#archerbard

To Bard, politics are like this: once you step onto the playing field, you already lose, or at least you lose a great deal of yourself. Autonomy, mostly. Some dignity. The ability to make choices that do not affect the lives of so many around you.

So there’s what he wants - which includes a lot of things, and it’s not like he keeps a precise list, definitely does not keep a precise list in his head, neatly outlining every single minute he hates about governing - and there’s what he gets these days, which is dwarves and elves and men and something the common folk refer to - he used to refer to - as politics, but which now he only calls nitpicking.

The crown came first.

He knows why everybody insisted on it, why even his gut told him that slaying a dragon might make a man king for a day but a crown makes one king for life. It still doesn’t sit right on the hair he keeps tied back like he used to when he was a simple bargeman, and it certainly doesn’t look right when he faces the mirror in the morning. The crown to him is the burden of ruling, to others it’s a sign of his strength and regality. So much of his power derives from simple images.

The talks came second.

Endless discussions around tables, accompanied by Gandalf at first when the wizard was still there, but he had left them quickly, and now there’s not a day that passes that Bard doesn’t wish for his return. Politics is a game for power that is fought over inches of land and mere dimes on a tax that mostly carries symbolic value anyway. Is fought in words within debates, where a misplaced syllable derails meaning, derails an entire day’s worth of bargaining.

So that’s what he gets. And Bard tries very hard - he wears the crown, and says the words, bows his head when appropriate to dwarves and elves and before his people, because he is governing by their consent, too - and tries to forget that there’s something he might want.

—

The King of Dale stands next to the King of Mirkwood on the borders of their lands. It is, as always these days, a formal meeting - they are surveying the borders of the forest, because Thranduil has once again had to reinforce his defenses, despite Gandalf assuring them that the shadow had been mostly driven out from the forest. Bard sees things when he gets too close to the forest, hears whispers and scuttling under the dead leaves on the ground, and he knows this forest is not to be trusted.

Thranduil, although Bard thinks it would pain him to say so, seems to be thinking the same.

“This is where our defenses are weakest,“ Thranduil explains, in that drawl of his that enunciates every word clearly yet makes it seem like he is already weary of the words about to leave his mouth, “I assume it will not be long before something slips through that you might not like. In fact, for quite some time, I have been expecting a breach of the woodland borders.“

Those dwarves were quite some breach of the woodland border, Bard wants to say, but this is neither the time nor the place for jokes, and although the elven King had laughed at Bards surprising honestly back when they shared wine in his tent before the battle, joking idly while being king was another matter entirely.

“It’s still quite far from the city,“ Bard says, “Whatever could come out would probably run itself out long before it even reaches the other side of the shore.“

Thranduil glances at him from the side, seemingly assessing Bard’s answer by judging the look on his face.

“You underestimate the sheer determination a dark kind of hunger can awake,“ he says cryptically and then promptly faces the forest again.

Bard does not know what to say to that. He lets the silence simmer for a moment. It is Thranduil who speaks again.

“We cannot leave these borders defenseless. Trade in the North depends on the safety of these parts. If you can spare them, I would have troops of you, King Bard, to join my guard so we can defend the edge of the forest together.“

Then, quieter, he says. “We lost many during the battle. Many more are still wounded. Those who are not too shaken from grief are trusted with the defenses, but the battle has drained us. I would not ask this of you otherwise.“

It seems an odd thing to do, Bard muses, to admit weakness as a king. Then again, they had fought together, and shared wine. Maybe they were a little more than allies in this.

“I will consider your proposal, King Thranduil.“

Bard extends his hand, and to his surprise, the elf takes it.

“I will not send men who are unwilling to fight, but who knows. Maybe some young lads have taken a liking to swinging a sword.“