barduil w/ "I'm alive... I can tell because of the pain" đ
Bard traipsed among the dead; among the graveyard that had been made of the mountain. With him, scattered here and there, were other people of Laketown, and several Elves, lifting the wounded from the fallen bodies and taking them to safety. How fitting, he thought sourly, that their new lives would start with such bloodshed; that half his people had to die so the rest could start again.
   His children were unharmed, and Bard knew Percy was somewhere in the infirmary, refusing treatment for his leg, so he wasnât looking for anyone in particular. Just someone breathing, or twitching with remnants of life, clutching desperately to whatever light they could hold onto.
   He certainly wasnât looking for any Elves. Their dead (which had been few in number compared to the Men, Bard noticed no small amount of bitterness) had already been taken, and most of them had fought away from this point, preferring to use their skills on a wider field rather than in the close quarters of the city.
   And yet, Bard saw a curious shine of silver in the corner of his eye. His men hadnât worn proper armour during the battle, so the bearer was likely an Elf, for the Dwarves too had fought on the field, taking the Orcs head-on.
   Bard approached the Elf, stepping over bodies and debris. From the distance, he could not see who they might be (all Elves looked the same to him, anyway), but as he drew closer, he realised that the silver he saw was not armour, but hair. Two familiar swords lay in the dirt, shining in the sun.
   Bard swallowed nervously, his heart heavy in his chest; a weight he was already tired of carrying. Thranduil didnât look dead, but he did look unsettlingly still, sat up against a broken pillar. His armour had been discarded, and with a jolt of fear, Bard saw that it had been pierced with deadly force.
   âThranduil?â
   Thranduil stirred, lifting his head, and Bard breathed a sigh of relief. He came closer and crouched down before him, casting worried eyes over his face, which was pale and grey in complexion.
   âAre you alright?â It was a pointless question to ask, but Bard felt it necessary to assess how much Thranduil could respond to him.
   Thranduil smiled grimly. âIâm alive, if this pain is anything to go by.â
   âYouâre wounded?â Bard said, glancing at the armour.
   Thranduil lifted a hand from his stomach to reveal his blood-stained tunic. He flinched, and then applied pressure again.
   âCan you walk?â Bard wouldnât be able to carry Thranduil by himself, and he was afraid it was too late to go for help. Everyone else who had joined him on the search for the still-living had already begun to leave the square, taking their injured friends with them.
   Thranduil nodded vaguely, and Bard quickly offered a shoulder for him to lean on. Bard looped his arm around Thranduilâs back for support, holding him up. He picked up the swords from the ground, and together they made a slow journey to the infirmary in Erebor.
   Thranduil didnât say anything as they walked, evidently too preoccupied with not collapsing to make small talk. Bard knew he must regret his actions somewhat. He had not come to aid the Men and Dwarves in their plight against the Orcs. Indeed, no one had known they were coming, and it was Thranduilâs grace that had ultimately saved them. But that did not mean Thranduil had to feel comforted by this. Bard couldnât imagine it was easy to sacrifice oneâs people for a cause they did not belong to.
   The infirmary was Ereborâs foyer, among the broken foundations and cracked stone. It was a disquieting sight, but it was dry and warm and Bard found Thranduil somewhere comfortable to sit down again. He was about to call for help, but three Elves were already running over, their perfect faces obscured with distress.
   Thranduil seemed not to appreciate their worry, but allowed them to make a fuss, jabbering away in their own language and lifting up his tunic. Bard didnât understand Elvish, so he wasnât of any help. He started to get up and leave, but a hand caught at his fingers to stop him.
   He looked down. The gesture appeared to have gone unnoticed by the other Elves, but it was clear to Bard that Thranduil had done it deliberately. His hand was cold and shaky, and when Bard looked at his face, he saw only sorrow.
   Bard consented to the silent plea. He sat on the hard floor, taking Thranduilâs hand in both of his own. He wished they were warmer, or softer, but Thranduil seemed comforted by them all the same.
   It was a quick treatment, but it cost Thranduil a great deal of anguish. Bard was admittedly impressed at how calmly he accepted the pain, though his grip on Bardâs fingers did tighten occasionally. His wound was dressed and bandaged and, at the demand of the Elves (most especially by the furious one with red hair), Thranduil was moved to a quieter place with a bed roll. Bard went in to check on him.
   "I do not feel it necessary to give me special treatment when others are in far worse conditions than myself,â Thranduil said.
   "You have done much for everyone here,â Bard insisted. âIt would not do to have you lost to a cause that was not your own.â
   Thranduil smiled weakly. âBe that as it may, I will heal much faster than those who risk losing limbs to infection.â
   "Your people have been working tirelessly to tend to the wounded. Elvish medicine is truly a wonder,â said Bard.
   Thranduil lay back on his pillows, closing his eyes slowly. âIâm glad.â
  Bard wondered if it was simply because he was injured, but he had never seen this side of Thranduil before; a side that cared, and grieved, and listened. Had he always been this way? Bard wanted to believe so. Truly, he thought that Thranduil had the kindest heart in all of Middle-Earth. He was just too afraid to show it.
  âThank you for finding me,â he murmured, eyes still closed, his hands folded restfully. âI was beginning to think no one would. For all the years I have lived, the thought of dying really did frighten me.â
  He paused, opening his eyes now. He looked to Bard, the blue of his irises glazed-over and foggy. He extended a hand for Bard to take once again.
  âIâm going to sleep now,â he said softly. âWill you stay with me?â
   âIâll stay,â said Bard.
