#bardxreader

From your house on top of the hill, you could see Erebor looming in the distance. In this weather, she was merely a dark mass in the mist, but you knew all too well what was truly there. And you knew that in just a little while, Bard would return with his children, whom he had taken to visit the company of dwarves. With that thought, you returned to the kitchen to finish cooking. They would be cold and hungry when they came home, you reasoned, and you wanted to be sure to make them comfortable.

Soon enough you heard the door open, the sound of heavy footsteps and soft curses reaching your ears. With a smile you set a lid over the cooking pot and made your way through the large house to the front room. Bard was just removing his coat and hanging it on the hook, water dripping down onto the floor. He kicked off his sopping boots and turned around, smiling when he saw you.

“Welcome home,” you said, glancing behind him at the closed door. “Where are the girls? And Bain?”

“It was so cold, I didn’t want to bring them all the way back,” Bard explained, moving over to stand in front of the fire, holding his hands towards the flames. “Thorin agreed to let them remain for the night. I’ll go and fetch them in the morning.”

“So it will just be the two of us tonight?” Your face heated at the thought. You shared a bed with the man each night, but you had never been truly alone with him. The children had always been nearby. You shook the impure thoughts from your mind and smiled.  “Well, supper is ready. Come and warm up,” you insisted, taking his hand and pulling him into the kitchen. You sat him down at the table, pouring him a glass of wine.

You could feel Bard’s eyes on you as you puttered about the room, fixing up a plate and setting it down in front of him. When you went to move away, he grabbed your wrist to stop you. “Wait.”

You blink down at him and smile. “What is it, Bard? Is there something else you need?”

“No, nothing. I just...you know you don’t have to do all of this for me. For us,” he said quickly. “Living here and helping with the children, and the chores. You could have stayed in Erebor, or returned home. And I still don’t know why you chose me, there are other and better choices and I-”

You lean down and press your lips against the man’s open mouth, your hand brushing against his cheek. Once he begins to respond to the kiss, you pull away with a smile.

At least today you don’t have any sacks of food or fabric to carry. If you did, Bard would be there to scoop them away from you. He would also try to scoop you up, while he was at it, but thankfully you convinced him to stop doing that a month ago. Bard doesn’t need to prove his strength or love for you in this way anymore. In fact, he shows such adoration – cooing baby talk to your belly, kissing it, kissing you, loving you tenderly in the night, preparing supper after his long days on the lake, massaging your aching feet without you ever having to ask - that you doubt that there’s anything more he could possibly do.

All you need now is for him to greet you on the landing with a warm embrace and a kiss. But when you finally reach the top, Bard’s not there. He’s not on the lake, that you’re sure of. After working nearly a fortnight with no break, you made him rest today, even though your boss couldn’t let you take time away from working at the tavern. Fortunately, she only needed you for a couple of hours. You and Bard will be able to see the sun set together.

You open the door and call for him. He’s not home.

Bard shows up an hour later, his hands and the knees of his breeches dirty.  He smells wonderfully earthy, not fishy, thank the gods. It’s not that you mind the the smell. You’re used to it, of course. But to a woman with child, even familiar odors can attack the nose with sudden brutality.

“Where have you been?” you ask, resting across the soft bench in front of the unlit hearth. You’re covered in a plaid blanket, your favorite. You tried to read from a new book of fantastic tales, but fell asleep before turning the first page.

“Oh, just taking care of a few things, my love.” Bard dips his hands in the washing basin across the room and wipes them clean with the nearby towel before approaching you. He crouches down and smiles that broad smile that deepens the lines in his face. This smile is part shifty, part ecstatic, all loving.

He places that kiss you’ve been longing for softly on your lips. When he pulls away, you stroke his hair, waiting for more of an explanation.

“You didn’t have to go to work today, or to the market,” you point out, “so what were you taking care of?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” The smile returns, more devilish than ever. Getting on his knees, he slides down to your round belly and kisses it through the fabric of your dress. “Your mother is very, very nosy, little Sigrid!”

You gasp. “So, you think it’s a girl, and you like the name now, too?”

Your relatives and anyone with an opinion on the matter has told you you’re having a girl by the way you’re carrying - low - and by the extra “cushion” in your face. But you? You’re simply going on a very strong feeling that you know isn’t wrong.

As for “Sigrid,” Bard has been too polite to flat-out say “no” to it, but you’ve seen his lip curl ever-so-slightly the few times you’ve brought up the name that means “victory.” He usually ends baby-naming discussions with “we’ll get it sorted later.”

“I do like it,” Bard says now, his smile spreading from ear to ear. “And if it is a girl, as you are so convinced it is, I think that should be her name. Now, if it’s a boy…”

“Bard the second, of course.”

He grimaces. “Please don’t put that on him, darling. I was thinking ‘Bain.’ It’s very strong, just like Sigrid.”

You nod, thinking about it, then suddenly remember that Bard has expertly avoided your original question.

“So, where were you?”

He suddenly jumps up.

“Are you hungry? I am. I made some stew while you were at work.”

“I had some. It was delicious. Where were you?”

“It’s not ready.”

“What’s ‘it’?”

“I should say, you’ll see it in due time.”

You sit up, swing your legs off the bench and take his hands in yours as you look up at him.

“Bard, whatever it is, I can take it.”

“But can I? That’s the true question.”

“BARD!”

He laughs and pulls you to your feet.

“Are you up for a short walk?” he asks.

“Certainly.”

“Actually, I have a better idea.”

And with that, he whisks you off your feet and into his arms. You scream his name and kick your feet.

“Please, please let me do this for you,” he says.

“Bard, you’re the strongest man I know, but what if you drop us?”

“I promise on my very life I will not drop you or our Sigrid.”

Alright, he’s said the name twice now. You know that wherever he’s about to take you has something to do with the baby.

“Very well,” you sigh. “Onward, coach!”

He laughs and somehow manages to grab your favorite blanket and open and close the front door without fumbling. The flight down the stairs in his arms feels like a dream. He’s taking his time negotiating each step, and yet moving so fluidly you feel as if you’re floating.

Although you can’t take your eyes off each other, you never for one moment worry that he’ll stumble or wander into the inlet. He knows exactly where he’s going, and you trust him with your life.

You haven’t been paying very much attention to the path he’s taking or the people greeting you both and all the “oh, isn’t that the sweetest thing!” types of comments. You feel like you’re on your honeymoon again, just the two of you…well, the three of you now.

Soon, Bard sets you gently on your feet.

“Here we are,” he says, gesturing toward the plot of land in front of you. You squint and blink a few times, taking it all in.

“Um…my old garden?” you ask.

“Isn’t it something?” He puts his hands on his hips and puffs out his chest.

Actually, it’s nothing. This was your little side project a while ago. You declined Bard’s help because, after neglecting and therefore killing the house plant that your husband had given you as a birthday gift, you were determined to prove to yourself that you had a green thumb. 

But, just like with the house plant, you chose passionate times in bed with Bard over tending to your seedlings. And who could blame you, really? 

You attributed your failed garden on the poor soil and never looked back.

The earth before you looks rich and dark, not at all like it did during your gardening attempts. 

“Have you been amending the soil?” you ask.

Bard nods. “I’ve done a bit of reading and talking to some of the old-timers about what to do.”

You look more closely at the dirt, which has obviously been turned. Some sections have been shaped into long, small hills.

“Sweetheart, what did you bury in the garden?”

 “Bury!” Bard rears his head back and laughs. “Does it look like funeral plots?”

You shrug. “I have no idea what it’s supposed to look like.”

Bard takes your hand and leads you to the stone bench. After wrapping you both with the blanket, you huddle together, his arms around you.

“I know it’s untidy,” he says, “that’s why I was a bit nervous to show you.”

“Oh, no. And I pressured you!”

“No, no, it’s alright, love.” He takes a deep breath. “So, I’ve been thinking about what I could give you and our child that would keep giving. Something that you could count on, that would nourish you and keep reminding you both how much I love you.” He squeezes you closer to him. “And as I was trying to come up with something, for some reason I remembered how most people gave our marriage a month at best - most of those same people we passed on the way here, as a matter of fact. They told us we were too young and too headstrong.”

“We were,” you say, smiling.

“But that didn’t stop us, did it?” He nuzzles your nose. “And I know it’s petty, but every time I see those naysayers, I think, ‘we won.’ It’s been four years, and now we’re having our first child. Then it came to me, the thing I could give you: a garden, filled with all kinds of vegetables and berries. Our very own victory garden, for our growing family.” He brings his warm hands to yours, resting on your round tummy, just in time to feel your baby stretching about. He caresses his thumbs across your skin.

“We love it,” you say, placing your hand on his, “and we love you.”

As you plant a kiss on his mouth, you are in total awe of this man. A little more than an hour ago, you thought there was nothing more Bard could do to show his love. 

Bain thinks no one at the long harvest table is looking as he reaches for the last braided yeast roll.

Perhaps if he were quicker, he could get away with it, but you see Bard’s hand approaching out of the corner of your eye. He playfully bats his son’s hand away from the bread basket.

“Not another one!” Bard says, laughing. “I’ve been saving that one!”

A kind servant in the corner of the dining hall offers to fetch more, but Bard mouths ‘no thank you,’ takes the roll, and rips a chunk from it with his teeth, growling as he goes. He chews sloppily, all for his happy family’s amusement.

“Very un-King-like, Da.” Sigrid says, embarrassed, even though the serving staff is well aware that her father loves to show his silly side when dignitaries aren’t present.

Soon Sigrid’s laughter joins Tilda’s hand-covered giggles. Chuckling through a wide grin, Bain takes a swig of water from his goblet, dribbling a little down his shirt.

“I think you’re just envious that I got to it,” Bard answers, bobbing and weaving as all three children start grabbing for the coveted bread. 

Sitting across from them, you behold the scene, beaming for more than one reason.

This is a typical evening with your adoring new husband, and the children you both cherish - children who began calling you “Mother” during your engagement.

It’s only five months into your marriage, and fewer than that into your roles as King and Queen of Dale, respectively.

Your life has become as blissful as a fairytale. In the wake of so much destruction and heartache, how did I get so lucky? you often wonder. 

Bard asks himself the same thing about you, every day.

There has been so much lovemaking between the two of you that, for a while, you couldn’t remember the last time you slept a full night, uninterrupted.

But over the last few weeks, you’ve been sleeping like a corpse.

After having an unpredictable appetite for about a fortnight, it’s come roaring back, full strength. Even now, you’re thinking of swiping what remains of the yeast roll dangling from Bard’s mouth and chomping away.

You know you’re with child. In fact, you told the healer earlier today before she launched into her questions and examination. After some prodding and calculations, she reached the same conclusion.

You’re just waiting for a lull in the merry night’s banter. Then you’ll make the announcement.

“My darling,” Bard says to you, his mouth still outrageously full, “tell me you know how to curb these young appetites!”

Smiling, you shake your head. “I’m afraid I don’t.” The laughter settles down as Bard musses Bain’s hair. 

Now is the time. You roll your shoulders back and sit up perfectly erect, your chin up, and prepare to share the news.

But Bard speaks up again.

“Well, thank goodness there’s only three of you,” he says. “At the rate you’re going, I don’t think we could handle another mouth to feed.”

“Or the smelly diapers that go with it,” Tilda says, wincing. “Bleh!” 

“Or the burping,” Bain adds, rolling his eyes. “Messy stuff, looks like.”

“Or the dull lullabies to sing!” groans Sigrid.

All three of them stick their tongues out and to the side while sliding down in their seats, pretending to melt just from the thought of baby care.

You drop your wide-eyed gaze to your empty plate, your news coming to a skidding halt.

Over the next several days, Bard catches you biting your nails and puttering about, doing anything and everything to avoid conversation and long stretches of time with the rest of the family.

At meals, you eat but don’t have seconds, and you politely excuse yourself to finish any number of tasks  - needlework, writing or reading letters, painting furniture - whatever will get you away from the family table.

At best, you’re confused about what to say, and at worst, scared.

You had never considered that perhaps no one wanted ‘another mouth to feed.’

Your plan had been to just happily blurt it out, like everyone always did in your close knit, loving family. Now you feel you have to come up with a different way to approach the subject. 

Perhaps you’ll squash your excitement about it.

But that hardly seems fair to me, you think.

The more you consider how to handle the situation, the more outrageous and desperate your thoughts.

Maybe you’ll just wait until you’re showing to say something. Act like everything’s normal.

Or maybe they’ll assume you’re carrying a ball of some sort. Maybe they won’t have any questions until you deliver.

Your stupid musings actually make you laugh out loud.

“What are you thinking about?” Bard asks from the doorway of your bedchamber. Surprised, you simmer down your wicked cackles. You really don’t feel like explaining what’s got you in stitches.

You’re in your comfortable night gown, under the covers, an uninteresting book in hand.

You spread a tiny smile as Bard walks gingerly into the room.

“I’m thinking about how utterly foolish I am,” you answer truthfully.

“No,” Bard says, standing by your side. The door is still open, and he waves in the children. “We are.”

You sit up fast and grin nervously at the unexpected visitors, who are all carrying baskets.

“What’s going on?” you ask. The children surround the bed. Bard sits on the edge of the downy mattress next to you.

“We ran into the healer today. She asked how you were.” Bard puts one arm around your shoulders. “She asked how you both were.”

He glances at your covered belly and smiles tenderly, then kisses your temple and places his other hand just under your navel. You fall against his strong body, feeling a mix of relief and dread that the truth is out.

“We’re so sorry!” Tilda cries. “We said awful things about caring for a baby!”

You hold out your arms to her, and Bard moves over to make room. Tilda leaves her basket at your feet and runs to you, folding into your embrace.

“No, sweet Tilda, those things weren’t awful. They were truthful. A baby is very hard work. Messy work.” You look at Bard, your eyes big, wet and filled with apology.

“You all made me realize this may have been too much to hear right now,” you admit. “A lot has happened to us in a short period of time.”

Your heart full, you look at each precious face, each sorrowful expression.

“I just wanted everything to be perfect,” you tell them.

Tilda straightens up and wipes her eyes. She returns to her spot between her siblings and grabs her basket from the foot of the bed.

“But everything is perfect, Mother,” she says. “Look what we‘ve already gathered!”

She tilts her basket so you can see what’s inside: a stack wee folded diapers.

Bain shows you what’s in his basket next: burping cloths, with little yellow flowers embroidered on them.

Hands over your heart, you breathe in and out slowly, processing the wonderful gestures of these angels.

Bain nudges Sigrid to reveal what’s in her basket. It’s a sheet of parchment, with words and a few musical notes on it.

“This is a lullaby we wrote, very quickly, for our new sister or brother,” Sigrid says. She whispers a “one-two-three “countdown to Bain and Tilda, and they sing:

             Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep!

     Evening is coming, and night is nigh;

   Under the lattice the little birds cheep,

     All will be sleeping by and by.

               Sleep, little baby, sleep.

   Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep!

     Darkness is creeping along the sky;

   Stars at the casement glimmer and peep,

     Slowly the moon comes sailing by.

               Sleep, little baby, sleep.

   Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep!

     Sleep till the dawning has dappled the sky;

   Under the lattice the little birds cheep,

     All will be waking by and by.

               Sleep, little baby, sleep.

By the time they finish, everyone is crying.

“How is that for perfect, my dear?” Bard asks, his voice breaking as he wipes your tears away first, then his.

Your heart is overflowing. All you can do is smile, give him a light kiss on his lips, and offer a warm thank you to your children.

“We love you, Mother.” Sigird links arms with her siblings, and they gaze at you with admiration.

“I love you, my angels.”

Bard leans down and puts his ear to your tummy. 

“Aren't you all forgetting someone?" He grins like a cheeky schoolboy.

"Hello, baby," Bard whispers. He kisses your small bump, looks up at you and smiles. “Oh, that won’t do. Let’s call him Archibald!”

“Let’s call her Helena!” Sigrid says.

“What if it’s two? Helena and Archibald?” Tilda squeals with delight.

“No, no - Helena and Prudence!” Bain suggests.

“Archibald and Ralph!” you laugh.

The children bounce onto the bed and start talking excitedly about more baby names. Bard keeps his arm around you, holding you tight, joining in the discussion with fatherly jokes. You scoot closer and chime into the spirited conversation, unfolding exactly as you’d dreamed it would.

It’s just like at the supper table. 

The weight gained his attention next, and Bard saw the fair hair of his wife covering your face, and the fading effects of a shine leaving you, until your aura was dull, and lifeless. As if you were … were stomped on in the rain. “Y/N?” Bard croaked. His throat was incredibly sore, but he unwound his fingers from his son’s, reaching for you. You did not stir.

“Y/N?” Bard tried again, more urgently. There was a strength in him that he had not had in weeks, forcing him to remain in bed when there was no money being brought in to take care of the family. “Y/N!” He pulled the hair from your face, giving him a view of the blank eyes. The fever could not have taken you so suddenly. He was sure you were not sick, but he could not trust his own eyes in his fever. Had you, and he had failed to notice?

Sitting upright, he felt the heavy weight of parchment falling onto his lap, and glanced down quickly at a letter folded in the way you always folded your letters. Delicately, resembling a flower. It was strange, he had always found, but endearing. It was from you. But he could not remember it being there earlier. Bard’s name was scrawled in your elegant script along the front. For him.

“Ma?” It was Sigrid that had spoken, voice drowsy, as if she had been sleeping for a long while.

Bard did not glance at his eldest. He pushed the letter towards her, giving nothing but the ordered instructions, “Read this.”

Sigrid did not argue, taking the letter from her father and opening the seal immediately. Bard stood from the bed, his hands tugging at your underarms until you were lying on your back, half across the bed. You were not breathing.

“Y/N,” Bard demanded, his voice urgent and scratchy, but he had to wake you up. He did not know what happened, but he could not let you die. Not after everything, not after all the years he had loved you and lived with you and cared for you. There was no life without you. Tugging your white blonde hair from your face, he saw that your blank eyes were still seeing nothing. Staring without blinking, though you should have a handful of times by now. “No,” Bard whispered.

“She... “ Sigrid swallowed. “Da, is she okay? Is Ma alright?”

Bard could not help the feeling of dread in his stomach. “What does the letter say, Sigrid?”

“It doesn’t make any sense.” Bard laced his fingers together over your heart, and began pressing upon your chest, trying desperately to start your heart once more. After a few seconds, he leaned down, and felt for breath, and then tried to listen to your chest, but it was silent. “She… she says that she’s the King of Mirkwood’s cousin.” Bard glanced up sharply, towards his daughter, who was gesturing to the letter in confusion. “It… it doesn’t make any sense, Da. She might have caught the sickness as well-”

“Read it, while I do this, aloud,” Bard ordered, confused but his dread growing the more Sigrid began to read. His sharp compressions did not cease, even when Tilda and Bain began to wake, and did not understand what was happening.

But all Bard could focus on was trying to wake his wife, and the words Sigrid read shakily. You did not sleep, you had not been touched by time in the last sixteen years, and that this had been your fatal consequence of meeting. Of him thinking you were lost in the woods, and needed somewhere safe to rest. Of him falling in love with you, far too hard and far too fast.

He had killed you.

You had given up your own life, to make the four of them have an endless one. It was not fair. It was not a life without you.

“Da, we have to take her to a healer,” Bain was saying, over Tilda’s crying. “They’ll know what to do.”

“An elf heals different than a human,” Sigrid countered. “If Ma’s an elf, than we have to have an elf healer-”

“It’s at least an hour to the shore,” Bain returned, aghast at the suggestion. “And another hour even to get close to Mirkwood, let alone their healers-”

“I can make it in half,” Bard returned, leaving no room for argument as Bain glanced to him. “Get the boat ready. Sigrid, help me carry your mother downstairs. Tilda, help your brother.”

“But the guards-” Tilda cried.

“Go, now,” Bard snapped.

The youngest ran from the room immediately, and Sigrid began helping her father grab you, and grabbed the letters in her hand tightly. Her father was careful down the stairs, and as doors would be in the way, or other obstacles, Sigrid would do her best to make sure there was a safer path.

“Da, will Ma be okay?” Bard didn’t have an answer. Not one he liked. Because he wasn’t sure, but he hoped so. Maybe… maybe elves were different. Maybe they could come back after they’ve been gone. “What about the house?” Sigrid asked. “Should I lock it up?”

“We’ll come back,” Bard said simply. Bain and Tilda held the boat against the dock, and Bard gently eased himself into the boat, setting you down on the base of it. Bain helped Sigrid and Tilda inside, before he climbed in.

“They’ll never let us out of the gates,” Bain insisted.

“I’d like to see them try.”

Pushing away from the house, Bard pulled an oar from the ropes at the side and began to row. He had never pushed so hard in his life, yet he pushed the boat along the water, weaving expertly through the turns of the streets at midnight, and when he reached the gates to leave the city, he was told to halt.

“Bard?”

Bard was relieved to see it was a friend, someone that was at least more likely to let him pass than the Master’s pocketed guards. “Borin,” Bard greeted, but his tone was not one to suggest a friendly conversation. “I need to pass.”

“What’s going on? You never take the children out.” The man that had grown up with the bargeman peeked into the boat, his eyes widening slightly. “Is that-”

“She’s sick,” Bard insisted. Borin stepped back a bit at the news. “I’ve got to go to the elves, they’re my only hope.”

“Bard,” Borin said gently, as if breaking news to him.

“I’m not asking permission,” Bard said evenly, and maybe he was being irrational. Maybe she was gone. Maybe he’d be too late. But he had to try. “I have to… I have to, Borin.”

Borin sighed. “I didn’t see you.”

Bard dipped his head in thanks. And Borin cast one more glance to the boat, where you lay, and then began to pull the gates up just enough for them to pass under. It took Bard less than forty five minutes to make it to the shores of the lake, and he knew it was another hour’s walk to the guard station.

He was determined to make it a half hour at the most. “We’ll go with you,” Sigrid insisted.

“No, it’s not safe in the woods-”

“It’s not safe by the boat, either,” Sigrid returned. She was stubborn, resilient, and every bit taking after you than Bard had ever anticipated. “Besides, I have the letters. And you can’t carry both Ma and the letters.”

“Letters? I thought there was only one.”

“She wrote one to the King.”

It was wasting time for them to stand there and argue. He was not sure how long it took to walk, how long he was left to the silence of the woods, passing by the very location that you had first stumbled upon him. He was not even sure why you had been there, if the letter was true. Why would you be so far from the home you lived in?

Why would you pretend to be human? Why would you walk into something knowing it could bring your end? As Lord Elrond had forewarned you, whoever that person may have been.

The guard station was glowing in the moonlight of the summer day, and when Bard was spotted, the elf drew an arrow in warning, but did not shoot. “Who goes there?”

“Y/N,” Sigrid called before Bard could say any response. He didn’t know what to say. The bow tilted down slightly, with recognition. So it was true. You were from this realm, you were the King’s own cousin and you had said nothing. “She’s hurt, we need-”

“I do not take orders from humans,” the elf spoke sharply. Sigrid swallowed. But when Bard approached, the elf lowered the bow completely as your face was illuminated in Bard’s arms. “What has happened to her? What have you done?”

Bard didn’t know what she did. “My daughter has the letter she wrote. Something about immortality… A sleep-” The elf’s eyes rose to Bard’s own, before they dropped to the letter Sigrid was holding out. The elf took it carefully, cutting off Bard’s words. And read the letter through quickly. His shoulders changed, falling down slightly as if defeated. “She’s not gone,” Bard insisted. “I know there’s still life in her. There must be. I know someone here can help her.”

Someone had to be here to help her. Bard would not give up. Not when you hadn’t.

An order was given in a language Bard did not know, and the elf still on the bridge reached for a horn at his waist, and blew. The elf in front of Bard signalled with his hands. “Give her over.”

“Why?” Bard returned. “Wherever she goes, we all go.”

The elf cut a glare to Bard. “She needs to see a healer immediately. And that means that I will be taking her to the kingdom, to be amongst her own people-”

“She’s my wife,” Bard snapped.

The elf had little patience. “If you had let me finish, I was going to say that upon King Thranduil’s request, you’d be allowed to follow. But I can do nothing, nor allow you entry into the kingdom, without my king’s permission.”

Bard glanced down at your still form in his arms, before he swallowed. Your life was all he cared for. If this elf could promise that you’d go straight to a healer, then he was better to bring you into the kingdom than Bard. As much as it pained him, he passed you over to the elf, who carried you almost effortlessly.

“I want to stay with her,” Bard said. “I don’t care what it takes, but I’m not leaving her.” The elf nodded.

“I understand, but you can only see her as soon as the King allows it.” It was the best Bard seemed to be getting.

“Where are they taking Ma?” Bain asked as the elf began to walk away.

“They’re going to make sure she’s treated well.” The man was moving with much faster speed than Bard himself was able to walk. And that eased Bard. She’d get in fast, and be helped quickly. She had to be. She was practically royalty.

Only a few moments later was there a guarded escort into the palace, in a throne room where they were forced to wait. And wait.

And wait even longer.

Bard’s arm clutched Tilda close to him, comforting the young girl, much too young to fully understand what was going on. But she knew better to ask any questions when a man with hair even blonder than your own walked into the room with even strides, a confidence that commanded himself. Bard knew who he was without introduction. The King. Your cousin.

Yet Bard could not help himself. “Is she alright?” The King’s eyes narrowed the closer he approached, annoyed by the question, and the informal etiquette.

“You must be her... “ the King’s eyes darted to the three children, lingering longest on Sigrid, before he glanced back towards Bard, “family.”

Bard swallowed. “Yes. Bard, her husband. And Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda-”

“I was told there was a letter,” Thranduil interrupted, as if he did not care. He looked over Bard with distaste. “That she has written to me to explain this situation.”

Sigrid bowed her head slightly, before digging into her apron pocket and producing the letter that was neatly folded just like the other. Thranduil snatched it from her hand, and ripped the seal open. The letter did not seem long, because the King read it over quickly, and when he was done, he folded it over slowly.

“She has been missing for over sixteen years, and when she arrives, she is dead,” Thranduil spoke carefully. Bard’s breath left him, the words harder to hear than he had prepared himself for. Thranduil was watching him as if intrigued by the response. “At least, to human eyes.” Bard glanced up sharply, unwilling to let himself hope too soon. “Elves can go without breath for a remarkable amount of time. It is how we have managed to survive all these years and endure. It is a death like sleep she has fallen in before.”

“No one thought she would wake,” Bard recalled from the letter Sigrid had read.

“So you’ve known of her gifts.”

“No one knew,” Bard admitted. But his stomach was twisting with anticipation. Had he confirmed that you still lived? Bard could not be certain. “We only discovered it when we read the letter left for us, after waking from a fever that had taken hold-”

“She saved you,” Thranduil repeated. “Used her gift on you.” His eyes darted around, and rested on little Tilda. “So young, you all are.”

“Is she alright?” Bard repeated from earlier. “Can I see her?”

Thranduil straightened. “I’m afraid there isn’t much to see.”

“Is Ma dead?” Tilda asked quietly. Bard’s arm tightened around her shoulders, and Tilda sounded so close to tears Bard could offer no answer to appease her.

Thranduil, it seemed, had an answer instead. “She lives, but barely. Her gifts come with a toll, and using it on just one had nearly killed her. Four at once... It is a miracle she did not die there.” The King slipped the letter into the robes. “Come, I am sure you are all very… eager to see her.” His eyes darted around the small family. “I ask for silence in my halls, as it is quite late and the residence of my home expect a easy rest when granted the chance.” Bard agreed, to anything, as long as he could see you.

The path was winding, and complicated, and dark, but it did not seem like the elf needed much help. And Bard found his eyes adjusting much more quickly than he expected, but it still took long enough for him to nearly stumble twice. They were brought to a set of double doors, with golden vines and light pink flowers covering both doors, and etched into the wood. It was the same pattern that you had embroidered onto your wedding gown.

The same pattern you stitched into the children’s blankets, Sigrid’s coming of age skirts. This was your room, Bard realized. A place that you had called home in a life that you had kept hidden. And as the King opened the doors, the inside was much the same. Vines stretched along the ceiling, with the same light flowers, and more sorts dangling down like tempting treats.

A light seemed to illuminate the room, and it was the many candles that were lit, the wax dripping onto the windowsill, and joining centuries of wax that had followed the same path. Even more were at the bedside table, where an elf maiden was preparing a concoction for you to drink.

“The children are to wait in the hall,” Thranduil spoke simply. And as he entered the room, Bard turned to the children.

“It’ll be alright,” Bard promised them quietly. “Stay here, and you’ll get to see her soon. I need to speak with the healers and find out everything that’s going on.”

“You promise?” Bain asked.

Bard nodded, not verbally consenting, but it was enough for Bard to vow not to go back on his word. Another healer exited without a word, and gave a polite bow to the two men, before the bedroom door was shut behind her, and it was just Bard, the king, and the healer that was easing an elixir into your mouth.

The healer stepped away as Bard approached. You had been dressed in something less restricting than your usual gown, the laced bodice changed into a fine cotton gown with the same embroidery as the doors and the ceiling. Something of yours you had left behind, no doubt. Your hair was loose, still, soft curls that were bundled over one shoulder. And your cheeks were so pale, you nearly matched the linens.

Bard’s fingers reached out, tucking a stray curl that always seemed to get into your eyes, no matter what time of day it was, no matter where you were. He loved the curl, because no matter how many times you would try to tame it, pinning it back, it would always pop back up. Only now, as Bard brushed against it, it obeyed. It was nearly as lifeless as you were.

You still did not breathe.

“Will she wake?” Bard asked softly, as if afraid to wake you from a likely much needed rest.

“Perhaps,” Thranduil admitted. “Or, she will sleep until her body weakens and falters. No one can be certain. I have sent a rider to another of our kin, who she has grown close with a few thousand years ago. He has been given a gift of foresight, and can give more light than our current understanding of the situation. It seems he was not wrong before. You have brought her end.”

Bard did not like the tone with which Thranduil spoke. “What do you mean? She lives, you said.”

Dale’s new spring festival has no fancy name, and  is certainly in no fancy location. 

It has two saving graces: the reams upon reams of hanging ribbon - which are actually just the remains of faded, slightly crisp kite tails, awning strips, seared curtains and dressmaker remnants, all recovered from the city’s glory days; and the spirit of resilient people.

This is the first official merrymaking event ahead of Bard’s coronation and your wedding - a test run, of sorts, of how to pull off the many festivities to come. So far, so good. All your former Lake-town neighbors are participating in one way or another. As they make a fresh start of their old businesses and interests in this rebuilding city, they are also reconstructing their broken hearts over all that’s been lost.

Bard is, too. Following fire and war, he’s finally had a moment to breathe. You’ve helped him immensely with that -  first as his longtime friend, then during an unexpected but welcome turn in your relationship, and now, as his fiancee.

Your romance has been quite subtle, for all the right reasons. Just a light peck or two here, some handholding there. His children adore you, always have. But even wonderful developments can be overwhelming. You don’t want your affection for Bard, or his for you, to come at them too fast or harshly, like so many other things of late.

The festival is your idea, and you’ve done all you can to make it amazing. From determining that the large town square is the best spot, to ridding it of trash and foul smells, to organizing the festival events - most of them for children - you’re sure it’s going to be a rousing success.

After the clean up, as merchants and volunteers begin setting up their crudely-constructed booths and game tables, you stand in the middle of the square, proudly observing the remarkable transformation from junk pit to fairground. The only thing that could make this moment better would be Bard by your side, but you also want him to see the finished product in a little while, to be thoroughly surprised.

“Surprise!”

Out of nowhere, the mother of one of the young men who helped with the tidying up approaches with a small wooden bowl covered by a red and white checkered cloth. She holds it toward you.

“What’s this?” you ask, accepting.

“Blackberries. Just something sweet for someone sweet,” the woman says. You  lift the cloth for a quick peek.

“Thank you my friend, but what’s the occasion?” 

“You’ve done so much for our citizens, especially the little ones and dear Bard. Enjoy a treat. Share it with your beloved.” She winks and punches your upper arm. You squeak out “ouch” through a smile.

“I’ll have more surprises later!!” she promises.

You question her about that, but she won’t budge.

“Just make sure I can find you,” she says, winking again. You hug her warmly before she disappears down the lane.

You don’t realize how famished you are until you bite into a delectable berry. A bit of juice drips down your bottom lip. Instead of wiping it completely away with your index finger, you smear it across both lips, loving the flavor and picturing the unusual sheen and hue it’s created.

Forty minutes and three berry juice applications later, the celebration gets underway.

“Everything is lovely. Just lovely,” Bard comes up as you’re finishing a ball-tossing game and places an arm around your waist. Seeking the first quiet moment he’s had with you in days, he leads you behind a long cascade of the brightest yellow fabric strips you and your helpers could gather.

Before he plants a grateful kiss to your lips, Bard gazes at your mouth, a smile spreading across his.

“Hm. Speaking of lovely. My goodness.” He lowers his head until his lips meet yours, at first in their usual light, honorable fashion.

But as your man tastes the extra sweetness of your lips, the kiss quickly and passionately deepens, with his tongue stealing away from your mouth to glide along your heavenly lips.

He pulls away abruptly so both of you can breathe.

“What is that?” he pants. “Blackberries?”

“Mmhm.”

“Kiss me!”

He holds you to him with both arms now, gently biting, then teasing your lips with his tongue, which has taken on the juicy flavor and has your head spinning and heart pounding. Every inch of his body and yours is responding quite naturally to the closeness and desire burning in you.

“DA! DA!” Sigrid, then Tilda, worriedly call after their father above the din of the revelers. Bard pulls away from you, not nearly as quickly as he should, because he truly doesn’t want to let go.

“Where did he run off to so fast?” Sigrid asks, her voice and two sets of footsteps getting closer.

“You should see to them, Bard,” you whisper, followed by a nod toward the fall of sunny ribbon.

He smiles, then smooches your cheek.

“Until later, my sweet blackberry.”

You emerge about thirty seconds after he leaves, so dizzy with love and desire that you can’t remember what you’re supposed to be doing, if anything. The festival is going swimmingly without your oversight.

So you just saunter by the row of various amusements, wares and foods, beaming at seeing the joy on everyone’s faces, and casually taking in the smells: warm bread, toasted walnuts, apple tarts….

Blackberries.

On your neck.

“Do these belong to you?”

Bard is behind you, his husky voice rumbling through your skin and blowing the fine hairs on the back of your neck. 

He lifts something to your face: the half-full bowl of blackberries you had set aside earlier, on a stool near the entrance to the square.

“Why yes,” you say, not turning around. A tremble rolls through your body as he breathes hard against you once more.

“Let’s have a taste, shall we?” he tempts.

Bard walks around you and heads toward another ribbon drapery in varying tones of pink. As soon as he’s right in front of it, he reaches back for your hand and swiftly pulls you behind the veil,  into a narrow alley beside the remains of an old bakery.

Bard plucks a berry from the low bunch, sets the bowl on a discarded cart and brings the deliciousness to your lips with one hand while wrapping the other arm around you.

“The color complements your beautiful skin,” he says, sliding the berry across your lips. “And the shine…so perfect on you.”

The juice squirts as he paints you, and the sight of the little burst makes both of you gasp.

“The slickness,” he moans, tossing the squeezed berry behind him and watching the trickle race down your chin, where it hides underneath for a moment. Then it clings to your neck as it heads south, past your collar bone.

Bard nuzzles your skin, breaking the flow, kissing away most but not all of the drip.

“The nectar. My delicious darling, does the rest of you taste this good?” 

Noticing his juice-covered thumb and index finger, you lift them to your mouth.

“Do you?” you ask, and start rolling your tongue up and down each, encouraged to go a little further and suck on them as his eyes roll back.

The heat you’re both giving off has affected you in ways you’ve never felt before. You feel freer, more alluring, and more daring than ever. 

You slowly release his fingers, and before he can plaster his face back onto yours, he catches the thin, runaway juice stream finding refuge in the plump crevice between your breasts.

“Lover, may I?”

“Oh, ye-”

“DA!” This time it’s Bain, and he sounds much, much closer to the scene than the girls were earlier.

Bard begins to slowly stand back up, his mouth continuing to cover you in ravenous kisses from the top of your breasts back to your lips, where he lingers, savoring them as if he isn’t being summoned by his son.

Bain calls again, mentioning that the coronation committee needs to ask Bard a question.

“Something utterly unimportant, I’m sure,“ Bard says, breaking from you. You laugh as you re-fluff his hair, a tangled mess. “I’ll be back.”

“Am I to just stay here, in the alley?” you ask, unwinding your fingers from his salt-and-pepper locks.  

“Would you mind? In the nude next time, perhaps, and covered in berry nectar?” 

“I thought we were waiting.”

“I thought so, too.” He smiles, winks and blows you a kiss. You open your hands and catch it, actually feeling the kiss in your hands.

This time, you need a full minute to show your face  - and to straighten your clothes - after he leaves you. What you wouldn’t do to be able to remove these suddenly very uncomfortable undergarments.

Oh, Bard would love that, you think as you step out,  peruse the booths, make small talk, laugh with the merchants, feel the sweet heat of blackberry-scented breath on the back of your neck….

“Again! Kiss me again!”

Bard is positively voracious as he blankets your mouth with his. He’s stolen you behind a vine-covered archway on the other end of the festival.

“I promise you,” he breathes between licks and puckers, shuddering in your arms, “if anyone else calls me this time, they will regret it!” He makes his way to your neck.

“YOO-HOO! OH, BARD!” You recognize the sing-songy voice of the woman who gave you the blackberries. “Where oh where is our future king?”

“Probably with our future mother,” you hear Sigrid answer, giggling with her sister and brother.

“About to make a future child.” Bard murmurs as he nibbles your neck and delicately cradles the side of your face with his berry-stained fingers.

The woman calls his name again, and then yours.

Your sweetheart moves away, drops his head and growls. “Now I must make good on my promise. Too bad. And she’s such a lovely woman, too.”

“You’ll do no such thing! She’s the reason you can’t keep your mouth off me.”

Bard lifts his head, revealing a face bright with appreciation.

“OH WELL!” The woman’s voice is louder, but not because she is closer. If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear she knows exactly where you are, what you’re doing, and that she’s trying to make sure that you both hear her.

“I HAD WANTED THEM BOTH TO SAMPLE THE BLACKBERRY PIES I’M MAKING FOR THE WEDDING! PIPING HOT. NICE AND JUICY! THE FLAVOR WILL LAST IN THEIR MOUTHS WELL INTO THEIR HONEYMOON!”

These are the only words that can entice the two of you - hair tousled, clothes rumpled, lips spent - back to the festival. 

  Imagine being Bard’s wife and welcoming him with a kiss as he comes home after a long day of work + Imagine Bard finding out your pregnant with their first child 

Bard holds the thick brown leather-bound book in his hands as he sits on the edge of the bed, leaning forward with his head down. 

Outside the closed bedroom door, he hears the hushed voices of everyone waiting for him, including those of his oldest two children, who are huddled on the fireside bench with their grandmother.

Bard has already looked through the many pages three times, without finding what he is looking for: a sign. Something to tell him what to do with this book of memories, written in your hand. His first inclination is to keep it with you.

But after glancing at his sleeping newborn dressed in the fancy gown you made before her birth, Bard tells himself that he will read just a few more entries again before making a final decision:

11 March

Journal,

I am not certain what I should be writing, so this first entry will be brief, and in all truth, I doubt there will be another.

Mother suggested I keep a journal of my life with Bard. This book is actually her wedding gift. I haven’t opened it since first laying eyes on it on that special day last fall. When I asked why I needed a journal (as I have never consistently kept one before) she said “to remember true love. In marriage, there will be times when you will need reminders.”

This hardly seems necessary. I am reminded of love every day and ni

Bard chuckles, as always, at seeing the last incomplete word, then turns the page:

13 March

Journal,

Sorry, the first entry was interrupted by another kind of entry (yes, my lovely husband has taught me to see things with a naughty mind.) 

Speaking of that handsome devil, he brought home a trout today that he cleaned and I lightly seasoned with salt and pepper, then baked in the wood oven...AFTER one of my signature wet kisses as soon as he walked over the threshold, of course!

Well, it burned, as we got distracted and ended up using our table for another purpose. We dined, just not on the trout.

After airing out our little home of smoke and trout smell, we ate walnuts for supper instead, and were very satisfied indeed.

Bard promises me that every day will be like this.

Until next time,

I am,

~ Loved & Happy

2 June

Journal,

Bard has been so quiet the last week or so. Ever since we strolled past the tailor’s shop and I pointed out all the lovely garments in the window, he seems to be sulking like a child.

Does he think he is not providing for me? Does he want me to find extra work? Most days I work two shifts at the chop house and that is plenty, especially the way I’ve been feeling lately. He stays on the lake so much that he has hardly noticed how sick I’ve been.

I must assure him that there is nothing I want more than our lives together - not jewels, not fine clothing. But he must listen to me and not the doubt in his head.

As soon as this illness passes, I will speak to him at length.

Until then,

I remain,

~Sick as a dog

14 June

Journal,

It is no mere illness.

The town nurse told us that Bard and I are expecting a little one, due next winter.

I am not certain how I feel about this. I am beyond happy one minute, unprepared and frightened the next. Bard and I are only two years out of childhood limits ourselves. In so many ways I still feel like a baby.

Bard is over the moon about the news. He looks at me as if I am Varda Elentári - with complete adoration.

My image of myself is somewhere a little farther down.

That’s all for now.

Until I find my place, I am unfortunately,

~ With child, baffled and scared

1 Aug

J,

My apologies for abandoning you, J. The baby has been fluttering about and there is nothing I can write that will describe how much Bard and I love this.

I no longer feel as young as a carefree child, but I am surely as happy as one.

Signing off with joy,

I am,

~ Walking on air

Bard wipes a falling tear from his cheek and flips through the crinkled pages, stopping at an autumn entry:

3 October

J -

Now I am “up” about the baby, and Bard is down. Not sad, exactly, but he is quiet again. The rounder my belly gets, the happier I become, and the more inward he goes, especially when I start talking about all the things we will need.

We still have four more months to go. I need him to open up to me the way he used to, to hold me in that special way. To tell me naughty jokes!

I am ashamed to say I try to stir him by starting some petty argument. I just want to hear his voice! He does not usually participate in these little battles, but every now and again he will say some quick, dull thing, or write me a note with slightly saucier language. But he never gets angry.

He treats me as if I am made of glass. Sometimes I wonder if our marriage is, too.

Until,

… I’m not certain, really…

you may call me, 

~Glass

10 December

J-

Forgive my large gaps in writing. As we near the birth of our first child, things continue to change. I am glad to say, for the better!

Bard is talking and laughing again. I had feared that the closer my delivery date, the less I would hear from him. But somewhere between then and now, he became his old self, with added passion. Yes, it is possible.

He leaves me breathless and in awe of him, in so many ways. Not just from his touch.

He works long shifts so that I do not have to. He comes home tired and stinking of the lake, but he bathes, changes, takes over preparing and serving supper, cleans up, and rubs my aching feet.

Writing letters to each other, something that started during our little tiffs, has become more of a game between us. Usually it’s just sharing a filthy joke I overheard at work; sometimes it’s a love letter. Sometimes it’s both. I am so glad we have kept this up!

And he talks to the baby, in a funny little voice. He swears it is a boy. I promise him, it is a girl. We have put money on it.

Until tomorrow,

remember me as,

~ the Gambler

4 February

J -

I won.

Sigrid Margaret is the most beautiful creature to ever live. It is not only her perfect features I am talking about, but her sweet manner. Is it odd to say she already takes care of me? My labour was only long, not difficult. Not that I remember every detail! Bard said I became that fabled dragon in the Lonely Mountain when the waves of pain began. I can scarcely remember anything but calling for Bard to help me, and holding Sigrid.

I spent hours just watching her sleep, suckle and sleep again.

Sometimes I cannot believe my fortune. I found true love with Bard; I have found pure love with Sigrid.

She tends to wake just once in the night, right before dawn. After she eats, I put on my robe, swaddle her in the blanket I made for her during one of those new-mother energy bursts (which are gone, by the way) walk out to our landing, and watch the early morning steam rise from the lake.

Usually I sing softly to her. But today her sleepy Da joined us, and held us close to him.

He stared at our child, and asked when we could do this again. I understood what he meant, but you know me.

“What, watch the sunrise? Every morning.” Leave it to cheeky me to turn a lovely moment into a laugh!

He asked again. I think I convinced him that we need to get accustomed to life with our first baby before we create another. And until we make up our minds, Bard has to do what’s necessary to keep his “stream” from trickling into my “canal.”

This made him laugh, and in her sleep, Sigrid did, too. Poor lass. I am already corrupting her mind.

Until later, 

I am happily,

~ a Mother (me!)

Just then, Bard’s mother-in-law knocks on the door and gently calls to him that it’s time to head out for the memorial service.

“One more minute!” he says.

He flips the pages forward, passing your entries about returning to work; Sigrid’s first steps and first words; a silly argument; lots of making up; the news of the next child; your raise in pay; birthday and anniversary celebrations; and the telltale signs of being with child again. He goes all the way to the very last entry:

8 January

Journal,

After years of beginning with simply “J,” writing out “Journal” seems rather formal now, doesn’t it?

Formality often accompanies a farewell, I know. This is not a farewell, but in all likelihood the beginning of a long absence. 

This is the last page of this book, and although someday I will continue chronicling my daily life, we haven’t the means to purchase a new journal at the moment. But most importantly, my life has become more and more hectic keeping up with two children, work, a husband, and soon, our third child.

Our angel is due in a few weeks, and I know that those quiet moments in which to write will become even more rare after giving birth.

So, I am dedicating this last report to myself. Here goes:

Things turned out fine, didn’t they, old gal? Your marriage is not made of glass, and neither are you. Now you understand that Bard grows quiet when he feels down, or lacking in some area, but he is not out of touch. He has never stopped believing in you; don’t you dare stop believing in him. Your children are your light, but not your only light. You’ve lit a few candles of your own. You’ve balanced all these responsibilities with love, a sense of humour, and the occasional scream. All in all, you have done well.

And there’s more fun to come! Be sure to thank Mother for encouraging you to remember love, and thank Bard (with a kiss!) for making that love come true.

One day, Bard, Sigrid, Bain and Matilda - I am so sure I’m carrying a girl, that’s what I’m calling her - may thumb through these pages, and whether they be enlightened, inspired, horrified or amused, may these memories of my life live on.

Until we meet again, 

I am forever

~ Truly Loved

May these memories of my life live on.

Bard doesn’t know why he never saw the words in this way before. It is the sign he has been looking for. 

The journal will not be placed inside your casket today, but left where you put it: under your pillow.

Suddenly, the baby begins to stretch and wail. Bard slips the journal under your pillow, turns around and lifts his daughter into his arms, and her hard cries fade into tiny whimpers. Carefully standing, he gently rubs her back as he walks to the door.