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(one)
The first time King Thranduil heard of him, he didn't even know his name.
He was just the Lake-man, or the Bargeman if Thranduil felt like being specific; the Man from a tiny, distant town who came down the river every so often to collect the barrels in his sodden old barge, nothing about him glamorous or even noteworthy. The most extraordinary thing about him was his silence: he barely spoke more than a few words at a time, seeming too distracted for conversation. To be honest, it was more than Thranduil could have hoped for.
At first, he had balked at hiring Men to help with the affairs of his kingdom, no matter how small of a task it really was. An Elf might have done it instead, if Thranduil were one to send his own kind so far outside the borders of the forest, if any Elf would want to leave their home that often. But he wasn't, and they didn't, and so eventually the task fell to the Men. The Men, with their mayfly lives and their greedy fingers, accepted immediately, no doubt because of the money offered.
The Elf King might have held contempt for those who were not of the Firstborn, but he knew to pay well for good work.
The newest bargeman was hired, accepting the offered salary. Thranduil had spent months waiting for him to try to ask for more, to request a taste of the wine, an audience, anything. He had had dealings with Men before, was sure to stay on his guard, preparing for the conflict he knew was going to happen.
Yet as time when on it just ... didn't.
The Man did not cause trouble, was trustworthy, worked hard, and, most astonishingly, stayed that way.
The problem was solved, no further action was needed. Thranduil was able to put the matter out of his mind and did not think on it again.
Not much, at least.
(two)
The second time was entirely Galion's fault, no matter how much the elf denied it the next morning.
Thranduil knew he was far too drunk to be walking around outside. He knew in the same distant sort of way he knew that he should never have encourage the antics of the two stumbling along next to him, but his head was far too foggy from the wine for him to muster up any sort of argument.
After emptying (more than) enough bottles to get them all pleasantly dizzy, Galion had raised his head from where he had been resting it against the table and announced that he wanted to see the stars, for whatever reason. With Feren's enthusiastic nod, Thranduil had only had time to slur a token disagreement before he had been dragged along by the two elves currently walking in a mostly straight line ahead of him, toward the river.
Why the river was apparently the best place to see the sky when there were plenty of clearings around the forest, Thranduil didn't know. He had long ago stopped trying to decipher Galion's drunken reasoning and instead just allowed himself to be swept along. It always ended in entertainment, at the very least.
He blinked and narrowed his eyes. Instead of the dark, cloudy green of the trees, he found himself looking at something smoother, deep and cool and blue - the sky? It must be; the stars were out in full force.
Thranduil wasn't sure how he had ended up lying down, or even when they had reached the river, but Galion and Feren were close and warm beside him, so he allowed himself to drift and simply marvel at the beauty before him. The stars were spectacular tonight. Very pretty. Very star-like. Star-ish. He could see them all, speckling the sky in front of his face. Like glass, maybe, shattered thoroughly enough to scatter like dust into tiny, bright points. It made him sad, thinking of broken things again, so he turned his attention elsewhere.
Galion was pointing crookedly at individual stars, making up names for each one, while Feren loudly rambled on and on about some elf he had met in Rivendell, claiming that he was "...even prettier than you, Thran, it's amazing..." when Thranduil finally swayed upright, trying to clear his head. Something about the river was bothering him; it kept tugging at his memory like a forgotten piece of advice. It was something... some one? ... that he knew he should be wary of, but that didn't make sense. The only person that came to this part of the river was the...
"Bargeman," he blurted, cutting off Feren's tirade. Feren merely blinked at him, but Galion wobbled upright, recognition dawning across his face before shaking his head.
"Should b' fine." Galion waved a hand, nearly swatting Thranduil across tha face before he dropped back down. "Barge doesn't come this late 'nless there's too many barrels for just one trip."
"Nevertheless," Thranduil spoke carefully and was inordinately proud of himself for not stumbling over the letters, "I ... will check. Shouldn't be out here drunk, with oth'r people on the river. Very.." He floundered for a few seconds. "Bad. Very bad. Undign'fied."
Galion grunted his assent. "Just... be careful." Feren nodded, sloppily patting Thranduil's knee and promising to stay alert in case he needed help. They both sat up to watch him go, and Thranduil knew if they heard any sort of noise they would go after him immediately, regardless of their current state, as he would do exactly the same for them.
Thranduil didn't know how he ended up deserving these friends in his life, but he was damn sure that he was going to keep them.
Struggling to his feet, he lurched away, finding his balance after a few uncertain steps. It was possible that the fresh air had sobered him some, but he liked to think that it was his resistance to alcohol that allowed him to walk so steadily. He was fine as long as he concentrated solely on his feet, Thranduil remembered, keeping his eyes fixed downward.
Of course, that was the moment he collided headfirst with someone's chest.
Thranduil nearly missed the exclamation of surprise that came after, as he was almost entirely focused on the sensation of warmth. Whoever belonged to this chest should be proud, he thought as he burrowed closer. It was nice and warm, and the fur-trimmed... coat? Yes, that must be a coat - was soft on his face.
He was still relaxing into the coat - although most certainly not rubbing his cheek against it - when two hands gripped his shoulders and he was carefully pushed away. Thranduil found himself staring into an unfamiliar face (how could it be unfamiliar, he should at least vaguely recognize an elf of his own kingdom) before the same word from earlier occurred to him.
"Bargeman." He meant to phrase it as a question, but it came out more similar to an accusation than anything.
"I - yes." The stranger's face twisted into an expression Thranduil could not recognize. He looked... possibly offended, or was that amusement? "I was collecting the last of the barrels." His voice had an interesting cadence to it that Thranduil did not know if he had heard before. Did all the the Men of Laketown have that same accent? He tried to remember, but was distracted by the bargeman cautiously shaking his shoulders. The Man's hands were so very warm. "What?"
The Man raised an eyebrow. " I said, are you part of the guard?"
"No." He tilted his head. Something about this Man reminded him of someone else, especially in the way he spoke. He was certain he had never met this one before, so why did seem like he already knew his face?
If only his head wasn't still hazy.
"Are you - drunk?"
"Mmm."
"Does anyone-"
"Thra- oh. Bargeman" Galion's voice came from behind him and the Man's eyes flicked toward the two elves that had appeared out of the darkness.
"Bard."
"Hmm?" Thranduil had turned to steady himself on Feren's shoulder, but he did not miss the rather irate way the Man spoke the word.
"My name is Bard, not Bargeman. And you all would be...?"
Thranduil took a moment to convince his tongue to speak Westron. "Feren, Galion, and Thranduil. I apologize for... inconveniencing you." He bowed his head slightly. "We leave."
Taking the hint, Feren and Galion nodded to the Man (Bard, Bard, he said his name was Bard) , very nearly unbalancing themselves, before heading back the way they came.
Looking over his shoulder, Thranduil was able to see the very moment Bard caught on to what had been said.
"Wait... King Thranduil?"
Thranduil resisted the urge to laugh. He may have embarrassed himself completely, but the expression on the bargeman's face almost made up for it.
That face stayed cemented in his memory even as he woke up the next morning. He considered looking into the matter further, but decided it to be nothing, putting the thought away in favor of cursing the effects of the bright sunlight on his throbbing head.
He never should have listened to Galion. Dammit.
(three, four, five)
After that night, it seemed that Thranduil ran into the bargeman every few weeks. Whether he was taking a quiet walk alone, or speaking to his son away from prying eyes, or even moving through the forest with Tauriel to finalize the new patrol routes, he always seemed to come within sight of that same bend in the river where Bard would collect the barrels.
Thranduil was never sure if Bard even knew he was there, as the Man always seemed focused on his task, often looking up to wipe the sweat off his brow. It had been an unusually hot summer, and the sun still beat down, high in the sky.
The bargeman had draped his coat over the side of one of the barrels, taking a moment to shake off the strands of hair that had stuck to the back of his neck. He was wearing a simple tunic and trousers, rough-spun and undyed, the same scraped - up brown color of his barge. The clothing hung loosely enough that Bard's throat and part of his chest was on display, well-muscled from what must be constant practice with the enormous longbow that was always strapped tight across his body...
"My lord?"
Berating himself, he fixed his attention back on Tauriel, who looked confused at his sudden lapse.
"It is nothing." He had been caught off balance and that made him curt, nearly snapping at Tauriel until he managed to collect himself. "Let us go, I believe we are finished."
He forced himself not to look back. Somehow, it didn't seem to help.
(six)
And then the dragon woke up angry.
Afterward, he would try and fail to remember the events in order. Most, he couldn't remember at all.
He knew, objectively, that the forest guards on duty would have spotted the beast first and alerted one of the captains. They would have reported to him, if he had not already heard the roars, the beating wings, and known instantly what was happening.
All he could recall of the beginning of the attack was a deep, permeating dread that seemed to bog down his mind, along with a sense of familiarity. What he had told the dwarf was indeed true: he had fought in the North, could recognize the signs.
A dragon is coming.
Be brave, he must be brave for his father, his ada, brave for his people, who he had a duty to, all of those depending on him to kill it kill the beast that invaded their home with its teeth and claws and burning tongue its fire watch out for its fire watch out watch out
(he can only fight with one eye, now, but he can fight all the same)
He did remember his hand, clenched tight, so tight around the handle of his sword that the edges left marks on his palm when he pried it off.
He remembered shouting commands to prepare for battle, elves streaming around him in ordered chaos, finding weapons, armor.
He remembered when his thoughts turned elsewhere, to Laketown, the waterlogged houses that would burn all the same and he thought of Bard.
Bard, Bard the bargeman with his warm hands and dark hair, his strangely familiar face and the great bow strung across his back.
He remembered that bow, the easiness in the Man's stance whenever he handled it, the effortless way he carried it everywhere, like a part of himself, even if a bow that large would be cumbersome on anyone else.
This was Bard, the bargeman, the bowman, and when Thranduil heard who had slain the dragon, in the end, part of him wasn't surprised at all.
(seven)
It was the least he could do, to help those people forced to leave their homes, even though he knew deep down that it would not make a difference to the others, the ones he had turned away, years ago.
(he would never admit it out loud, though).
The first Man to greet him in the ruins of Dale was the Bowman himself, and Thranduil could see the relief written in the lines of his face at the promise of aid. To his surprise, he felt an echo of that relief when he looked at the Man. He was simply glad, he told himself, to help one in need, one who could greatly benefit his kingdom should a partnership arise.
He watched as the people of Laketown flocked to Bard, trust and respect in their voices as they spoke to him, asking for guidance. He watched, and was struck by how Bard looked so very much like a King.
Like Girion, Lord of Dale, only Bard, as unfamiliar with leadership as he was, would surpass him. Thranduil could see it in the set of his face, the way he held the weight of responsibility on his shoulders the same way he carried his bow: light, easy, like he had done it his whole life.
After all that had happened, speaking formally to each other felt absurd, especially when they were left alone in the tent. Thranduil felt himself quickly relaxing into an easy back-and-forth, the conversation flowing as they discussed trade and defense and everything needed for the coming winter.
(they were both accustomed to this, he understood now, they had both fought starvation and sickness and thrice-damned dragons to protect the people they were sworn to: whether those people be a kingdom of elves or a small family in an old wooden house)
(they would have to fight again in the morning. Thranduil dreaded the coming battle, as he always did, but this time, before the bloodshed started, he felt Bard's warmth next to him, steady and sure)
(eight)
(They drank wine together, sharing memories, sharing a laugh over that night on the river with three drunken elves and a very confused bargeman. Thranduil made Bard laugh again as he told other stories about the trouble he and his companions - his friends- had caused, especially when they were young, gesturing wildly in a way he had not done in so long (far too long).
Bard matched him with tales of raising three children in a small house, of Sigrid's stubbornness, Bain's love of pranks (he had gotten it from his mother), Tilda's insatiable curiosity.
(they both spoke of their wives with sadness in their eyes and smiles on their faces, and Thranduil felt light in a way he had rarely felt since she had gone. He looked at Bard, all warm hands and dark hair, the love in his eyes as he spoke of his own wife, and knew this man understood)
Thranduil hid a smile in his cup for the rest of the night.)