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dogblessyoutascha · 2 days ago

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AND TO END BARDUIL MONTH HOW ABOUT SOME BIRD SONG? @bi-widower-dads

Bard knew many things about elves — things that came only with continued exposure over many decades. The kinds of things that did not make it into the stories. For example: Elvish trances were much like human sleep in the sense that such restfulness was deeply tainted by their mood and surroundings.

"Do you hear them?" The Elven King murmured, barely cracking open an eye to prove to Bard his awareness.

"The squab?" Bard had to take a moment and focus his ears, trying to find a sound beyond the cooing. Pigeons were not Bard's favorite bird, though he still liked them far more than the rest of Esga- Dale. Than the rest of Dale. "Quite the racket, if I am to be honest, my lord."

"Thranduil." The Elven King corrected precisely as he had every time. "And yes. The doves of Eryn Galen sing when they are pleased. Listen closely, as you did the thrush. Only then will you know why."

Understanding the language of the birds was a gift, Bard knew, but he still struggled with it. Yes, the birds helped him slay the dragon, Smaug, but the little song birds had more to lose should the people of the lake died that day. Pigeons... Doves... Squab... Whatever they wished to be called, they were less keen to talk to Bard (and harder to understand in the bargain).

The coos repeated. Loud, clear. Present. "Mates." Bard's eyes opened in surprise when the sounds finally translated themselves in his mind. "They have found each other, and they are happy despite the end of the season drawing near. They will build a life together."

Elven King Thranduil's lips curled into the smile as he stood, a sweeping motion so smooth that Bard's trained eyes could still only catch a fraction of it. With a coo of his own, Thranduil coaxed the pair to him, each dove landing on his outstretched hands. He balanced them there, whispering something to them only he and the birds could understand, before he offered the thicker of the two to Bard.

It was a strange sensation, holding a bird so oddly sized. It was smaller than a hunting hawk and yet much larger than the pretty mountain flocks. Bard hardly knew what to do with his fingers as he tried desperately not to wrangle the beast like an undignified meat bird.

"They will feast here tonight with us, in celebration of their long life ahead." Thranduil declared, his smile unwavering as he slipped in closer to Bard. He was taller and his many layers took up significant space, yet Thranduil's presence was never an intrusion into Bard's own sphere of comfort. "And perhaps, if we are equally as lucky, we will share in their bounty as well."

Bard balked at the thought that the Elven King might eat birds after lying to them, the part of his brain more attuned to the mortals of his land speaking up well before the part that assured him Thranduil would never. Thranduil, who pressed in close enough that his skin found Bard's, reuniting the doves in their possession. "Their bounty?"

"Love."

#dogblessyoutaschart #barduil #bard the bowman #thranduil #bard x thranduil #barduilmonth2025 #dogblessyoutaschwrites

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scary-grace · 2 days ago

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For the "last frost of spring" prompt on the @bi-widower-dads Barduil Month 2025 bingo card . No warnings, modern "au", 1.8k.

old gods

It runs counter to everything Thranduil should be, but it’s always the same – every year of his terribly long life, Thranduil mourns when winter dies. The shape of winter has changed over the eons. Some years, if it’s been mild, Thranduil misses the terrible storms that used to roar down from the north, spat from Angband’s maw. In years where cold grips his small corner of the world from the last day of autumn to the first days of summer, he dreams of warm winds weaving their way through the Misty Mountains to wake the new leaves in their buds. It seems to be Thranduil’s curse, that he is never satisfied with what he has.

Still, Thranduil thinks, as he steps out into what will be the last frosty morning of the dying winter – no matter the length of the winter, its harshness or its mildness, he misses the frost when it leaves.

Thranduil picks up the newspaper off his front step and tucks it under his arm, buttoning his coat against the stiff wind with the other hand. He locks his front gate behind him, although there is nothing inside his home that he would miss if it were gone. It’s the principle of the thing more than anything else, and Thranduil wishes to set a good example for the young families in the neighborhood, all of whom are clearly taken with what appears to be an island of tranquility in the heart of one of humankind’s largest cities. On his kinder days, he admires their optimism; on his crueler days, he’s appalled by their naïveté. Even when the world is kind, it always has teeth.

It was never Thranduil’s intention to dwell in a city. He thought he would wander the woods until the woods withered to nothing. But all of Thranduil’s kin are gone to the Undying Lands, in times so distant that humans have forgotten them entirely, and after so many eons in the woods, Thranduil found himself growing lonely. If someone had told him at the beginning of the Third Age that he would one day choose to dwell entirely in the company of humans, he would have laughed at them. But the Third Age changed many things for Thranduil. Once his eyes were open, he could not close them again.

He sees them everywhere, in every face. It has been so long now, and the world has grown so busy and wide, that every person Thranduil passes on the street might hold an echo of his mortal husband and children. Thranduil has learned to live alongside it. Learned that those he treasured most have not left Arda entirely, and learned that it does not make him miss them any less.

Life in the city can be varied or mundane, and today, Thranduil opts for the mundane variety. His favorite tea shop, the one with the coziest interior and the best pastries, somewhere he can spend all day if he so chooses. He cuts a striking figure wherever he goes, but the staff have long since grown used to him. Thranduil ducks in from the street, leaving the cold behind, and breathes in deep, picking up the soft, familiar scents. Then he steps up to the counter.

The employee who’s meant to be working the register is currently stocking the pastry case. Thranduil is nothing if not patient, so he waits, wondering which of the baristas he’ll encounter this morning. He’s here frequently enough to know them by name, along with a few details of their lives, and he always asks. The manager mentioned some time ago that they had hired a new barista. Perhaps Thranduil will meet them today.

The employee looks up, spots Thranduil through the glass of the pastry case, and tries to jolt upright, only to hit his head. Thranduil expects a curse word. Instead: “Ow,” the employee says ruefully, and an odd jolt drifts through Thranduil’s veins. “Sorry. I’ll be right with you.”

“Take your time,” Thranduil says. “I can wait.”

He does not want to wait. Part of him wants to flee back into the cold, to mourn the last day of winter and everything that’s left him behind in peace. He resists the urge to rise up on his tiptoes and peer over the case, to get a good look at the man crouching there. The man will rise to his feet soon enough, and Thranduil will acquaint himself with what will become another familiar face in a city of millions. There is nothing to fear. Thranduil has lived so long that the world holds no more surprises for him.

Thranduil should have known better than such a thought. The new employee rises from behind the counter, still rubbing his head, and takes his place behind the cash register, and for the first time in millennia, Thranduil experiences a surprise that shifts the ground beneath his feet.

It is not him. He knows it cannot be him. Mortal souls leave Arda behind in death, never to return, and through all the long years of Thranduil’s life, he has met mortals aplenty that have borne more than a passing resemblance to Bard of Dale, Bard the Bowman, Bard the Dragon-slayer, Bard who captured Thranduil’s heart and took it with him when he left this world. At first, Thranduil felt a surge of anticipation and pain at the sight of mortals who resemble Bard, but he discovered a tell, one that dispels every fancy and delusion Thranduil has to the contrary. It is in the eyes. A mortal man may look like Bard. But Thranduil has never seen Bard’s eyes since they closed for the last time – until today.

They are Bard’s eyes, unquestionably. Thranduil could not fail to recognize them, and still worse, the man resembles him, too. Younger, perhaps, than he was when Thranduil met him first, but the same man. Thranduil stares, his heart breaking anew, and Bard looks back. “You must be Thranduil,” he says. “They told me about you.”

Thranduil must choose between finding his feet and finding his voice, and opts for the former. “Sorry,” Bard says. “That sounded bad. It was all good things, really. They said you come in a lot, and you’re friendly – and you tip pretty well – and, uh –”

He trails off. Thranduil decides he can risk a word. “And?”

Bard winces. “And they said you were really hot,” he says. Thranduil cringes. “I don’t know for sure about the other stuff yet, but – they weren’t wrong.”

Thranduil has the capacity for more words at the moment, but he’s unsure which ones to use. “Sorry,” Bard says again. “I shouldn’t have said that. I swear I’m not usually like this.”

“It is early,” Thranduil says. Four words. This is what he has been reduced to. “I have found that people are rarely at their best before eight am.”

Bard laughs ruefully at that, and Thranduil takes the chance to study him in more depth. Bard’s face is the same, and his eyes, and the way he wears his hair, but there are differences, too – tattoos spiraling up his forearms, a piercing in one ear, things that have become the norm in this day and age but are utterly incongruous on the king of Dale. “I hear you, but it’s still not an excuse,” Bard says. “What can I get for you today?”

Thranduil orders his usual on autopilot, and for some bizarre reason, elects to pay cash. Bard’s fingers brush his as he lifts the bills and coins out of Thranduil’s hand, and a spark travels through Thranduil’s veins, igniting a desire that’s grown unfamiliar to him in the countless years since the King of Dale’s death. He studies Bard’s hands, scarred and callused in a way that speaks to harder work than that of a barista. Bard’s ring fingers – both of them – are bare.

“Here’s your change,” Bard says, counting it back into Thranduil’s palm. “You can go ahead and have a seat. I’ll bring it out to you when it’s ready.”

Thranduil nods and retreats on wobbly legs, his steps unusually hesitant. He knows it is not possible, knows that no human soul but one has ever returned from beyond the spheres of the world, and yet he is certain all the same. Bard is here. How is he here? And why? And does the answer to that question matter even slightly? Thranduil knows there will be no answers. Even when he sang hymns of praise and prayer to Eru Iluvatar, he never received an acknowledgment, let alone a response. At his most cynical moments, Thranduil actually believed that his fellow Elves were making it up. For Iluvatar to answer a prayer Thranduil was never foolish enough to make, and to answer it now of all times, would be particularly out of character.

No, Thranduil decides, the answer does not matter. Having the answer will change nothing. Bard is here, and as long as Thranduil continues to return to this tea shop and Bard remains employed, Thranduil will run the risk of seeing him. Thranduil rests his head in his hands and wonders quite seriously if that is something he can survive.

“Here’s your pastry.” Bard sets it down on a plate in front of Thranduil, along with a knife and fork rolled in a paper napkin. “And here’s your tea.”

Thranduil looks down at the tea. “I have never seen foam art in a tea latte.”

“I think that’s kind of why they hired me,” Bard admits. “The boss said she’s thinking of starting an Instagram. Or a TikTok.”

If that is the case, Thranduil will be having a conversation with the boss. He will keep the tea shop solvent himself rather than allow social media to turn it into a destination. “What do you think?” Bard asks, and Thranduil glances up at him. “Of the art. I don’t usually go this concrete with it, but –”

Thranduil sees nothing concrete about it at all – the ghostly shape of an elk very like the one he once rode into battle, a species that has long since faded into history. “Why did you choose this image?”

“I guess it spoke to me,” Bard says. “It was going to be that or a tree.”

“You are an artist,” Thranduil says without thinking, and Bard laughs, startled. “Thank you. It is lovely.”

“Any time,” Bard says. “I’m taking mostly morning shifts – for reasons – and if you come in as often at the others say you do, we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

Of course they will. Of course even the most mundane aspect of Thranduil’s daily existence is not immune to this last surprise the world has chosen to hurl at him, a surprise he welcomes and dreads in almost equal measure. And yet – for thousands upon thousands of years, Thranduil has mourned, grieved, sworn that he would give anything for even another minute with Bard. Now he has had several minutes with Bard, and should he keep to his routine, he will have still more. Thranduil should not be wary. Thranduil should be grateful for the unexpected piece of time.

“Yes,” he says to Bard, allowing a cautious smile to come to his face, his eyes never straying from Bard’s. “I believe we will.”

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#barduil #bard the bowman x thranduil #bard the bowman/thranduil #bard x thranduil #bard/thranduil #barduilmonth2025 #a bisquared production

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