complaining.”

“Come on, get back in,” Thranduil said impatiently.

Bard rolled his eyes, tried to penetrate him again while kissing him. He bumped against Thranduil’s perineum, once, twice, three times, harder and harder, until he drew a moan of pain from him. Bard grumbled:

“Motherfucking hole.”

Thranduil froze, and let out a giggle. He tried to hold it back, but it was too late. The giggle turned into genuine laughter.

“You just giggled?” Bard raised an eyebrow.

“It’s your fault. Do you realize what you say sometimes?”

“What? I couldn’t get in.”

The way he said it only made Thranduil laugh even harder. Bard looked at him, amused, then decided the joke had gone on long enough. He guided his cock back into him with a smooth, firm thrust. Immediately, Thranduil moaned with pleasure.

“Much better,” Bard growled, swallowing another giggle in a hungry, burning kiss full of passion.

But Thranduil couldn’t concentrate anymore: in the middle of his moans, a new giggle or laugh would escape from time to time, despite all of Bard’s efforts to bring him back to the pleasure of the moment. After a few minutes, Bard sighed, pulled out, and dropped down beside Thranduil. The latter curled up against him, his shoulders still shaking with laughter:

“Sorry, my love…”

“I should have finished earlier and too bad for you,” Bard said with a pout. “For once we had the house all to ourselves…”

Thranduil’s long, slender fingers ran over Bard’s sweat-slicked chest, his chin resting on his shoulder, his eyes searching his face:

“It’s not that bad, we’ll do it again later.”

Bard slowly turned his face toward him:

“Without giggling this time?”

Thranduil had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep a straight face:

“Promise.”

He left the bed, not even bothering to get dressed, and searched for Bard. Panic crept into his veins like poison. A fast-acting poison. The house was deathly silent; he had the horrible feeling of being alone. He opened the door to Legolas’s room: empty. Bain’s room: empty. He called out to all of them: his companion, his son, his stepson. He went through every room, faster and faster. The kitchen was tidy as if no one had cooked there in weeks. The living room was spotless, with no trace of life: no shoes lying around, no open books, no blanket abandoned on the couch. He was alone. Completely alone. Thranduil felt his legs weaken. He leaned against the wall, breathing raggedly.

“No… no, this isn’t possible…”

He ran back upstairs to the bedroom, opened the closets: there were only his clothes. He let himself fall onto the bed, his face in his hands. The loneliness was overwhelming, suffocating. He had ruined everything. Everything.

“Thranduil…”

A distant, familiar voice was calling him. He followed it without hesitation.

“Thranduil, wake up…”

He opened his eyes with difficulty. His eyelids were so heavy. The room was plunged in darkness, just like in his dream, but this time a familiar warmth was pressed against him. Bard was there, leaning over him, looking worried, one hand resting on his cheek.

“You had a nightmare,” Bard murmured. “You were breathing very hard. You kept repeating my name…”

Thranduil looked at him for a long moment, as if he couldn’t believe he was really there. He grabbed him abruptly and held him tightly with desperate strength, his face buried in his neck. Bard didn’t ask any questions. He simply wrapped his arms around him, one hand slowly stroking his back.

“I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m here, my love. It’s nothing. It was just a nightmare.”

Thranduil remained silent, his body still trembling. He could feel Bard’s heart beating against his own, real, alive. He had been stranded in that nightmare, in that empty and cold life he had almost built. Bard had just brought him back. They stayed entwined for a long time in the dark, until Thranduil’s breathing became calm again.

The nightmare had dissipated.

However, the fear of ruining everything remained lurking deep in his gut. So Thranduil closed his eyes and held Bard a little tighter, so as not to let him disappear again.

Thranduil had been monopolized from the moment he arrived and an Elf named Calen, counselor to Celeborn, had literally pounced on Bard and wouldn’t let go. Tall, with brown hair and a charming smile, he had complimented Bard on his “so refreshing human charisma” and then moved on to more direct remarks: the beauty of the green in his eyes, his lips, the strength of his shoulders. Bard, polite but uncomfortable, didn’t dare send him away for fear of offending the relations between Greenwood and Lorien. He was awkwardly trying to maintain a courteous distance. Thranduil, at the other end of the room, was no longer listening to what his interlocutors were saying to him: he was narrowing his eyes at the sight of his companion being openly flirted with. The minutes passed: Bard wasn’t reacting, Thranduil’s jaw was clenching tighter and tighter, and the flame of jealousy was growing in his chest. When Calen placed his hand on Bard’s biceps while laughing, he excused himself and crossed the room, wrapped a possessive arm around Bard and said in an icy voice:

“My love. Will you introduce me to your new friend?”

Calen withdrew his hand. Bard was already sighing as he introduced them to each other.

“The famous Thranduil,” Calen replied, not impressed in the slightest. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“I can imagine,” Thranduil retorted, looking down at him. “It’s not mutual.”

Calen burst out laughing, which Thranduil couldn’t interpret: amusement? Insolence? Several pairs of eyes turned toward them. Thranduil looked at Bard, and suddenly kissed him, with obvious possessiveness, right in front of Calen. When he pulled back, Calen was still smiling. He nodded, wished Bard a good evening and walked away.

“Good… goodbye,” Bard stammered before turning to Thranduil. “What was that? Are you going to piss on me next time to mark your territory?”

Thranduil, still red with anger and embarrassment, crossed his arms.

“He was touching you.”

“He was touching my arm.”

“He had no business touching you at all.”

Bard sighed:

“You’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” Thranduil growled.

“You’re very jealous.”

Thranduil shot him a dark look, but couldn’t help blushing slightly.

“Let’s go home, so I can show you who you belong to.”

Bard let out an incredulous laugh that faded as he realized Thranduil was not joking at all.

“I belong only to myself. Jealousy is not love, Thran. You’re right, I want to go home. Thank you for ruining the evening.”

They left the party under the amused and curious looks of several guests. Thranduil walked with a stiff gait, annoyed by his companion’s reaction, while Bard’s face was closed and worried. Neither of them would have thought the evening would end so badly.

With a sigh, he settled in the living room, looking at the moon shining in the sky. It was one of those nights when regrets tortured him so much that he could think of nothing else: his reaction following his wife’s death. Legolas had been so small at the time. He had never spoken to him about her. He had been incapable of it. The pain he had felt at her death had been so violent, so overwhelming, that he had locked away every feeling, every memory, every word, every image of her. Talking about her would have been like reopening a wound that had never truly healed. Naively, he had believed that silence would protect his son, that it would spare him the same suffering by never speaking of her. He had even thought that Legolas would eventually forget her. But, quite the opposite, it was between them that an immense void had grown over the years. Legolas had grown up without ever hearing stories about his mother: without knowing how she laughed, how she sang, how she looked at him as if he were the most precious thing in the world. Thranduil had given him rules, discipline, distance, but no memories. Now, years later, he regretted it with an almost physical intensity.

He heard light footsteps behind him, arms wrapping around him.

“Are you thinking about her?” Bard murmured against his back.

Bard knew. He always knew. Thranduil nodded slowly, discreetly.

“I was never able to talk to Legolas about her,” Thranduil murmured, his voice hoarse. “Every time I tried, it felt like something was being torn out of me. It hurt too much. So I kept everything to myself. It’s as if I killed her a second time.”

Bard tightened his embrace with a sigh.

“You weren’t ready. You had just lost her. You were just trying to survive.”

“I was his father. I should have found the strength. He deserved to know who she was; that she loved him more than anything, that she was funny, gentle, stubborn… that he looks so much more like her than he does like me.”

Bard remained silent for a long moment, then turned him around to look him in the eyes.

“It’s not too late to tell him all that. It’s going to be difficult, but he needs to hear it. And you need to say it.”

“I’m afraid he’ll hate me even more for waiting so long.”

“He won’t hate you,” Bard murmured, gently stroking his cheeks. “He’ll understand that you were hurting, that you were lost like he was.”

Thranduil pressed his forehead against Bard’s, breathing slowly. The regrets were still there, heavy, painful. Maybe one day he would finally find the courage to talk to Legolas about her, to share a common past.