Chapter Text
It started, as things are wont to do, over a bottle of wine.
The monthly meetings had begun as a matter of convenience; in the aftermath of the Battle, there was much to discuss and to organise and to agree, and such issues were more easily dealt with face-to-face. The decision to alternate between the halls of the Wood and the slowly reconstructed Dale was likewise one of utility, and to demonstrate to the people of both kingdoms physical evidence of the accord between them. Bard had suggested it, Thranduil had agreed immediately and it was settled.
But as summer waxed and the days grew longer, the list of things requiring attention grew shorter in turn. Their talk began to wander away from political matters and onto every other topic under the sun, though the favourites were those about which both parties had strong and frequently opposing views. Bard relayed all the minutiae of life in Dale; plans for the rebuilding, everyday gossip and scandal, and the many and varied adventures of his offspring, of which Bain's enthusiastic but often embarrassing attempts to learn swordsmanship were a particular highlight. In return, Thranduil talked guardedly of the comings and goings of Mirkwood, though in truth little changed under its dark branches even after the emptying of Dol Guldur.
Finally, on the meeting before Midsummer's Day Bard brought to Thranduil's halls a board and a set of carved wooden pieces and taught the Elvenking to play Orc and Eagles, and both had to admit that there was no longer anything diplomatic about their meetings.
(In addition, Bard was forced to admit that he was not as good at Orc and Eagles as he had deemed himself.)
As to the wine, neither of them could remember who was responsible for the first occasion, though both would if pressed name the other as the perpetrator, yet it became likewise an expected tradition for the one visiting to bring a bottle or two, the better to prompt political discourse (and, later, to addle the wits of an opponent enough to secure a win in the game of choice).
So it was that, in the half-finished hall of the Lord of Dale, on a mild evening drawing near the end of summer, roughly halfway down the second bottle, Bard said, “It's Tilda's birthday in a month and I still have not done a thing to prepare.”
Thranduil looked up from the board between them, where he had been considering his next move with all the tight-lipped sobriety of a general commanding his army. They had moved on from Orc and Eagles to Gedyr Adh Emlyg, an Elvish game as intriguing as it was fiendishly complicated. At the present moment, Bard had been backed ruthlessly into one corner of the board, and while he had taken several of Thranduil's stronger pieces he'd lost his own Wyvern to his complete inability to remember how Ice-drakes moved. Unless he came up with a cunning plan it would be only a matter of time before he was vanquished completely.
“The years pass swifter than ever,” said Thranduil, and he moved one of his two remaining Champions to threaten Bard's lone Serpent. “I still marvel that you mark them at all.”
“You cannot tell me that Elves do not celebrate birthdays.” Bard was left with a dilemma. The diagonal movement of the Serpent made it one of the more mobile pieces and he was loath to lose it, but allowing Thranduil to pursue it might buy him time to manoeuvre his Ballista into a position where he could break the siege and take down his opponent's High Dragon. It was risky, and the Ballista could be fired only once, but he was running out of options.
“After the first hundred, they begin to remind us that the world around us changes ever as we endure. Some prefer to avoid this.”
Bard could feel Thranduil's eyes boring into him as he studied the board. He suspected this to be an intimidation tactic; if so, it was extremely effective. In the end, he sent one of his Ravens further up the board and left the Serpent to Thranduil's not noticeably tender mercy. Then he looked up and met the Elvenking's eyes. “And what about you?”
Thranduil gave a careless shrug. “A moot point,” he said lightly. “I cannot remember the date of my birthday.” And while Bard was busy looking shocked at this declaration, he leaned over and captured the wayward Serpent, setting it in front of him like a trophy with one long finger resting atop its curved head. “Do not grieve for me,” he continued. “After six thousand of them, the novelty wears off.”
“Six thousand,” echoed Bard faintly. For all that the Elvenking had become something almost akin to a friend, there was yet this great gulf stretching between them, and at times he still felt very young and foolish by comparison. Then he sighed and moved one of his Oliphaunts into the space vacated by his Raven. “Tilda will be twelve.”
Thranduil's brow quirked upwards, though whether he was surprised at Bard's words or his actions was unclear. It was certainly an odd move to stray so far north, for the Oliphaunt could not cross the River running through the centre of the board, and for a moment Bard feared he had erred and exposed his plan ahead of time. But then Thranduil said, with the slightest of smirks, “Twelve? For all her wisdom I had thought her a hundred at least,” and Bard felt himself relax. He was safe for now.
“I should charge you for her counsel,” he said. “A silver penny a word, plus expenses.”
“And I would pay it gladly, even were I forced to relinquish every ounce of gold under my branches.” The rosewood figure of the Champion edged a little closer to Bard's fortifications, while at the other end of the board Thranduil's High Dragon lurked and waited behind the fell shape of the eccentrically moving Ice-drake. Any forces sallying forth now would be met with a swift and merciless death. “There is talk in my halls that they are proposing to crown you. That would make her a princess, would it not?”
“The way she talks, you would think her one already!”
Thranduil's mouth twitched in what Bard was slowly coming to recognise as a smile. “Will there be a feast?”
“If there were, would you come?”
“Would I be invited?” It was ever their way, at these meetings, to answer question with question, sometimes continuing for many minutes until one became so frustrated as to give a straight reply.
“It would please her greatly,” replied Bard. “She is very fond of you.” He looked up just in time to see Thranduil's expression soften, and it seemed such an intimate thing that he looked away immediately and made no mention. Instead, he laid his fingers on the Hare. She was his favourite piece; in open battle she was meek and could capture no piece larger than herself, but she was swift and sure, could cross the River or leap over friendly pieces, and when backed into a corner so that she could not move she could take down any foe—though she herself would be forfeit. She had seriously damaged the enemy Raven population already this game, and he knew Thranduil would not waste an opportunity to remove her from play. So, though it seemed cruel thanks for her aid, he urged her across the board, as though she were looking to cross the River and assault her enemy in his keep, and placed her squarely in the target zone of that wretched Ice-drake. “There will be a feast, at least provided I can organise one and ensure the rest of Dale continues at the same time. Will you come?”
“If you think to distract me with talk of food,” said Thranduil, and his voice had regained its cool edge, “then you have drunk too deeply tonight, though I cannot blame you; it is a fine vintage.” As if to emphasise his point, he plucked the half-empty bottle from the floor and refilled their glasses. “I will come. Indeed, I would organise the feast myself if you permit it. As for your Hare, she has fought bravely, but she is betrayed at the last by her own commander. You have once again forgotten about the reach of my Ice-drake.” Swept aside, the poor Hare was plucked from the board to sit at last beside her lost fellows.
“Not so,” said Bard, and he finally moved the Ballista from behind his second Oliphaunt into the file now cleared of the Ice-drake—and into line of sight of Thranduil's High Dragon. “Yield,” he demanded.
Thranduil hissed out a Sindarin curse which turned into a soft chuckle. “Well fought,” he conceded, and reached out and laid the High Dragon on its side. “I yield, Dragonslayer.”
“I accept your surrender,” granted Bard, “and your aid also. I feel I will need it. Tilda will appreciate it, if nothing else. She will be a fine princess, though I make a poor king.”
“Few kings can boast to have felled a fire-drake. It seems to me that you have more claim to the title than many.” And Thranduil raised his glass. “Leave this to me and I shall see it done.”