#solsticecountdown2021

——

Bard had actually been the one to teach Sigrid how to sew. Yes, Mina has started her lessons, but had barely gotten through teaching her how to make doll’s clothes with some of their scrap fabric before she’d taken ill during her pregnancy with Tilda. 

Bard had been the one to show Sigrid, and then Bain, and then Tilda, how to mend and sew. It was Bard’s personal belief that anyone who couldn’t mend their own clothes was doomed in this world. 

It surprises him that this surprises Thranduil.

“You’ve never ripped a hole in something and had to sew it back together?” Bard asked, incredulous. Sure Thranduil was a king, but this seemed like basic survival skills to Bard, like knowing how to tie your laces or comb your hair. 

Thranduil doesn’t answer because he’s watching Tilda carefully stitch a flower onto one of her own gowns with silk thread Thranduil had gifted her before Winter truly settled in. 

“Da, he’s been a King for ages. Kings don’t mend their clothes.” Bain says this with a luxurious roll of his eyes, then goes back to mending the rip in his best fitting work pants, patching from. From behind to try and make it less visible. 

“No.” Bard says, smiling at Thranduil’s utter fascination as he looks as Tilda’s stitches, running a careful finger of the cloth she hands him. “I suppose they don’t.”

—-

Later that evening, Bard asks Thranduil if he’s ever seen embroidery before, as a joke, and Thranduil rolls his eyes. Bain had picked up a few things from Thranduil about how to make his eye rolls so dramatic, and Bard could really see the resemblance of technique at times like these. 

“Bowman, you know I have seen embroidery. My marvel is at her age. She is very young to already have such skill. Her teacher must be excellent.” 

Bard smiled. “I like to think so. Then again, I was her teacher, so my perspective may be skewed.”

“You.” This seems to catch Thranduil off guard, which Bard had not been expecting. “You taught your children to sew.”

“Well, my wife is dead. Someone had to do it.” 

Thranduil reaches across the small table they always share during their evening drink and squeezes his hand. It makes Bard feel better to have the contact, and he squeezes Thran’s hand back. 

“You’re such an excellent teacher. Why don’t you show me as well.” 

“A thousand year old elf doesn’t know how to sew.” 

“I’m older than a thousand years.” Thranduil corrects him, and Bard rolls his eyes.

“When you do that you look like your son.” Thranduil continues, and this sets Bard laughing, much to Thranduil’s distaste. 

Hello friends. I’m counting down to the winter solstice. Count with me?

- - - 

Thranduil has been more than kind, more than generous, over the last several days. Bard had brought his children with him to a diplomatic meeting (completed intending for Sigrid and Bain to watch Tilda and entertain themselves in his rooms while he had his business talks) but as soon as Thranduil had seen them, he’d insisted on giving them an Elven guide around the Palace, and the surrounding (still safe) forest. Bard hadn’t known how to turn it down, so he hadn’t. 

That evening, after their first day in the Mirkwood, all three of his children are alight with the joy they found in the woodland realm. 

“And Da, I climbed a tree so high I could see all of the trees at once!” Tilda said, sweeping her arms out to show the expanse that she’d seen. Bard’s eyes go wide and Sigrid cuts in that someone had been spotting her the entire time and she was never in any danger.

His children recount their adventures in the woods and in the palace. Sigrid asks if they can come back in the spring because one of the guides said there was a plant that only lived in spring that had the best fragrance in the forest and she wanted to see it. Bain asked if he could have an Elven bow since Bard’s cast off was getting old. Tilda wanted to have her hair braided like an Elf’s. 

It was a little but overwhelming to say the least.

Thranduil has dinner with all of them. His children behave perfectly, except for the few times Bain and Sigrid start to get into it and the couple of not entirely appropriate questions Tilda asks. Mostly about Elven marriage, which was just… Bard didn’t need that. 

The children retired to their rooms so they could rest for the next day’s planned excursion into the forest, but Thranduil asked Bard to have a drink with him before bed. Bard didn’t feel he could say no, and he didn’t want to anyway, so he let Thranduil lead him to a room that might have been called something different by Elves but looked like a parlor to Bard and they had a glass of wine.

“I trust your children were well taken care of?” Thranduil starts off, and Bard smiled, a little bit wry. 

“They did. I don’t know if I’ll be able to convince Tilda to come home.” He laughed, and Thranduil smiled indulgently. 

“You and your children are always welcome in my woods.”

They chatted about small things after that. Thranduil complained about the dwarves, again. Bard informed Thranduil of some of the more mundane aspects of Dale’s rebuilding. It was a pleasant enough conversation.

And the next several days went quite the same. The children were occupied in the woods or in the palace by Elves who seemed to change off every day, and Thranduil and Bard talked about what ever business needed seeing to and then ended the evening with a glass of wine.

Except, each evening conversation seemed to become more… open. Bard shared stories of his late wife, and the early years of his children’s lives. Thranduil did the same. They mourned with each other over aches that would never really be gone. It was far more intimate than he ever expected to be with the Elven King, though it was not unwanted.

On the day before he and the children were set to leave, Thranduil ends their meetings early and guides him into the forest where his children are waiting and having a picnic lunch spread out on a blanket on the forest floor. 

“Da!” Tilda yells and rushes into his arms. Bard smiles bright as starlight as he sweeps his youngest into his arms and then lets her tell him all about what an incredible day she’s had. 

She leads him to the blanket and he sits beside his children. Tilda is the one who thinks to ask Thranduil to stay, though surely he’d prefer dining in finery. Thranduil graciously accepts and something about seeing the Elven King sitting cross legged on a blanket chatting with his children makes him all the more… something. Bard didn’t really know what exactly. 

Bard thanks Thranduil generously for his hospitality, especially towards his children. Thranduil says that it has been a long time since children were in Mirkwood, and he was happy to do it, and so were his people. 

“I would not mind if you and your children visited my wood again, even without official business to attend to.” 

The cool way Thranduil delivers this is at odds with the heat in Bard’s chest. Thranduil is not against saying what he feels, but any means, but he is often guarded. This is as good as a confession of affection, in whatever way Elves can feel affection for Mortals. 

“I think we would like that. It is a stark change, certainly, from Dale. The company is also rather pleasant.”

This is the closest Bard feels comfortable coming to a confession of his own. Thranduil’s smile makes him think it’s well received.

Hello friends. I am writing things to wait for the solstice. Wait with me? 

This fic is longer, but I loved writing it.

---

Bard has only seen the Elven King a handful of times in his life, and most of them have been in times of war or famine, or something else unseemly. He had always seen the Elven King in a simple, woven metal circles with a jewel set into the center. It was beautiful, certainly, but simple. Practical. That practicality became a part of Bard’s understanding of Thranduil, in fact.

It was not, as it happened, a part of Thranduil. 

Bard makes his first diplomatic visit to the Mirkwood only three years into his Kingship, though to hear Thranduil tell it, it took him two years and six months too long.

The Elven King’s palace was far from practical. It was gorgeous, delicately and painstakingly carved. The Elven King himself was in robes so fine and intricately created that Bard felt underdressed even in his finest clothes. Rather than the singular jewel in the twining metal circlet, Thranduil wore a towering crown of autumn leaves and branches. It was gorgeous, and felt far more regal than Bard’s small, and admittedly Elvish inspired, circlet.

“My Lord Thranduil,” Bard greets the Elven king, and Thranduil smiles at him in that way that really isn’t a smile to anyone who doesn’t know Thranduil. And how strange it is to say he really knows the Elven king.

“Bowman. I had almost given up hope that you’d visit my Kingdom before the end of your mortal life.”

Bard is alone with the Elven King, and so he sees fit to roll his eyes. 

“We are not also so blessed with the stability of the woodland realm, King Thranduil. I have been trying to keep my people safe and stable.”

“Both of which you could have had aide with, if not for your pride.”

Were they really going to have this conversation again?

“Da, you forgot to introduce us.” Tilda said from his side, saving him the trouble of explaining the Thranduil, yet again, the importance of reestablishing Dale’s infrastructure as quickly as possible. 

“Forgive me. My Lord, my three children, Tilda, Bain, and my eldest, Sigrid.” 

“It is a wonder to meet you, Bardlings. I was beginning to think that you were a figment of your father’s imagination.”

“We’ve literally met you before.” Tilda said incredulously, and Thranduil laughed. He did not do it often, but when he did, Bard always found it… nice. Good. That’s it. Just nice. “Your crown is different. Much more pointy.” 

“It is less practical. I’m afraid you saw me last in a time of war. Where a jewel to display wealth was more pertinent than my preferred garb. Come, your things will be in your rooms by now. Someone will show you to them so you can freshen up, and then we can eat.”

Bard noticed, as Thranduil pointed them to their guides, the gigantic jewel sitting on Thranduil’s finger, along with several other intricately ornamental rings. With only his wedding bad, Bard certainly felt under dressed now.

No matter. Bard followed his Elven escort to a room that was near to his children and washed his face and hands for a meal. The travel to Mirkwood was not terribly long, but it did require an overnight stay and a bath would not be remiss. 

“Da,” Sigrid called from his door while he was righting his hair.

“Come in Sig.” 

“Da, do you have a bunch of Elven jewelry in your room, or is that just me?” 

Bard looked confused. “What are you talking about?”

Sigrid rolled her eyes and went to the vanity. “Look, here.” She opened a drawer that Bard had not thought to open because all his things were sitting on top of the vanity, and found quite an array of jewelry. 

“So it’s not just me. Actually, this is way more than I have.” She pulled out a cuff. “And it looks like it’s meant to fit you. Do you think we can wear it?”

“I would not risk it. These rooms are leant to us, and this jewelry might belong to someone who occupies them more frequently than we do.”

Sigrid shrugged. “You can tell Tilda that, because she has her heart set on a fire opal circlet.” And she walked out.

“Sigrid!”

—

Tilda would not be dissuaded from wearing the fire opal circlet. Bard had already started to rehearse his apology to Thranduil, but before he could give it, Thranduil swept Tilda up and spun her. 

“Bardling, you found something to your liking.”

“I think it’s very beautiful. Da said I can’t keep it, but I wrapped all my hair around it in the back, so he couldn’t take it off me.” Tilda said proudly, bragging of her defiance of her father, and technically King, to an elf. May the Valar help him. 

“You can’t? Why not?” Thranduil asked, aiming this question at Bard. 

“It is not hers to take?” Bard asked, more than said. Thranduil laughed.

“They are gifts, Bard. You can take what you like.” 

“That’s very generous of you.” Bard says, waiting for the catch.

“Yes. And of course, I insist you wear this every time you come to see us. I will have our best jeweler resize it for you as you grow if you truly like it.” And there was the catch. A bribe to visit more often.

Well, Bard didn’t exactly loathe being in Thranduil’s company. 

Tilda threw herself at the Elven King with far less decorum than was appropriate of a princess, but Thranduil didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the display, smiling wider than Bard had ever seen him.

“There, there, little Bardling.” He said patting her head. “Take your seat and I will show you Elven hospitality.”

Bard heard Bain ask his older sister if this meant he could keep the ring he’d filched, and Bard sighed.

Hello Friends. Bard can do hair. End of sentence. Count down to the solstice with me.

—

Tilda was not overly fond of the ritual of tying up her hair each morning. She never did it right and it always fell into her face, but if she got Sigrid to do it, by the end of the day her head was aching and she wanted to curl up in a ball and die. Da would tell her not to say such things, but she would dig her heels in about the pain and Sigrid would get snippy and swear not to touch her hair for a week. 

Tauriel is like an angel among elves the first time she braids Tilda’s hair back for her. 

Tauriel is visiting her father on business from King Thranduil, a very high position indeed, but Tilda had been laid up in her bed for the last several days ill as a dog in the frost. She had just managed to stagger down the stairs of their new house, much larger but also much sparser than their home in Laketown to whine for a spot of something, anything, to eat before she definitely completely died and could not be brought back to life. 

Sigrid, who had started acting like Da’s heir instead of like her older sister, slipped back into the all too familiar role once more and excused herself to take Tilda to bed, but Tilda was young, and very sick, and would not return up the stairs she had just struggled so hardly down. She broke free of her sister’s hold and collapsed against her Da, and begged him to let her stay there with him and Sigrid. 

Da had never been very good at telling her no. Tilda feels bad about this, because she knows it’s from all the time their mum spent ill before she died, but she did not want to be alone in her room again. 

Tauriel greets her sadly and wishes her well, and Tilda waves weakly. 

“It is just a bit of cold. She’s already nearly over it if she can worm her way into my business dealings.” Da tells Tauriel, but there is no heat in his voice, only softness and love as he strokes her hair away from her face. Sigrid had helped her wash the night before, but it was already dampening again with her fever.

“That is a very good sign then.” Tauriel smiled at Tilda who nodded and then closed her eyes to rest against her Da. 

Sigrid brings her food, but Tilda is far too sleepy to eat it after coming all the way down the stairs. Sigrid doesn’t scoff like she might if they didn’t have company, but she probably wants to. She takes her seat on the opposite side of Tilda to try and braid her hair back, but as soon as her fingers start combing through her hair, Tilda whines.

“No. You do it too tight, Sigrid.” 

“Your hair is all over the place, and if you insist on being down here-“

“Come sit beside me, Sigrid.” Da said, and Tilda smiled triumphantly even in her waning consciousness. “I will braid her hair out of her face.”

“Da-“ 

“No, come along now. The sooner we do, the sooner w can get back to our meeting.”

Sigrid seems to agree because the hands are gone from her hair and replaced by Da’s. Da doesn’t braid her hair up very often, but he had quite a lot of his own hair, and so he can do it. Sometimes he’s even good at it.

Tauriel and Da talk some more about trade or weapons or something, and Tilda falls asleep against her Da after he plaits her hair down her back. 

—

The next party from Mirkwood includes an Elven healer that will stay there until the next party comes, and then trade off. Bard doesn’t know how to accept this sort of help graciously, but he does his best. Sigrid, suspecting an Elvenking’s fondness for her Da, says nothing.

Tilda, suspecting the same fondness but significantly less wary of voicing it, tells Da that it’s a sign of love from the King of the Woodland Realm. 

Hello friends. It is that lovely time of year where I wait for the solstice. Wait with me? 

----

The elven king laying out in the snow, in not nearly enough layers on has Bard more than a little concerned. In shining white robes he nearly blends in with the snow around him, and that’s only made worse by the thin layer that’s beginning to form over him. 

“King Thranduil. Your kin are looking for you.” 

“It doesn’t snow like this in my woods. I’m enjoying myself. If they need me, I will know it and I will come.” Thranduil turns his head and his eyes meet Bards, catching the former bargeman, now king, quite off guard. “Besides, since when is it a King’s duty to do the fetching? Sit with me.”  

Despite the chill, Thranduil looks quite elegant where he reclines in the snow, watching it fall, catching a flake on his finger and watching it melt.

Bard eventually decides to sit with him, but he’s not watching the snow. 

Thranduil looks over at him again, and he’s smiling softly, amused. 

“Am I that intriguing?” 

“I see snow all the time. You’re how I’m enjoying myself.” 

Hello friends. I have never cared much for canon, and that continues today. I am counting down the winter solstice. Come with me?

---

It’s a silly little ritual. Thranduil pretends he doesn’t know where it’s from, but he probably does. Bard is pretty sure he does.

 It’s not so public as a marriage ritual of Men, nor so permanent as a ritual of Elves, but it is theirs. 

In goblets of wine they poured for each other, all their promises are contained. 

I promise to love you

I promise to treasure you

I promise to move on from you when the time comes

Bard had made Thranduil promise the last one. Thranduil had insisted Bard promise the same. Though Bard intended to love Thranduil for the rest of his life, he made the promise easily enough. If he ever had to, he would move on.

Thranduil takes one glass, Bard the other, and they cross their arms, Thranduil makes it look easy to drink from his cup while their arms are clasped, but Bard obviously struggles. Still, he drinks down the whole thing and manages not to make a fool of himself, and when he’s done, Thranduil takes the goblet from him and kisses him soundly.

Bard is stupidly, wholly content. He had never been happier in all his life. He kisses back his Elf, his King, and he can smell the fresh flowers in his crown. The summer air fresh in the breeze.

Hello friends. I’m counting down the solstice. Wait with me? 

A note on this fic: I don’t like it very much, and it feels very ooc to how I interpret these characters now, but if I rewrite this fic, there’s a good chance another fic will never be written. I hope you enjoy despite that. 

----

The winter will be here soon, and so Bard and his family make preparations for it, right alongside the rest of Dale. Sigrid helps Bard dry and cure fish. Bain and Tilda forage and dry herbs and plants to keep the few rations that they do manage to get over the winter palatable. Much of Dale does the same leading up that second winder expecting no aide from Elves, as they were not yet ready to trade, but were far past needing charity.

What they do not expect, is for the Elven King to ride in on his horse a week before the first storm will hit with a cart of supplies that do not look like Winter rations.

“I heard you made no preparations for a celebration.” Thranduil tells him when Bard is forced to greet him still smelling of fish and salt. 

“This is hardly the time for celebrating. Winter is setting in and we need to be ready for it.” 

Thranduil raises and eyebrow at him like he’s just said something stupid.

“And you didn’t think to call for aide?” 

Bard tried very hard not to scoff, and he nearly managed it. “I seem to recall your aide coming with strings. I didn’t think it would be worth the loss of time for someone to go and come.” 

“You are impossible.” Thranduil dismounts his Elk and still stands above Bard. “Take what provisions I’ve brought. I’ll send another convoy before midwinter. You are still expected to celebrate your Kingdom’s anniversary, even in it’s hardship.” 

Bard does laugh, now. “Are you here to tell me how to rule my Kingdom?”

“Considering I have been ruling mine for longer than you and half your bloodline have been alive, yes, I think I am. You should celebrate making it through hardships. It shows your people you have hope that things will improve.” Thranduil’s gaze is far away for a moment, but his eyes snap back to Bard’s so quickly that he almost thinks he imaged the look. “You will have a feast in three days.”

Frankly, if a feast was the condition of accepting Elven aide, Bard really couldn’t see a reason to say no. 

“Okay. Fine. Three days. I presume you’ll be staying?”