Hobbit Fic: Clothes Make The King (Part 2.2)
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Just as Bard opened his mouth to speak again-of what he wasn't certain-the Elf to Thranduil's right declared, voice ringing, "I, Legolas, Prince of the Woodland Realm, do hereby graciously accept Dale's offer of hospitality on behalf of my lord father, Thranduil Oropherion, and my people, who would honor our friendship and alliance with the Men of Dale for so long as we live."
Legolas smiled warmly at Bard, but the glimmer in his eyes was mischievous. "Elven years being numbered beyond count by the reckoning of Men and Dwarves alike, you and your descendants, may they be many, can rely on our promise, King Bard of Dale." Bard nearly didn't recognize Thranduil's son, who he was accustomed to seeing in dark gear of war, bow and white knives at hand. This Legolas wore luminous silver and white robes, delicately stitched with branching ivy and clusters of leaves, a circlet of silver filigree crowning his golden head. The Elf seemed somehow lighter in spirit, as well, merrier and not so grim, though Bard would be the first to admit they met in unhappy circumstances.
Thranduil turned sharply towards Legolas, father and son locking gazes in a queer wordless, expressionless conversation. Finally, Legolas tilted his head almost imperceptibly, half at Thranduil, half at Bard, and the Elvenking said slowly, "Yes. As my son says, so shall it be." Contrary to his earlier behavior, Thranduil now avoided looking at Bard, intent focus shifted discomfitingly to a point in the air over Bard's head. This confirmed Bard's growing unease that the trouble was him specifically, but he was unfortunately no closer to divining the exact nature of Thranduil's objections to him.
In a fluid motion the eye slid from, Thranduil dismounted, the other Elves following suit. He swept his silvery mantle from his shoulders with a flourish, the long cloak's velvet lining a ripple of flame, and handed it to an attendant who all but materialized at his elbow between one heartbeat and the next. Underneath, the Elvenking was, like Prince Legolas, a figure of mingled starlight and moonlight, clad in a close cut silk brocade of white embroidery on silver, perfect white pearls stitched into curling designs along collar, hem, and seams. The robes fell full-length to the ground, slit at the bottom into four panels that flared as Thranduil spun, revealing the dark gray-green velvet insides.
Bain again bowed and his sisters again curtsied, Tilda wobbling a little. The Elven escorts, led by their prince, returned a salute, right hand over heart and a solemn dip of the head, though with a distinct air of amusement. The Elvenking remained aloof, however, and Bard hurried to speak before an awkward silence could descend. "My lords, with your leave, my pages will guide your parties to where they may see to your horses and thence to the fairgrounds while we three continue there on foot under light guard." Bard hoped he, Thranduil, and Dáin would be able to settle into an easier rapport before facing public scrutiny. And maybe I can find out just what is the matter with the Elvenking, he thought, frustrated. He'd felt Thranduil well-inclined towards him in their dealings prior to the Battle of Five Armies, and nothing in their regular correspondence since even hinted otherwise.
Dáin nodded his acceptance. "I have no objections to doing as you propose, King Bard," he said, "if you'll allow me to first make arrangements with Lord Glóin." At Bard's soft and surprised "of course"-the King Under the Mountain hardly needed to so graciously seek Bard's permission to order Dwarves, Dale's host status notwithstanding-Dáin stepped away to confer with a redheaded Dwarf Bard dimly recognized as one of Thorin Oakenshield's company. He hadn't realized this Dwarf was of high rank among the nobles of the Lonely Mountain but now took careful note of Lord Glóin's face and proud bearing. Perhaps later he might question Bain more closely as to what his son had seen of the workings of Dáin's court.
With a glance at his father, who studied the surrounding hills with unwarranted interest, Legolas said, "We agree, as well. A few moments to assign duties, and we shall be ready to depart." Bard thought he detected a faint note of exasperation in Legolas's voice and was glad to hear he was not the only one who found Thranduil's odd mood vexing.
Legolas's gaze lit then upon Bard's young guards, and he continued, eyes lively, "If I might offer a suggestion, King Bard, our escorts would make better time should your children and pages consent to ride with us. The Elves who are to accompany my lord father would gladly loan their horses to Lady Sigrid or Prince Bain, and none of the rest would mind sharing a saddle."
"Aye, we Dwarves have a couple ponies to spare, too, and would be pleased to take your pages as passengers." Glóin's expression was almost tender as he watched Dreng, Ingvar, and their friends struggle to keep their composure at this unexpected chance to ride such impressive mounts in such an impressive retinue. Bard quickly surveyed his charges and inwardly laughed at the pleading looks cast his way.
"Then I will simply thank you, my lords, and accept this great honor," Bard said wryly, "on behalf of my very grateful party." From behind him came several squeaks of joy followed by a hissing sound, the guilty being shushed, and Bard saw a number of the Elves hide indulgent smiles while some of the Dwarves chortled discreetly into their beards. Legolas leaned in to carry on a whispered conversation with Thranduil, the liquid tones of Elvish blurred together into an indistinct stream barely audible to mortal ears. I had best instruct my own, thought Bard.
He gestured for the children to gather around, all of them suppressing broad grins at the prospect of riding to the festival with the Elves and Dwarves. "Sigrid, you and Tilda are to go with the Elves. Bain, take one of the Elven horses but go with the Dwarves. I'm relying on you two to make sure our guests feel welcome." Bain and Sigrid nodded soberly at this reminder of their royal responsibilities. Bard, though, softened seeing their suddenly anxious faces and, placing a hand each on their shoulders, said, "You will both do well. I know it." He glanced at the Elven and Dwarven escorts where they stood, relaxed and talking amongst themselves, some brushing gentle hands over the necks of their mounts, as they waited for their kings to dismiss them. Many snuck darting looks at Bard's huddle, always turning away with the corners of their mouths quirked upwards. "Our guests seem quite charmed by you-all of you-already." With their longer lifespans, they likely don't see very many children born to them.
"Dreng, Ingvar." The two boys straightened to attention with a crisp yessir. "Split your men"-Bard couldn't help smiling at this exaggeration or at how Dreng and Ingvar puffed up with pride-"into two groups of six, one for each of you to lead and one to escort the Elves, the other the Dwarves. I leave the choice of assignments to you." Dreng, Ingvar, and the others in their small company began eyeing the Elves and Dwarves, both races strange and fascinating, as well as their friends-cum-rivals, and Bard figured they'd fight about who would accompany whom, then end up drawing lots as a compromise of last resort. Just as their fathers would do in their places.
Before his guards grew hopelessly distracted, Bard finished, "When you arrive at the fairgrounds, Dreng, Ingvar, I want you to find Nethir, in charge of the pavilions, and tell him to have the tent we discussed prepared to receive Kings Thranduil, Dáin, and me in ten minutes. Then all of you are dismissed for the duration of the festivities tonight. Understood?" The boys nodded, answering with another yessir as crisp as the last.
And so matters were arranged. Thranduil and Dáin chose two warriors each to guard the kings while their remaining escorts mounted up, this time with Bard's children and young pages. Sigrid rode one of the Elven horses sidesaddle, Bain another, falling back to pace the Dwarves, and two of the older boys took the riderless ponies. The rest rode with an Elf or Dwarf, in total six with the former group under Ingvar's command and six with the latter under Dreng's. Tilda was seated securely before Prince Legolas himself, who she happily chattered at, not self-conscious in the least. The colorful cavalcade, green Elven pennants and dark blue Dwarven banners brightened by the addition of fourteen half bargepoles topped with rainbow streamers, moved off at a slow trot towards the river where the paddocks were located. Bard was left with his fellow rulers. One of whom still refuses to look at me, he thought glumly.
Bard raised a hand to run through his hair, then remembered he was wearing that cursed hat, his fingers tangling in the curtain of beads, which clinked. Feeling Thranduil's gaze fix upon him again, a burning brand, he froze mid-motion, hand half lowered. What did I do now? Bard gritted his teeth and swept his hand out like he'd always meant to. "Shall we, my lords?" He inclined his head towards the path that led to the fairgrounds.
Dáin shot them both an unreadable look, one hand stroking his long beard thoughtfully. With a nod at Bard, he began walking down the path, guards trailing, their sturdy Dwarven boots tromping across the grass. Bard waited for Thranduil to precede him, but the Elvenking stared at him, seemingly sunk in reverie, and finally Bard followed Dáin, huffing a bit and stomping the grass flat as heavily as if he were a Dwarf, too. Trying to track the light footfalls of the Elves was futile, of course. Instead, Bard glanced back when he caught up to Dáin, sighing in relief to find Thranduil and his escorts only a few steps behind rather than the Elvenking rooted in place like a pale tree.
Intent on being diplomatic and, frankly, writhing inside at the imagined torture of walking in uncomfortable silence for ten minutes, Bard asked Dáin, "How goes the reconstruction of Erebor?" Given what he'd heard from Bain, the Dwarves had much to be proud of, and Bard was certain Dáin would relish an invitation to laud at length his people's efforts. Dáin did not disappoint, eyes kindling in joy as he recounted the repair work done on the magnificent halls of old and the new sections of the famed gold mines reopened daily.
"Erebor was the mightiest of our realms after Khazad-dûm was lost," said Dáin, face momentarily grim at the mention of Moria. "And so shall it be once again," he continued, resolute, "the halls of Thráin, first King Under the Mountain, and Thrór after him restored to their former beauty and glory." Bard frowned at Thrór's name, the Dwarf-lord whose love of gold had, as he understood it, brought the dragon to Erebor and Dale. Nor did Thrór's gold do his grandson any good. Seeing this, Dáin assured, with a not entirely mirthless chuckle, "Don't think, King Bard, that we Dwarves are incapable of being taught."
Chagrined that he didn't better mask his sentiments on this touchy subject of the rulers Dáin succeeded, Bard started to apologize before Dáin forestalled him with a shake of the head. "We have learned, though the lesson was costly, the dangers of hoarding treasure, especially that which a dragon has long brooded over. Besides Dale's fourteenth share, recompense paid to the surviving members of Thorin Oakenshield's company, and a discretionary fund for Erebor's annual expenses, plus some minor miscellaneous accounts, much of Smaug's gold has been sent to our kin in the Iron Hills and Blue Mountains, to spend as they will." Bard had no doubt Dáin knew whither went his kingdom's vast wealth down to the last coin. "I deemed it prudent to keep that gold in circulation, and my council agreed." Or was made to, thought Bard, having taken a measure of the Dwarf beside him. He suspected Dáin's shrewd mind was as the finest steel blade in determination.
"Fabled though the Dwarves are for their riches," Bard said, "I think perhaps Durin's folk should win more renown for their wisdom in finances, King Dáin." One of Dáin's bushy eyebrows lifted at this rather cheeky remark, but the smile near hidden in Dáin's bushy beard told Bard all was forgiven. Then, to Bard's surprise, Dáin turned to the Elvenking, who'd drawn level with them and now walked on Bard's left. Whatever fault Thranduil found in Bard, it apparently didn't deter him from using Bard as a buffer to keep Dáin at a distance.
"Word of Erebor's reclaiming has spread far and wide, and those of our people who've long wandered can look towards home at last." Dáin sounded more satisfied with this than with any other news he had to share. "Travelers have skirted the forest all summer but, with winter fast approaching, several large companies from the Blue Mountains would take the forest road." Dáin gripped his broad belt with both hands. "They will be slow and with their families. Is the forest safe, Elvenking?" he asked Thranduil.
Thranduil tilted his head to one side and said, "Safer than it has been since before the shadow fell upon the woods but not without danger. The spiders have been driven south of the road, yet the old fortress is a place of dread still, its master's mark clear though he is fled, and there many foul things dwell, drawn by an evil greater than they." The wizard Gandalf had brought to the Battle of Five Armies tidings of not only a host of orcs and goblins, then slain, but of an assault on the Necromancer's stronghold in southern Mirkwood. Bard did not envy Thranduil such a dangerous neighbor.
"Could you not, King Thranduil, provide guides for the Dwarves?" Bard suggested, hesitant to put Thranduil in a position where he'd have no choice except to make Dáin an offer he didn't necessarily wish to. "I would volunteer the services of Dale's foresters," he added to Dáin, "but Men are no match for the Elves in woodcraft, and none know this forest better than the Elvenking's wardens." Thranduil's eyes raked him from head to toe, and Bard bit the inside of his cheek, fearing he'd presumed too much. He could feel his spine stiffening under the intense scrutiny, not hostile but not exactly friendly either.
It was with relief that Bard heard Thranduil finally say, "The Elves would not deny aid to travelers who mean no ill, if the Dwarves ask it of us." Though this was addressed to Dáin, Thranduil continued to watch Bard, who wanted to squirm like a worm on a fishhook. The Elvenking's gaze was sharp but not focused on Bard's face for some inscrutable reason, as if Thranduil could shear Bard of all royal trappings with his eyes alone. Does he find me unworthy of my finery? thought Bard. He fingered the chains that fastened his short cape where they hung low across his chest, heavy with gold and amethysts.
"That would be a welcome kindness, aye." At Dáin's voice, Bard realized with a jolt that he'd been staring at his feet. His head jerked up to see that he was beginning to lag behind. He cursed silently and quickened his steps.
At least Thranduil's attention was on Dáin as they arranged for Elven scouts to meet the Dwarves at the forest's edge, Dáin agreeing to command his folk to make this leg of their journey together in one party if Thranduil would send three full patrols to act as escorts. Thranduil refused to divert so many of his forces from defenses elsewhere-there were several reports to confirm of spider nests that had escaped this summer's offensive-but he and Dáin compromised on two patrols, slightly understrength due to last year's casualties, then moved on to haggling over the dates. Dáin pushed for earlier so that the Dwarves may reach Erebor before the snows while Thranduil wanted later for more time to carry out raids on the spiders, even the Elves unwilling to risk battle in the deep of winter as, despite being largely immune to the cold when hale, injury made them vulnerable.
The negotiations grew heated, neither side giving quarter. Bard worried that his people's first impression of Dale's closest allies would be the Elvenking and King Under the Mountain arguing. The fairgrounds were in clear view, a hive of activity. Figures gathered on the slope facing them; they'd been spotted.
"Why not winter in Laketown?" Bard asked Dáin during a lull in the debate. "Or if the company doesn't wish to delay there until spring, wait out the first storm of the season only and resume the journey to Erebor after." The early December snowfalls were typically light and broken by weeks of relatively mild, if chilly and overcast, weather.
Dáin considered this, one hand again stroking his long beard thoughtfully. "I've heard that the town's removed farther northward up the shore. Beyond this, we Dwarves know little of the Lakemen's doings." He eyed Bard. "A share of Dale's treasure goes to the rebuilding of Esgaroth." Bard nodded cautiously, though it was not a question, starting to suspect he'd put one foot in a trap with his unsolicited advice. "Do you not work closely with the Master?"
With a grimace he tried to smooth into a more neutral expression, Bard said curtly, "Yes." He and the Master had never been boon companions, but over the years, they'd reached an uneasy understanding: he would remain the Master's loyal servant, not aspiring to any higher station, provided the Master did not overtly abuse his power. When Smaug died by Bard's hand, however, so, too, did his chances of maintaining even a facade of amicability in his dealings with the Master. He glanced at Thranduil, who studied the growing crowd set to greet them with disinterest, and wondered if the Elvenking knew that his joining the march on the Mountain had not initially been by choice.
Bard gritted his teeth against the memory of his anger at having his claims bartered away by the Master without so much as a by-your-leave. He had not wanted to part so soon from Sigrid and Tilda, fear for them slow to release its grip on his heart after learning of how they'd fared in his absence from Prince Legolas, nor had he wanted to take Bain with him into dangers unknown before the gates of Erebor when his son had already braved dragonfire and lived. But the Master gave him no recourse.
"Is your ambition not to restore Dale to its past splendor? Are you not being hailed by all as king?"
"That may be so, Master, but winter is almost upon us, and there are still preparations to be made. Dale can wait, as it has for generations. Even the wealth of the Moun-"
"You were quick enough to issue orders in my name, inviting the aid of the Elves. I have but returned the favor, on behalf of the now stricken people you've ever sought to champion. You did not imagine that the Elvenking's largess would be without price, did you? Best you mind your duty to them, if not to me, Bard Dragonshooter."
There was some wisdom in the Master's words, Bard grudgingly admitted, but he couldn't forget the bitter twist of the Master's mouth, his tone at once mocking and envious. Bard knew then that his days in Laketown were done. The Master would tolerate no usurpers, and Bard did not mean to be one. In their last, brief meeting, it'd been impossible to convince the Master that he was not intentionally stirring up dissent against the Master's rule with his call for men to follow him to Dale.
Shaking his head sharply to silence the Master's remembered voice, Bard said, "I suppose you want me to arrange matters with the Master?" Hard as it was to read Dáin's face between his jutting brow and immaculately groomed beard, Bard was nevertheless left with the distinct sense that Dáin was no stranger to the Master's contentious ways, contrary to his professed ignorance of happenings in Laketown. He, in fact, seemed the slightest bit apologetic.
It is mine own idea, Bard thought with resignation, and so he nodded, fighting the urge to sigh. "I will see to it." The Master had declined his invitation to the festivities, sent as a formality, citing poor health, but Bard did not doubt that many others from Laketown would come. Surely, he could find a trustworthy messenger among them? Or else dispatch one as usual with the next shipment of gold downriver, if time wasn't too short. The Master tended to respond to errand riders with shrill accusations that Bard infringed on Esgaroth's sovereignty by pressing his demands with unwarranted haste. Just as well the Wilderland is at peace. While he'd kept his focus on Dáin, he again felt Thranduil's assessment, as keenly as he would've a knife held to the nape of his neck, point barely grazing the skin. For the most part. "If you could tell me how many are expected and when?"
"Once I receive word from Lady Dís of the company's departure," Dáin promised. A tall man-Nethir, Bard was pleased to see-stepped forth from the onlookers, hands wringing his hat. Nethir was an able organizer of tents and everything that could be in them, people included. Formerly a quartermaster in the Laketown guard, he still worked with military haste and precision, as if he were preparing an army to march on the morrow, but was nervous in what he deemed high society. Despite Bard's efforts to put the man at ease, that meant him these days, too. "Elvenking," Dáin said, turning to Thranduil, "have you any objections to this?"
"None." Thranduil drew his answer out, the sound of it stretching insouciantly; his eyes never strayed from Bard, who tensed. Reminding himself that it'd be impolitic to punch the Elvenking in his haughty nose before half of Dale, Bard forcibly relaxed and resolved to ignore Thranduil until they could speak in private about whatever he had done to merit such ill regard. Gaze sweeping over their audience, Thranduil added, tone mild, "I suggest that further conversation be kept from untoward scrutiny."
More an order than a suggestion, thought Bard, irked, though he and Thranduil were of the same mind on this at least. "Of course," he said, jaw tight. "I've made arrangements for us to take refreshment and counsel, my lords, before the welcoming feast tonight." Their four escorts fanned out wordlessly with surprising coordination to keep the curious townsfolk, quiet except for some awed murmuring, at bay. He beckoned to Nethir.
The other man had been hovering anxiously on the perimeter watched by the Dwarven guards in front but now shuffled closer with a weak "sire." Sweat beaded on his brow, which he mopped with his hat. His eyes, whites a stark contrast to his skin, darted back and forth between Dáin and Thranduil. He's going to worry himself into a panic. Bard hastily gripped Nethir's shoulder and, smiling in what he hoped was a comforting manner, commanded, "Lead the way, Master Nethir." Not until Nethir nodded shakily did Bard release him, giving his shoulder a quick parting squeeze. Their progress across the fairgrounds was uneventful, to Bard's relief, even if Nethir walked as though on wobbly stilts whenever he recalled who followed him.
Semicircular arbors had been raised around the broad, flat green atop the largest of the three connected knolls chosen to host Dale's guests, which together formed a wide angle that opened towards the river. Men on ladders were hammering the final nails into the simple but sturdy wooden frames. Others spread rectangular awnings in the spaces between the overhead beams; the red, blue, and green banners dipped down at staggered intervals from their anchored rope stays. Below were arrayed dozens of trestle tables and long benches. Women and children scurried amongst these with clattering stacks of dishes and sloshing buckets of water; they wiped clean every horizontal surface and readied serving tables, already laden with baskets of fruit and casks of cider, ale, and wine.
Impressed, Bard glanced speculatively at Nethir's too stiff back. When he granted Nethir a free hand to build with the carpenters some structure to shade the tables, he'd expected a more utilitarian result, not this roof of billowing waves of color, slices of sky reaching inwards from the outer edge. He caught glimpses, too, in the milling activity of a trio of women with a tall hooked pole unhurriedly hanging white paper lanterns in a curving row along the length of one arbor. Not yet lit, the rounded lanterns would bathe the tables, each with its own brighter candle centerpieces, in a diffuse glow come dark.
No doubt there are also less sightly oilcloth tarps nearby, Bard thought fondly, in case of rain or snow. He was proud of his people's ingenuity-their artistic flair, which he appreciated far better when not directed at him, and their pragmatism, in matters that didn't involve kingly commissions.
Beside him, Dáin surveyed the scene of productive industry with a glint of approval in his eye. Feeling strangely paternal, Bard ducked his head momentarily to hide his smile. Thranduil's face, meanwhile, showed no change in expression, but the straight line of his body softened indefinably at the look of the arbors.
Which, Bard abruptly realized, resembled in rough form a stand of thin trees, branches interlocked above. Though no seating had been reserved, he wondered if the Elves might not be more at home beneath a green awning-one in particular was of a sheer fabric, patterned so the light that shone through dappled the ground-and planned to speak with Nethir about it. After my council with Thranduil and Dáin, he decided. Bard did not intend for their talks, unofficial in deference to the occasion, to last until supper began at dusk.
The path Nethir led the royal party on skirted the arbors at an almost inconvenient distance. Bard could only assume Nethir wished not to tempt his small army of workers with distraction, given the pointed glares he sent at any man, woman, or child-and there were many, Nethir's scowls in vain-who dared stop to gawk at the Elvenking and King Under the Mountain.
Even less cowed by Nethir's temper were the children playing on the grassy hillside. The troupe of a dozen or so boys and girls, all too young to reliably do chores but old enough to slip the leash of parental supervision, abandoned the pastime of rolling giggling down the gentle slope for the much more interesting challenge of stalking Dale's visiting dignitaries. Fortunately, their shadows were content with crouching behind piles of firewood to spy on them. The Elves and Dwarves found this utter lack of subtlety amusing, if the studied way they managed to always miss catching the culprits in the act was anything to go by, but may not be as willing to humor a tackle to the knees or barrage of impertinent questions.
Finally, they arrived at their destination-a group of tents in muted sunset colors that closed the semicircle of the arbors. Dominating the center was a large pavilion, one whole side left open facing the green with its firepits to reveal a richly appointed interior: a floor carpeted in layers of plush rugs and furs; walls draped with tapestries, a couple of which, depicting the valley before the coming of Smaug, had surely been salvaged from the ruins of Dale, dusted off, and restored; three long banquet tables arranged in a half square, laid with an elaborate silver service upon pristine white cloth, gold candlesticks and crystal glasses glinting. Belatedly, Bard recognized the silverware as his.
Nethir, however, brought them to one of the less conspicuous adjacent tents. He held the flap for them to enter, teeth worrying at his lower lip, while their escorts took up guard positions in the surrounding area. Motioning for Dáin and Thranduil to precede him-both acknowledged Bard as they passed, the former with a brief nod of thanks and the latter with a stare that had his skin itching-he drew Nethir aside with a hand on the other man's shoulder.
"You've done well," he said as reassuringly as he could after years of practice soothing the hurts of three children. "None could ask for a finer setting. Or a more festive one." His gaze went to the streamers in every shade of the rainbow heaped next to the tent, most strung across the tops of posts double his height that would, if Bard were to guess, mark off space for dancing. Several of the musically inclined men were coming with their instruments and probably greater enthusiasm than skill.
"Truly, my lord?" Nethir's hesitant smile was a mirror image of a younger Bain's, though Nethir was a man grown. With some of his tension lifted, Nethir's exhaustion showed more noticeably. Bard frowned at the web of wrinkles, hairline cracks in the skin, about Nethir's eyes, fearing he'd not slept at all the night before, mind consumed with accounting for the innumerable details and contingencies. In the last year, that feeling had certainly become familiar to Bard.
"What's been demanded of you is perhaps too much for any one man," he apologized, thinking that he'd have to hire an Alfrid of his own sooner rather than later to share in such duties. Nethir opened his mouth to protest, brow creasing, but Bard forged on heedlessly. "Though you've surpassed my every expectation, I would not burden you beyond what is right and proper. I know you still have many tasks to see to, that I've no doubt you'll carry out with dedication. But afterward, Nethir, put aside your worries and enjoy the fruits of your hard labors." The corners of his lips quirked up. "You've more than earned an evening's rest."
"I shall, sire," vowed Nethir, the words slow and contemplative. There was a sudden spark of insight across his expression that made Bard wary. He squinted at Nethir suspiciously. "You ought to listen to your own advice, Your Majesty, if you don't mind me saying so." And with that parting remark, Nethir bowed, flashed him a cheeky grin, and left for the arbors. Bemused, Bard joined Thranduil and Dáin in the tent.
His guests had helped themselves to the refreshments at the center of the round table-cider, ale, and wine, a silver pitcher of water, and a steaming pot of tea. Bard poured himself a glass of shade-cool water, with an inward chuckle at the mug of cider before Dáin and the delicate teacup Thranduil drank from, slim fingers curled as gracefully around the handle as the enameled flowers, red and blue and gold, around the porcelain.
Taking a seat that faced Thranduil and Dáin both, Bard was pleased to see on the table a thick sheaf of parchment, a bottle of ink and quill; at the top of his agenda was scheduling the shipments of additional supplies, mainly foodstuffs, from Erebor and the Woodland Realm, which he would prefer not to have to commit solely to memory. A lit lantern hung above, supplementing the sunlight that seeped through the tent fabric. Pushed to one corner were chairs for the banquet tables in the large pavilion and, leaning against these, Master Fastolf's golden platters commemorating Smaug's demise. He hoped Dáin and Thranduil had not noticed those.
For a moment, Bard floundered, unsure how to proceed. He sipped at his water until his throat wasn't quite so dry, then, after a few fortifying breaths, decided that the courtesies had been observed already and commenced with business. "How many more of your peoples plan to attend the festivities, my lords?" he asked.
Between the celebration tonight and the farewell feast two weeks from now, Dale would host a farmers' market and traders' fair, followed by a series of games ranging from archery to horseshoes. The grassy fields around the knolls had been divided into lots, all of which were spoken for, quicker than anyone anticipated, by artisans showcasing and selling their wares. The vendors were mostly local Dwarves and Men, but among them were also some Elves and merchants traveling from distant Rhûn.
Meanwhile, the arbor tables would be cleared to display produce, with stalls and benches on the slopes and other two hills for extra space as well as seating. Courses for the foot and horse races were marked with white flags, the latter fording the River Running twice in the shallows at the base of the Mountain as it looped around the valley. Locations and times for the majority of the events had yet to be determined, however, weather permitting. There was no lack of eager competitors despite this. Whether the participants, not to mention the spectators, would remember that they were engaged in sport, not war was another matter. Granted, Bard judged that the chances of the ring toss or apple bob ending in bloodshed were vanishingly small. Now, the wrestling...
"Nearly all of Erebor," said Dáin. Luckily, before Bard's alarm could balloon into panic, Dáin continued, "With the exception of the metalsmiths who would not leave their works untended in the fields, I've commanded my people to return to the Mountain come midnight. Dale will not have to find accommodations for any Dwarf, and we shall present ourselves in the mornings with full stomachs." Bard tried to mute his relief at hearing this but was not entirely successful. He felt sheepish at Dáin's raised eyebrow. "You wish to know what provisions we will bring and when?" Nodding, Bard reached for a sheet of paper, dipping pen in ink. "The lords of my council will lead in turn predawn supply trips every two days, starting with Lord Balin the day after tomorrow. Flour, salt, and sugar we have in great quantities, purchased by our kin from the Iron Hills in the months following the battle and stored ever since. Cheese also and cured meats we can..."
As Dáin listed what the Dwarves could send, Bard dutifully wrote it down, head bent low over the parchment. Though the butter, kept chilled underground, and mead especially would be much appreciated, they were short on greens and fresh game, which Thranduil had earlier agreed to ship up the river, eggs, milk, and honey. The beaded curtain dangling from his hat touched the table, coiling and jouncing about as he rubbed his forehead with the back of one hand. Laketown was the only source of more eggs and milk in the vicinity, supposing the Wood Elves had honey to spare or could at least contact Beorn on Dale's behalf. Bard did not look forward to negotiations with the Master.
There was plenty of everything else, he figured, including enough barrels of pickled fish that they could serve nothing but for three to four months. No danger of starvation this winter, he thought wryly, unless men born and bred on the waters grow too weary of fish to eat it. A possibility Bard counted as a deal less likely than the dragon swimming up from its grave to claim vengeance on him.
"I'll need to see how our stores stand," Bard finally said, looking up from his scrawled tally of supplies, the beads on his hat swaying and clinking with the abrupt movement. "But I should have a fair copy of the delivery schedule for you before you depart tonight." Dáin grunted congenially, head tipped back as he quaffed cider.
With a smile for the apple growers and cider mill runners, who'd been so anxious that their goods meet with royal approval, Bard turned his attention to Thranduil and was surprised to find him quietly, deliberately drumming his fingers on the table, a slight grimace twisting his face. Why is he in such a foul mood? Bard hesitated, then gathered his courage. "Elvenking, if you could conf-"
"I have a proposal for you, Bard of Dale," Thranduil interrupted. No titles, Bard noted, setting down his quill before he snapped it in half. "Let us adjourn-"
"What?" cried Bard, unable to stop himself. They had barely even begun to discuss arrangements to keep Dale and her guests fed, housed, and entertained for the next two weeks. And the Elves posed the more difficult challenge, coming as they were from too far for day trips. Gilvagor had assured Bard that his people would bring their own shelter or else sleep with only the stars overhead, but the current plan was to convert the large pavilion for use by the Elvenking and his son until the farewell feast.
Thranduil spoke over him as if Bard were a buzzing fly, distracting and annoying but ultimately inconsequential. "-until you are clothed more fittingly." Pale eyes raked his form again, narrowing in distaste as they lingered on his hat. "This is not how one of your stature should be attired."
Bard gaped. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dáin bury his face in one hand, groaning and mumbling something uncomplimentary about Elves, Men, or both probably. Of all the...! Not in his wildest imaginings had Bard guessed that Thranduil would hold so, so... frivolous a matter against him. Thranduil was not done faulting his style of dress either, cutting words so smooth and sure the Elvenking must have been silently rehearsing them, but Bard's awareness of anything except the roaring rush of blood in his veins had dimmed.
"Since my appearance is 'an insult to your senses,' King Thranduil," Bard said, tone polite and each flat syllable carefully enunciated, "I shall remove myself henceforth from your presence." He had stood without realizing it, though he could vaguely recall slamming his hands against the tabletop, where they curled into trembling fists, palms stinging. He burned with humiliation, with anger that flared hotter the longer he was forced into company with the Elvenking and his bland reserve, unfazed even now. Suddenly fearful that he'd suffocate-his heart thudded behind his ribcage, his breath rasped in his throat-Bard ducked stumbling out of the tent, dazed, the late afternoon glare a lancing pain through his eyes. His head ached, and he felt bruised.
"Sir?" Dreng was waiting outside with Ingvar. "Are you..." He gulped. "D-Do you require something?" The question was tentative, almost scared. Bard watched blankly as Dreng fidgeted, exchanging a nervous glance with Ingvar, and thought that he must seem a mad fool. A mad fool in motley, more jester than king. From within the tent, he heard Dáin's voice, sharp and clipped, rising in volume. He did not wish to stay until he could understand what was being said. About him. His stomach churned.
Ripping off his lacy collar with a snarl-he was glad to be rid of it, at least, the damnable choking hazard-Bard threw it at a shocked Ingvar, who fumbled to catch it, and gritted out, "You're dismissed. Both of you. All I require is some peace." The Elven and Dwarven guards stared blatantly, curious and alert, as did the children they'd been amusing-the same troupe that had so inexpertly spied on them, shyness overcome. Bard's skin crawled with the knowledge that so many eyes were upon him; he felt stripped naked by them, his flesh bared and slowly peeled from his bones. I could hardly have made a worse impression if I'd worn nothing at all, he concluded bitterly. Though, as soon as the notion crossed his mind, he admitted to himself its absurdity, born of the writhing mass of emotion that lodged in his chest. He could not stay. His instincts screamed at him to flee, away to some dark and secluded place so he might lick his wounds alone like a beaten dog.
His feet began striding between the tents towards the back slope without conscious decision. Behind him, his name was called, prefaced by the titles he'd never been less deserving of, but he ignored it, skidding down the hillside, taking little care for dignity or decorum, only haste. He headed in the direction of the river and wooded outskirts of the fairgrounds. No one followed. A very small mercy, that, to be spared the concerned pity, however well meant, of subjects and guests alike. Still, Bard was grateful, the taste of failure sour on his tongue.
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Since I'm no fashion designer, in dressing Bard, his children, and his young guards, I relied on real historical and traditional costumes. In keeping with the film's Venice on the Volga concept, the people of Laketown wear clothing that's either perfectly fit for a Renaissance Faire or vaguely Russian but, to my eye, with additional Himalayan and Mongolian influences. So, I thought, why not have Bard et al. adopt the styles of the Far East?
There could conceivably be an analog to the Far East in Tolkien's world past Rhûn, Khand, and Harad, on the shores of the eastern sea perhaps, where Men first awoke. Far Eastern costumes and those of southeast Asia, as well, would strike the inhabitants of Middle-earth's western lands, whose tastes are generally medieval, as bizarre enough to fill the prompt without stretching credibility too much by being absurdly impractical. Thus, Marcus Pokeberry is intended as an expy of Marco Polo, whose account of his travels in central Asia and China so inspired the early European explorers, Columbus among them. (Headcanon: The Edain never developed a similar interest for fear of Mordor and Sauron's dominion over the eastern peoples.)
Bard's hat is one famously worn by the Emperors of China (left), chosen for the fiddly dangling bits that I figure would drive Thranduil, with his sharper senses, mad as Bard hasn't the training in court etiquette to keep his head still. Bard's pants and coat are inspired by the clothing of the Japanese samurai: split hakama, skirt-like trousers, and jinbaori, usually hip- or thigh-length kimono jackets worn over armor that I've done in western fabrics and extended for Bard to wear as robes. The overabundance of bling fastening Bard's short cape is a nod to the Indian Maharajas' fondness of bedecking themselves with garlands of jewels for photographs.
Bard's lacy collar is called a ruff (right), popular in Europe sometime in the 16th and 17th centuries. His shirt, vest, and cape are likewise western in style. As for the embroidery on Bard's vest and cape, think Rococo. My basic idea's that none of Bard's garments alone is really all that unfashionable, but it's the mélange of clashing sensibilities that makes his outfit as a whole a bit of an eyesore.
The ensembles of Bard's children and his honor escort don't have this problem of cohesion, being drawn primarily from a single culture each. Sigrid and Bain's clothing is Indian, notably her sari and his turban. Tilda is in traditional Korean dress, called hanbok, but her headpiece is Mongolian in origin. Dreng, Ingvar, and friends are in hanbok, too, specifically the modernized look most often featured in South Korean television serials (left). Their hats, I believe, would've marked them as soldiers in the feudal Korean army.
Nor is anybody else's color scheme quite as unfortunate as Bard's, though together the group spans the entire rainbow. I chose purple and yellow for Bard's clothes because both have been favored by emperors-Roman and Chinese, respectively. Just not in combination, though I don't think these colors look bad together per se, so much as being too overwhelming for Elven senses with the multiple layers and elaborate needlework I describe.
Finally, I've modified all the clothing to accommodate Dale's colder climate. Sigrid, for one, is not baring her midriff, as is common among the sari-clad young women of India and southeast Asia. Long sleeves and heavier fabrics are preferred, and some of the outerwear is lined and trimmed in fur, everything layered atop woolen undergarments. Also, boots, not sandals. Hopefully, these mismatched costumes come across as humorously and/or horrifyingly eccentric, especially to Elven eyes, but still plausibly fashionable and suitable as court attire to the Bard(l)ings.
Bonus Color Palettes
Bard Cape Sigrid Sari Tilda Tunic Coat Dress Dress Tabard Vest Bain Turban Guard Tunic Shirt Tunic Shirt Pants Pants Pants
Just as Bard opened his mouth to speak again-of what he wasn't certain-the Elf to Thranduil's right declared, voice ringing, "I, Legolas, Prince of the Woodland Realm, do hereby graciously accept Dale's offer of hospitality on behalf of my lord father, Thranduil Oropherion, and my people, who would honor our friendship and alliance with the Men of Dale for so long as we live."
Legolas smiled warmly at Bard, but the glimmer in his eyes was mischievous. "Elven years being numbered beyond count by the reckoning of Men and Dwarves alike, you and your descendants, may they be many, can rely on our promise, King Bard of Dale." Bard nearly didn't recognize Thranduil's son, who he was accustomed to seeing in dark gear of war, bow and white knives at hand. This Legolas wore luminous silver and white robes, delicately stitched with branching ivy and clusters of leaves, a circlet of silver filigree crowning his golden head. The Elf seemed somehow lighter in spirit, as well, merrier and not so grim, though Bard would be the first to admit they met in unhappy circumstances.
Thranduil turned sharply towards Legolas, father and son locking gazes in a queer wordless, expressionless conversation. Finally, Legolas tilted his head almost imperceptibly, half at Thranduil, half at Bard, and the Elvenking said slowly, "Yes. As my son says, so shall it be." Contrary to his earlier behavior, Thranduil now avoided looking at Bard, intent focus shifted discomfitingly to a point in the air over Bard's head. This confirmed Bard's growing unease that the trouble was him specifically, but he was unfortunately no closer to divining the exact nature of Thranduil's objections to him.
In a fluid motion the eye slid from, Thranduil dismounted, the other Elves following suit. He swept his silvery mantle from his shoulders with a flourish, the long cloak's velvet lining a ripple of flame, and handed it to an attendant who all but materialized at his elbow between one heartbeat and the next. Underneath, the Elvenking was, like Prince Legolas, a figure of mingled starlight and moonlight, clad in a close cut silk brocade of white embroidery on silver, perfect white pearls stitched into curling designs along collar, hem, and seams. The robes fell full-length to the ground, slit at the bottom into four panels that flared as Thranduil spun, revealing the dark gray-green velvet insides.
Bain again bowed and his sisters again curtsied, Tilda wobbling a little. The Elven escorts, led by their prince, returned a salute, right hand over heart and a solemn dip of the head, though with a distinct air of amusement. The Elvenking remained aloof, however, and Bard hurried to speak before an awkward silence could descend. "My lords, with your leave, my pages will guide your parties to where they may see to your horses and thence to the fairgrounds while we three continue there on foot under light guard." Bard hoped he, Thranduil, and Dáin would be able to settle into an easier rapport before facing public scrutiny. And maybe I can find out just what is the matter with the Elvenking, he thought, frustrated. He'd felt Thranduil well-inclined towards him in their dealings prior to the Battle of Five Armies, and nothing in their regular correspondence since even hinted otherwise.
Dáin nodded his acceptance. "I have no objections to doing as you propose, King Bard," he said, "if you'll allow me to first make arrangements with Lord Glóin." At Bard's soft and surprised "of course"-the King Under the Mountain hardly needed to so graciously seek Bard's permission to order Dwarves, Dale's host status notwithstanding-Dáin stepped away to confer with a redheaded Dwarf Bard dimly recognized as one of Thorin Oakenshield's company. He hadn't realized this Dwarf was of high rank among the nobles of the Lonely Mountain but now took careful note of Lord Glóin's face and proud bearing. Perhaps later he might question Bain more closely as to what his son had seen of the workings of Dáin's court.
With a glance at his father, who studied the surrounding hills with unwarranted interest, Legolas said, "We agree, as well. A few moments to assign duties, and we shall be ready to depart." Bard thought he detected a faint note of exasperation in Legolas's voice and was glad to hear he was not the only one who found Thranduil's odd mood vexing.
Legolas's gaze lit then upon Bard's young guards, and he continued, eyes lively, "If I might offer a suggestion, King Bard, our escorts would make better time should your children and pages consent to ride with us. The Elves who are to accompany my lord father would gladly loan their horses to Lady Sigrid or Prince Bain, and none of the rest would mind sharing a saddle."
"Aye, we Dwarves have a couple ponies to spare, too, and would be pleased to take your pages as passengers." Glóin's expression was almost tender as he watched Dreng, Ingvar, and their friends struggle to keep their composure at this unexpected chance to ride such impressive mounts in such an impressive retinue. Bard quickly surveyed his charges and inwardly laughed at the pleading looks cast his way.
"Then I will simply thank you, my lords, and accept this great honor," Bard said wryly, "on behalf of my very grateful party." From behind him came several squeaks of joy followed by a hissing sound, the guilty being shushed, and Bard saw a number of the Elves hide indulgent smiles while some of the Dwarves chortled discreetly into their beards. Legolas leaned in to carry on a whispered conversation with Thranduil, the liquid tones of Elvish blurred together into an indistinct stream barely audible to mortal ears. I had best instruct my own, thought Bard.
He gestured for the children to gather around, all of them suppressing broad grins at the prospect of riding to the festival with the Elves and Dwarves. "Sigrid, you and Tilda are to go with the Elves. Bain, take one of the Elven horses but go with the Dwarves. I'm relying on you two to make sure our guests feel welcome." Bain and Sigrid nodded soberly at this reminder of their royal responsibilities. Bard, though, softened seeing their suddenly anxious faces and, placing a hand each on their shoulders, said, "You will both do well. I know it." He glanced at the Elven and Dwarven escorts where they stood, relaxed and talking amongst themselves, some brushing gentle hands over the necks of their mounts, as they waited for their kings to dismiss them. Many snuck darting looks at Bard's huddle, always turning away with the corners of their mouths quirked upwards. "Our guests seem quite charmed by you-all of you-already." With their longer lifespans, they likely don't see very many children born to them.
"Dreng, Ingvar." The two boys straightened to attention with a crisp yessir. "Split your men"-Bard couldn't help smiling at this exaggeration or at how Dreng and Ingvar puffed up with pride-"into two groups of six, one for each of you to lead and one to escort the Elves, the other the Dwarves. I leave the choice of assignments to you." Dreng, Ingvar, and the others in their small company began eyeing the Elves and Dwarves, both races strange and fascinating, as well as their friends-cum-rivals, and Bard figured they'd fight about who would accompany whom, then end up drawing lots as a compromise of last resort. Just as their fathers would do in their places.
Before his guards grew hopelessly distracted, Bard finished, "When you arrive at the fairgrounds, Dreng, Ingvar, I want you to find Nethir, in charge of the pavilions, and tell him to have the tent we discussed prepared to receive Kings Thranduil, Dáin, and me in ten minutes. Then all of you are dismissed for the duration of the festivities tonight. Understood?" The boys nodded, answering with another yessir as crisp as the last.
And so matters were arranged. Thranduil and Dáin chose two warriors each to guard the kings while their remaining escorts mounted up, this time with Bard's children and young pages. Sigrid rode one of the Elven horses sidesaddle, Bain another, falling back to pace the Dwarves, and two of the older boys took the riderless ponies. The rest rode with an Elf or Dwarf, in total six with the former group under Ingvar's command and six with the latter under Dreng's. Tilda was seated securely before Prince Legolas himself, who she happily chattered at, not self-conscious in the least. The colorful cavalcade, green Elven pennants and dark blue Dwarven banners brightened by the addition of fourteen half bargepoles topped with rainbow streamers, moved off at a slow trot towards the river where the paddocks were located. Bard was left with his fellow rulers. One of whom still refuses to look at me, he thought glumly.
Bard raised a hand to run through his hair, then remembered he was wearing that cursed hat, his fingers tangling in the curtain of beads, which clinked. Feeling Thranduil's gaze fix upon him again, a burning brand, he froze mid-motion, hand half lowered. What did I do now? Bard gritted his teeth and swept his hand out like he'd always meant to. "Shall we, my lords?" He inclined his head towards the path that led to the fairgrounds.
Dáin shot them both an unreadable look, one hand stroking his long beard thoughtfully. With a nod at Bard, he began walking down the path, guards trailing, their sturdy Dwarven boots tromping across the grass. Bard waited for Thranduil to precede him, but the Elvenking stared at him, seemingly sunk in reverie, and finally Bard followed Dáin, huffing a bit and stomping the grass flat as heavily as if he were a Dwarf, too. Trying to track the light footfalls of the Elves was futile, of course. Instead, Bard glanced back when he caught up to Dáin, sighing in relief to find Thranduil and his escorts only a few steps behind rather than the Elvenking rooted in place like a pale tree.
Intent on being diplomatic and, frankly, writhing inside at the imagined torture of walking in uncomfortable silence for ten minutes, Bard asked Dáin, "How goes the reconstruction of Erebor?" Given what he'd heard from Bain, the Dwarves had much to be proud of, and Bard was certain Dáin would relish an invitation to laud at length his people's efforts. Dáin did not disappoint, eyes kindling in joy as he recounted the repair work done on the magnificent halls of old and the new sections of the famed gold mines reopened daily.
"Erebor was the mightiest of our realms after Khazad-dûm was lost," said Dáin, face momentarily grim at the mention of Moria. "And so shall it be once again," he continued, resolute, "the halls of Thráin, first King Under the Mountain, and Thrór after him restored to their former beauty and glory." Bard frowned at Thrór's name, the Dwarf-lord whose love of gold had, as he understood it, brought the dragon to Erebor and Dale. Nor did Thrór's gold do his grandson any good. Seeing this, Dáin assured, with a not entirely mirthless chuckle, "Don't think, King Bard, that we Dwarves are incapable of being taught."
Chagrined that he didn't better mask his sentiments on this touchy subject of the rulers Dáin succeeded, Bard started to apologize before Dáin forestalled him with a shake of the head. "We have learned, though the lesson was costly, the dangers of hoarding treasure, especially that which a dragon has long brooded over. Besides Dale's fourteenth share, recompense paid to the surviving members of Thorin Oakenshield's company, and a discretionary fund for Erebor's annual expenses, plus some minor miscellaneous accounts, much of Smaug's gold has been sent to our kin in the Iron Hills and Blue Mountains, to spend as they will." Bard had no doubt Dáin knew whither went his kingdom's vast wealth down to the last coin. "I deemed it prudent to keep that gold in circulation, and my council agreed." Or was made to, thought Bard, having taken a measure of the Dwarf beside him. He suspected Dáin's shrewd mind was as the finest steel blade in determination.
"Fabled though the Dwarves are for their riches," Bard said, "I think perhaps Durin's folk should win more renown for their wisdom in finances, King Dáin." One of Dáin's bushy eyebrows lifted at this rather cheeky remark, but the smile near hidden in Dáin's bushy beard told Bard all was forgiven. Then, to Bard's surprise, Dáin turned to the Elvenking, who'd drawn level with them and now walked on Bard's left. Whatever fault Thranduil found in Bard, it apparently didn't deter him from using Bard as a buffer to keep Dáin at a distance.
"Word of Erebor's reclaiming has spread far and wide, and those of our people who've long wandered can look towards home at last." Dáin sounded more satisfied with this than with any other news he had to share. "Travelers have skirted the forest all summer but, with winter fast approaching, several large companies from the Blue Mountains would take the forest road." Dáin gripped his broad belt with both hands. "They will be slow and with their families. Is the forest safe, Elvenking?" he asked Thranduil.
Thranduil tilted his head to one side and said, "Safer than it has been since before the shadow fell upon the woods but not without danger. The spiders have been driven south of the road, yet the old fortress is a place of dread still, its master's mark clear though he is fled, and there many foul things dwell, drawn by an evil greater than they." The wizard Gandalf had brought to the Battle of Five Armies tidings of not only a host of orcs and goblins, then slain, but of an assault on the Necromancer's stronghold in southern Mirkwood. Bard did not envy Thranduil such a dangerous neighbor.
"Could you not, King Thranduil, provide guides for the Dwarves?" Bard suggested, hesitant to put Thranduil in a position where he'd have no choice except to make Dáin an offer he didn't necessarily wish to. "I would volunteer the services of Dale's foresters," he added to Dáin, "but Men are no match for the Elves in woodcraft, and none know this forest better than the Elvenking's wardens." Thranduil's eyes raked him from head to toe, and Bard bit the inside of his cheek, fearing he'd presumed too much. He could feel his spine stiffening under the intense scrutiny, not hostile but not exactly friendly either.
It was with relief that Bard heard Thranduil finally say, "The Elves would not deny aid to travelers who mean no ill, if the Dwarves ask it of us." Though this was addressed to Dáin, Thranduil continued to watch Bard, who wanted to squirm like a worm on a fishhook. The Elvenking's gaze was sharp but not focused on Bard's face for some inscrutable reason, as if Thranduil could shear Bard of all royal trappings with his eyes alone. Does he find me unworthy of my finery? thought Bard. He fingered the chains that fastened his short cape where they hung low across his chest, heavy with gold and amethysts.
"That would be a welcome kindness, aye." At Dáin's voice, Bard realized with a jolt that he'd been staring at his feet. His head jerked up to see that he was beginning to lag behind. He cursed silently and quickened his steps.
At least Thranduil's attention was on Dáin as they arranged for Elven scouts to meet the Dwarves at the forest's edge, Dáin agreeing to command his folk to make this leg of their journey together in one party if Thranduil would send three full patrols to act as escorts. Thranduil refused to divert so many of his forces from defenses elsewhere-there were several reports to confirm of spider nests that had escaped this summer's offensive-but he and Dáin compromised on two patrols, slightly understrength due to last year's casualties, then moved on to haggling over the dates. Dáin pushed for earlier so that the Dwarves may reach Erebor before the snows while Thranduil wanted later for more time to carry out raids on the spiders, even the Elves unwilling to risk battle in the deep of winter as, despite being largely immune to the cold when hale, injury made them vulnerable.
The negotiations grew heated, neither side giving quarter. Bard worried that his people's first impression of Dale's closest allies would be the Elvenking and King Under the Mountain arguing. The fairgrounds were in clear view, a hive of activity. Figures gathered on the slope facing them; they'd been spotted.
"Why not winter in Laketown?" Bard asked Dáin during a lull in the debate. "Or if the company doesn't wish to delay there until spring, wait out the first storm of the season only and resume the journey to Erebor after." The early December snowfalls were typically light and broken by weeks of relatively mild, if chilly and overcast, weather.
Dáin considered this, one hand again stroking his long beard thoughtfully. "I've heard that the town's removed farther northward up the shore. Beyond this, we Dwarves know little of the Lakemen's doings." He eyed Bard. "A share of Dale's treasure goes to the rebuilding of Esgaroth." Bard nodded cautiously, though it was not a question, starting to suspect he'd put one foot in a trap with his unsolicited advice. "Do you not work closely with the Master?"
With a grimace he tried to smooth into a more neutral expression, Bard said curtly, "Yes." He and the Master had never been boon companions, but over the years, they'd reached an uneasy understanding: he would remain the Master's loyal servant, not aspiring to any higher station, provided the Master did not overtly abuse his power. When Smaug died by Bard's hand, however, so, too, did his chances of maintaining even a facade of amicability in his dealings with the Master. He glanced at Thranduil, who studied the growing crowd set to greet them with disinterest, and wondered if the Elvenking knew that his joining the march on the Mountain had not initially been by choice.
Bard gritted his teeth against the memory of his anger at having his claims bartered away by the Master without so much as a by-your-leave. He had not wanted to part so soon from Sigrid and Tilda, fear for them slow to release its grip on his heart after learning of how they'd fared in his absence from Prince Legolas, nor had he wanted to take Bain with him into dangers unknown before the gates of Erebor when his son had already braved dragonfire and lived. But the Master gave him no recourse.
"Is your ambition not to restore Dale to its past splendor? Are you not being hailed by all as king?"
"That may be so, Master, but winter is almost upon us, and there are still preparations to be made. Dale can wait, as it has for generations. Even the wealth of the Moun-"
"You were quick enough to issue orders in my name, inviting the aid of the Elves. I have but returned the favor, on behalf of the now stricken people you've ever sought to champion. You did not imagine that the Elvenking's largess would be without price, did you? Best you mind your duty to them, if not to me, Bard Dragonshooter."
There was some wisdom in the Master's words, Bard grudgingly admitted, but he couldn't forget the bitter twist of the Master's mouth, his tone at once mocking and envious. Bard knew then that his days in Laketown were done. The Master would tolerate no usurpers, and Bard did not mean to be one. In their last, brief meeting, it'd been impossible to convince the Master that he was not intentionally stirring up dissent against the Master's rule with his call for men to follow him to Dale.
Shaking his head sharply to silence the Master's remembered voice, Bard said, "I suppose you want me to arrange matters with the Master?" Hard as it was to read Dáin's face between his jutting brow and immaculately groomed beard, Bard was nevertheless left with the distinct sense that Dáin was no stranger to the Master's contentious ways, contrary to his professed ignorance of happenings in Laketown. He, in fact, seemed the slightest bit apologetic.
It is mine own idea, Bard thought with resignation, and so he nodded, fighting the urge to sigh. "I will see to it." The Master had declined his invitation to the festivities, sent as a formality, citing poor health, but Bard did not doubt that many others from Laketown would come. Surely, he could find a trustworthy messenger among them? Or else dispatch one as usual with the next shipment of gold downriver, if time wasn't too short. The Master tended to respond to errand riders with shrill accusations that Bard infringed on Esgaroth's sovereignty by pressing his demands with unwarranted haste. Just as well the Wilderland is at peace. While he'd kept his focus on Dáin, he again felt Thranduil's assessment, as keenly as he would've a knife held to the nape of his neck, point barely grazing the skin. For the most part. "If you could tell me how many are expected and when?"
"Once I receive word from Lady Dís of the company's departure," Dáin promised. A tall man-Nethir, Bard was pleased to see-stepped forth from the onlookers, hands wringing his hat. Nethir was an able organizer of tents and everything that could be in them, people included. Formerly a quartermaster in the Laketown guard, he still worked with military haste and precision, as if he were preparing an army to march on the morrow, but was nervous in what he deemed high society. Despite Bard's efforts to put the man at ease, that meant him these days, too. "Elvenking," Dáin said, turning to Thranduil, "have you any objections to this?"
"None." Thranduil drew his answer out, the sound of it stretching insouciantly; his eyes never strayed from Bard, who tensed. Reminding himself that it'd be impolitic to punch the Elvenking in his haughty nose before half of Dale, Bard forcibly relaxed and resolved to ignore Thranduil until they could speak in private about whatever he had done to merit such ill regard. Gaze sweeping over their audience, Thranduil added, tone mild, "I suggest that further conversation be kept from untoward scrutiny."
More an order than a suggestion, thought Bard, irked, though he and Thranduil were of the same mind on this at least. "Of course," he said, jaw tight. "I've made arrangements for us to take refreshment and counsel, my lords, before the welcoming feast tonight." Their four escorts fanned out wordlessly with surprising coordination to keep the curious townsfolk, quiet except for some awed murmuring, at bay. He beckoned to Nethir.
The other man had been hovering anxiously on the perimeter watched by the Dwarven guards in front but now shuffled closer with a weak "sire." Sweat beaded on his brow, which he mopped with his hat. His eyes, whites a stark contrast to his skin, darted back and forth between Dáin and Thranduil. He's going to worry himself into a panic. Bard hastily gripped Nethir's shoulder and, smiling in what he hoped was a comforting manner, commanded, "Lead the way, Master Nethir." Not until Nethir nodded shakily did Bard release him, giving his shoulder a quick parting squeeze. Their progress across the fairgrounds was uneventful, to Bard's relief, even if Nethir walked as though on wobbly stilts whenever he recalled who followed him.
Semicircular arbors had been raised around the broad, flat green atop the largest of the three connected knolls chosen to host Dale's guests, which together formed a wide angle that opened towards the river. Men on ladders were hammering the final nails into the simple but sturdy wooden frames. Others spread rectangular awnings in the spaces between the overhead beams; the red, blue, and green banners dipped down at staggered intervals from their anchored rope stays. Below were arrayed dozens of trestle tables and long benches. Women and children scurried amongst these with clattering stacks of dishes and sloshing buckets of water; they wiped clean every horizontal surface and readied serving tables, already laden with baskets of fruit and casks of cider, ale, and wine.
Impressed, Bard glanced speculatively at Nethir's too stiff back. When he granted Nethir a free hand to build with the carpenters some structure to shade the tables, he'd expected a more utilitarian result, not this roof of billowing waves of color, slices of sky reaching inwards from the outer edge. He caught glimpses, too, in the milling activity of a trio of women with a tall hooked pole unhurriedly hanging white paper lanterns in a curving row along the length of one arbor. Not yet lit, the rounded lanterns would bathe the tables, each with its own brighter candle centerpieces, in a diffuse glow come dark.
No doubt there are also less sightly oilcloth tarps nearby, Bard thought fondly, in case of rain or snow. He was proud of his people's ingenuity-their artistic flair, which he appreciated far better when not directed at him, and their pragmatism, in matters that didn't involve kingly commissions.
Beside him, Dáin surveyed the scene of productive industry with a glint of approval in his eye. Feeling strangely paternal, Bard ducked his head momentarily to hide his smile. Thranduil's face, meanwhile, showed no change in expression, but the straight line of his body softened indefinably at the look of the arbors.
Which, Bard abruptly realized, resembled in rough form a stand of thin trees, branches interlocked above. Though no seating had been reserved, he wondered if the Elves might not be more at home beneath a green awning-one in particular was of a sheer fabric, patterned so the light that shone through dappled the ground-and planned to speak with Nethir about it. After my council with Thranduil and Dáin, he decided. Bard did not intend for their talks, unofficial in deference to the occasion, to last until supper began at dusk.
The path Nethir led the royal party on skirted the arbors at an almost inconvenient distance. Bard could only assume Nethir wished not to tempt his small army of workers with distraction, given the pointed glares he sent at any man, woman, or child-and there were many, Nethir's scowls in vain-who dared stop to gawk at the Elvenking and King Under the Mountain.
Even less cowed by Nethir's temper were the children playing on the grassy hillside. The troupe of a dozen or so boys and girls, all too young to reliably do chores but old enough to slip the leash of parental supervision, abandoned the pastime of rolling giggling down the gentle slope for the much more interesting challenge of stalking Dale's visiting dignitaries. Fortunately, their shadows were content with crouching behind piles of firewood to spy on them. The Elves and Dwarves found this utter lack of subtlety amusing, if the studied way they managed to always miss catching the culprits in the act was anything to go by, but may not be as willing to humor a tackle to the knees or barrage of impertinent questions.
Finally, they arrived at their destination-a group of tents in muted sunset colors that closed the semicircle of the arbors. Dominating the center was a large pavilion, one whole side left open facing the green with its firepits to reveal a richly appointed interior: a floor carpeted in layers of plush rugs and furs; walls draped with tapestries, a couple of which, depicting the valley before the coming of Smaug, had surely been salvaged from the ruins of Dale, dusted off, and restored; three long banquet tables arranged in a half square, laid with an elaborate silver service upon pristine white cloth, gold candlesticks and crystal glasses glinting. Belatedly, Bard recognized the silverware as his.
Nethir, however, brought them to one of the less conspicuous adjacent tents. He held the flap for them to enter, teeth worrying at his lower lip, while their escorts took up guard positions in the surrounding area. Motioning for Dáin and Thranduil to precede him-both acknowledged Bard as they passed, the former with a brief nod of thanks and the latter with a stare that had his skin itching-he drew Nethir aside with a hand on the other man's shoulder.
"You've done well," he said as reassuringly as he could after years of practice soothing the hurts of three children. "None could ask for a finer setting. Or a more festive one." His gaze went to the streamers in every shade of the rainbow heaped next to the tent, most strung across the tops of posts double his height that would, if Bard were to guess, mark off space for dancing. Several of the musically inclined men were coming with their instruments and probably greater enthusiasm than skill.
"Truly, my lord?" Nethir's hesitant smile was a mirror image of a younger Bain's, though Nethir was a man grown. With some of his tension lifted, Nethir's exhaustion showed more noticeably. Bard frowned at the web of wrinkles, hairline cracks in the skin, about Nethir's eyes, fearing he'd not slept at all the night before, mind consumed with accounting for the innumerable details and contingencies. In the last year, that feeling had certainly become familiar to Bard.
"What's been demanded of you is perhaps too much for any one man," he apologized, thinking that he'd have to hire an Alfrid of his own sooner rather than later to share in such duties. Nethir opened his mouth to protest, brow creasing, but Bard forged on heedlessly. "Though you've surpassed my every expectation, I would not burden you beyond what is right and proper. I know you still have many tasks to see to, that I've no doubt you'll carry out with dedication. But afterward, Nethir, put aside your worries and enjoy the fruits of your hard labors." The corners of his lips quirked up. "You've more than earned an evening's rest."
"I shall, sire," vowed Nethir, the words slow and contemplative. There was a sudden spark of insight across his expression that made Bard wary. He squinted at Nethir suspiciously. "You ought to listen to your own advice, Your Majesty, if you don't mind me saying so." And with that parting remark, Nethir bowed, flashed him a cheeky grin, and left for the arbors. Bemused, Bard joined Thranduil and Dáin in the tent.
His guests had helped themselves to the refreshments at the center of the round table-cider, ale, and wine, a silver pitcher of water, and a steaming pot of tea. Bard poured himself a glass of shade-cool water, with an inward chuckle at the mug of cider before Dáin and the delicate teacup Thranduil drank from, slim fingers curled as gracefully around the handle as the enameled flowers, red and blue and gold, around the porcelain.
Taking a seat that faced Thranduil and Dáin both, Bard was pleased to see on the table a thick sheaf of parchment, a bottle of ink and quill; at the top of his agenda was scheduling the shipments of additional supplies, mainly foodstuffs, from Erebor and the Woodland Realm, which he would prefer not to have to commit solely to memory. A lit lantern hung above, supplementing the sunlight that seeped through the tent fabric. Pushed to one corner were chairs for the banquet tables in the large pavilion and, leaning against these, Master Fastolf's golden platters commemorating Smaug's demise. He hoped Dáin and Thranduil had not noticed those.
For a moment, Bard floundered, unsure how to proceed. He sipped at his water until his throat wasn't quite so dry, then, after a few fortifying breaths, decided that the courtesies had been observed already and commenced with business. "How many more of your peoples plan to attend the festivities, my lords?" he asked.
Between the celebration tonight and the farewell feast two weeks from now, Dale would host a farmers' market and traders' fair, followed by a series of games ranging from archery to horseshoes. The grassy fields around the knolls had been divided into lots, all of which were spoken for, quicker than anyone anticipated, by artisans showcasing and selling their wares. The vendors were mostly local Dwarves and Men, but among them were also some Elves and merchants traveling from distant Rhûn.
Meanwhile, the arbor tables would be cleared to display produce, with stalls and benches on the slopes and other two hills for extra space as well as seating. Courses for the foot and horse races were marked with white flags, the latter fording the River Running twice in the shallows at the base of the Mountain as it looped around the valley. Locations and times for the majority of the events had yet to be determined, however, weather permitting. There was no lack of eager competitors despite this. Whether the participants, not to mention the spectators, would remember that they were engaged in sport, not war was another matter. Granted, Bard judged that the chances of the ring toss or apple bob ending in bloodshed were vanishingly small. Now, the wrestling...
"Nearly all of Erebor," said Dáin. Luckily, before Bard's alarm could balloon into panic, Dáin continued, "With the exception of the metalsmiths who would not leave their works untended in the fields, I've commanded my people to return to the Mountain come midnight. Dale will not have to find accommodations for any Dwarf, and we shall present ourselves in the mornings with full stomachs." Bard tried to mute his relief at hearing this but was not entirely successful. He felt sheepish at Dáin's raised eyebrow. "You wish to know what provisions we will bring and when?" Nodding, Bard reached for a sheet of paper, dipping pen in ink. "The lords of my council will lead in turn predawn supply trips every two days, starting with Lord Balin the day after tomorrow. Flour, salt, and sugar we have in great quantities, purchased by our kin from the Iron Hills in the months following the battle and stored ever since. Cheese also and cured meats we can..."
As Dáin listed what the Dwarves could send, Bard dutifully wrote it down, head bent low over the parchment. Though the butter, kept chilled underground, and mead especially would be much appreciated, they were short on greens and fresh game, which Thranduil had earlier agreed to ship up the river, eggs, milk, and honey. The beaded curtain dangling from his hat touched the table, coiling and jouncing about as he rubbed his forehead with the back of one hand. Laketown was the only source of more eggs and milk in the vicinity, supposing the Wood Elves had honey to spare or could at least contact Beorn on Dale's behalf. Bard did not look forward to negotiations with the Master.
There was plenty of everything else, he figured, including enough barrels of pickled fish that they could serve nothing but for three to four months. No danger of starvation this winter, he thought wryly, unless men born and bred on the waters grow too weary of fish to eat it. A possibility Bard counted as a deal less likely than the dragon swimming up from its grave to claim vengeance on him.
"I'll need to see how our stores stand," Bard finally said, looking up from his scrawled tally of supplies, the beads on his hat swaying and clinking with the abrupt movement. "But I should have a fair copy of the delivery schedule for you before you depart tonight." Dáin grunted congenially, head tipped back as he quaffed cider.
With a smile for the apple growers and cider mill runners, who'd been so anxious that their goods meet with royal approval, Bard turned his attention to Thranduil and was surprised to find him quietly, deliberately drumming his fingers on the table, a slight grimace twisting his face. Why is he in such a foul mood? Bard hesitated, then gathered his courage. "Elvenking, if you could conf-"
"I have a proposal for you, Bard of Dale," Thranduil interrupted. No titles, Bard noted, setting down his quill before he snapped it in half. "Let us adjourn-"
"What?" cried Bard, unable to stop himself. They had barely even begun to discuss arrangements to keep Dale and her guests fed, housed, and entertained for the next two weeks. And the Elves posed the more difficult challenge, coming as they were from too far for day trips. Gilvagor had assured Bard that his people would bring their own shelter or else sleep with only the stars overhead, but the current plan was to convert the large pavilion for use by the Elvenking and his son until the farewell feast.
Thranduil spoke over him as if Bard were a buzzing fly, distracting and annoying but ultimately inconsequential. "-until you are clothed more fittingly." Pale eyes raked his form again, narrowing in distaste as they lingered on his hat. "This is not how one of your stature should be attired."
Bard gaped. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dáin bury his face in one hand, groaning and mumbling something uncomplimentary about Elves, Men, or both probably. Of all the...! Not in his wildest imaginings had Bard guessed that Thranduil would hold so, so... frivolous a matter against him. Thranduil was not done faulting his style of dress either, cutting words so smooth and sure the Elvenking must have been silently rehearsing them, but Bard's awareness of anything except the roaring rush of blood in his veins had dimmed.
"Since my appearance is 'an insult to your senses,' King Thranduil," Bard said, tone polite and each flat syllable carefully enunciated, "I shall remove myself henceforth from your presence." He had stood without realizing it, though he could vaguely recall slamming his hands against the tabletop, where they curled into trembling fists, palms stinging. He burned with humiliation, with anger that flared hotter the longer he was forced into company with the Elvenking and his bland reserve, unfazed even now. Suddenly fearful that he'd suffocate-his heart thudded behind his ribcage, his breath rasped in his throat-Bard ducked stumbling out of the tent, dazed, the late afternoon glare a lancing pain through his eyes. His head ached, and he felt bruised.
"Sir?" Dreng was waiting outside with Ingvar. "Are you..." He gulped. "D-Do you require something?" The question was tentative, almost scared. Bard watched blankly as Dreng fidgeted, exchanging a nervous glance with Ingvar, and thought that he must seem a mad fool. A mad fool in motley, more jester than king. From within the tent, he heard Dáin's voice, sharp and clipped, rising in volume. He did not wish to stay until he could understand what was being said. About him. His stomach churned.
Ripping off his lacy collar with a snarl-he was glad to be rid of it, at least, the damnable choking hazard-Bard threw it at a shocked Ingvar, who fumbled to catch it, and gritted out, "You're dismissed. Both of you. All I require is some peace." The Elven and Dwarven guards stared blatantly, curious and alert, as did the children they'd been amusing-the same troupe that had so inexpertly spied on them, shyness overcome. Bard's skin crawled with the knowledge that so many eyes were upon him; he felt stripped naked by them, his flesh bared and slowly peeled from his bones. I could hardly have made a worse impression if I'd worn nothing at all, he concluded bitterly. Though, as soon as the notion crossed his mind, he admitted to himself its absurdity, born of the writhing mass of emotion that lodged in his chest. He could not stay. His instincts screamed at him to flee, away to some dark and secluded place so he might lick his wounds alone like a beaten dog.
His feet began striding between the tents towards the back slope without conscious decision. Behind him, his name was called, prefaced by the titles he'd never been less deserving of, but he ignored it, skidding down the hillside, taking little care for dignity or decorum, only haste. He headed in the direction of the river and wooded outskirts of the fairgrounds. No one followed. A very small mercy, that, to be spared the concerned pity, however well meant, of subjects and guests alike. Still, Bard was grateful, the taste of failure sour on his tongue.
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Since I'm no fashion designer, in dressing Bard, his children, and his young guards, I relied on real historical and traditional costumes. In keeping with the film's Venice on the Volga concept, the people of Laketown wear clothing that's either perfectly fit for a Renaissance Faire or vaguely Russian but, to my eye, with additional Himalayan and Mongolian influences. So, I thought, why not have Bard et al. adopt the styles of the Far East?
There could conceivably be an analog to the Far East in Tolkien's world past Rhûn, Khand, and Harad, on the shores of the eastern sea perhaps, where Men first awoke. Far Eastern costumes and those of southeast Asia, as well, would strike the inhabitants of Middle-earth's western lands, whose tastes are generally medieval, as bizarre enough to fill the prompt without stretching credibility too much by being absurdly impractical. Thus, Marcus Pokeberry is intended as an expy of Marco Polo, whose account of his travels in central Asia and China so inspired the early European explorers, Columbus among them. (Headcanon: The Edain never developed a similar interest for fear of Mordor and Sauron's dominion over the eastern peoples.)
Bard's hat is one famously worn by the Emperors of China (left), chosen for the fiddly dangling bits that I figure would drive Thranduil, with his sharper senses, mad as Bard hasn't the training in court etiquette to keep his head still. Bard's pants and coat are inspired by the clothing of the Japanese samurai: split hakama, skirt-like trousers, and jinbaori, usually hip- or thigh-length kimono jackets worn over armor that I've done in western fabrics and extended for Bard to wear as robes. The overabundance of bling fastening Bard's short cape is a nod to the Indian Maharajas' fondness of bedecking themselves with garlands of jewels for photographs.
Bard's lacy collar is called a ruff (right), popular in Europe sometime in the 16th and 17th centuries. His shirt, vest, and cape are likewise western in style. As for the embroidery on Bard's vest and cape, think Rococo. My basic idea's that none of Bard's garments alone is really all that unfashionable, but it's the mélange of clashing sensibilities that makes his outfit as a whole a bit of an eyesore.
The ensembles of Bard's children and his honor escort don't have this problem of cohesion, being drawn primarily from a single culture each. Sigrid and Bain's clothing is Indian, notably her sari and his turban. Tilda is in traditional Korean dress, called hanbok, but her headpiece is Mongolian in origin. Dreng, Ingvar, and friends are in hanbok, too, specifically the modernized look most often featured in South Korean television serials (left). Their hats, I believe, would've marked them as soldiers in the feudal Korean army.
Nor is anybody else's color scheme quite as unfortunate as Bard's, though together the group spans the entire rainbow. I chose purple and yellow for Bard's clothes because both have been favored by emperors-Roman and Chinese, respectively. Just not in combination, though I don't think these colors look bad together per se, so much as being too overwhelming for Elven senses with the multiple layers and elaborate needlework I describe.
Finally, I've modified all the clothing to accommodate Dale's colder climate. Sigrid, for one, is not baring her midriff, as is common among the sari-clad young women of India and southeast Asia. Long sleeves and heavier fabrics are preferred, and some of the outerwear is lined and trimmed in fur, everything layered atop woolen undergarments. Also, boots, not sandals. Hopefully, these mismatched costumes come across as humorously and/or horrifyingly eccentric, especially to Elven eyes, but still plausibly fashionable and suitable as court attire to the Bard(l)ings.
Bonus Color Palettes
Bard Cape Sigrid Sari Tilda Tunic Coat Dress Dress Tabard Vest Bain Turban Guard Tunic Shirt Tunic Shirt Pants Pants Pants