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Looks like this fic's going to be in three parts, folks! I spoke too soon in my optimism that I could rein in my verbosity and, as is often said by writers, the tale grew in the telling. Enjoy! Constructive criticism would be much appreciated. And I will strive to update with the third and (hopefully!) final installment in a timely fashion.

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· · ·

A month passed, and Bard had entirely forgotten about his order of new clothing until Sigrid came home from the pastry shop one morn with not only breads and cakes but a large bundle wrapped in heavy brown paper and a chest of dark wood. He hurried to take both package and box from her; the first was heavier than expected and the second lighter, as if empty. Bard set the items on the common room table and eyed them warily. "What's this?" The chest gleamed with lacquer and was inlaid with intricate geometric patterns in mother of pearl.

"Your clothes, Da," said Sigrid, placing her basket on the kitchen counter. "For when the Elves and Dwarves come." She rummaged around until she found a wide and shallow wooden bowl that she then wiped cursorily with a clean dishcloth before filling with their breakfast sweet buns. "I ran into Mistress Malkin, and she told me the robes you wanted were ready, but you never came for a fitting." Crouching down next to the hearth, Sigrid used the poker to stir the fire Bard had kindled in the predawn hours. "I said you were probably too busy and that I'd take the clothes. She had a chest from the hatmaker for you that she gave me, too." Sigrid laid out a cast iron pan and selected several eggs from a basketful, ready to wash and fry them when Bain and Tilda woke. "I promised her you'd stop by her shop next month to settle accounts."

"Fitting?" Yes, Bard asked Mistress Malkin to have designs finished for a few weeks ago, didn't he? His one audience with the woman left him with the distinct impression that she'd rather never suffer the terror of his royal presence again, but she was a professional, after all, with her trade pride, and he supposed she must've called on him at some point between then and now...

"Oh, Da..." Sigrid turned to face him, leaning back against the counter, and crossed her arms with a sigh, expression stern but for the slight upturn of her mouth at one corner. "You forgot, didn't you?"

And Bard suddenly remembered. Mistress Malkin did leave him a message while he was surveying the site where Dale would host her distinguished guests in a couple days. He and a group of builders had marked with wooden stakes areas for the tents and tables, fenced a paddock for the Elven delegation's horses on the lightly forested outskirts of the fairgrounds not too far from the river, and dug numerous firepits that they lined with stones. Bard was clumsy with exhaustion by the time he returned home that night, thoughts slow and hazy. He read Mistress Malkin's request that he come to her shop for a fitting but filed it aside to answer the next day.

Except, in the morning, he left early for the orchards to settle a heated dispute between, of all people, the cider pressers and pie makers over four bushels of apples that the former had ground up for juice when the latter had already earmarked that particular batch for baking. Or so it was claimed. Bard was more than a little suspicious of the whole episode because, within an hour and a half of his arrival, it happened that there was no need for his mediation, another four bushels of apples having been produced to satisfy the wronged party. Instead, Bard spent most of the day touring the cider mill and orchards, with which he was not in fact unfamiliar, drinking apple juice and eating apple pie under the anxious eyes of their suppliers. When he finally escaped, he was weary to the bone of public attention, prepared to swear off apples for possibly the rest of his life, and laden with proposals to expand the orchards, to experiment perhaps with vineyards and raise glass gardens, that were presented to him every third slice of pie. Somehow, Mistress Malkin's note had been lost in the shuffle.

At least the cider and pie was good. In smaller portions. Bard studied the bundle of clothing and ornate hatbox, brow furrowed, and said slowly, "I'm afraid I did forget, Sigrid." His schedule in the last two days leading up to the arrivals of Kings Thranduil and Dáin was packed from dawn to well after dusk with meetings, save for these early morning hours when he could feed the chickens and tend the fire, blessedly alone with his own thoughts, then break his fast with his family. Bard didn't know how he could find time to see Mistress Malkin for a fitting. "Do you think it'll matter if I don't go?" He hoped not.

From upstairs came the sounds of feet scuffling across the floorboards and doors opening as Bain rolled out of bed and went to the girls' room to wake Tilda. Sigrid bit her lip, the fingers of one hand tapping against her elbow. "No, I guess not," she admitted. "Mistress Malkin and the rest had your measurements, and the robes should be in layers, all loose."

They could hear Tilda protesting around a yawn that Bain ought to allow her to sleep until noon—"blame Da" was the curt reply—and shared a smile at the younger two members of the family's daily routine. Sigrid nodded decisively to herself, then took one of their breakfast eggs and dunked it in the pail of water in the sink, carefully washing the shell of grime. "Can you get more wood for the fire, Da? We can look at the clothes once we're finished eating, before your first appointment today." She caught Bard's eye with a steady gaze. "Together, Father."

Bard let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, reassured that he could trust Sigrid's judgment in this matter he was so helpless to grasp. He might even be just the tiniest bit eager, too, to discover what fashions Sigrid and her co-conspirators had in store for him.

· · ·

Two days later, outriders had come with word that the Elves and Dwarves were within an hour of Dale, and Bard again donned his finery. The first two or three times Bard dressed in his full regalia, with Sigrid's aid, he worried that he'd never manage the many layers, but he'd since practiced until the order seemed almost natural and he could persuade the fabric to lay flat where it should, to drape and fall becomingly. Sigrid was downstairs helping Bain and Tilda into their clothes, confident at last that her father could handle himself with his. Don't disappoint her.

First were the undergarments: a long-sleeved robe, cuffed securely at the wrists with flourishes of lace, in plain white wool the finest and softest Bard had ever worn that extended to mid-thigh and wrapped around to tie at the waist. Under this, Bard pulled on a pair of matching woolen hose.

Next came the trousers, of a style that was strange to Bard. Wide at the bottom and belted at the waist with a knot in front, the folds resembled nothing so much as a pleated skirt, though the legs were split to above mid-thigh for surprisingly great freedom of movement. The pants were striped with dark violet bands of differing widths and subtly differing shades, bordered at irregular intervals with needle-thin ribbons of gold.

Over this, Bard wore a shirt of sheer silk in palest yellow, gathered and cinched at the wrists just above his lacy cuffs and at the waist. The sleeves billowed and gradually darkened to a burnt ochre at the ends. The next layer was an embroidered vest longer than the shirt. It was made of cloth of gold and stitched all across in purples with flowing abstract designs that brought to mind waves and leaves both at once.

Bard buttoned up the vest with steady fingers, then put on the modified tabard. Though it covered his shoulders and was open at the sides, as many tabards were, the drape both front and back was a single length of fabric down the middle no wider than one of Tilda's baby scarves. This was much longer in the front, where it reached to his knees, than on the other side, where it abruptly stopped mid-back. Bard smoothed his hand down the velvet, dyed a medium purple that matched some of the embroidery on his vest, stiffened with heavy stitched borders and fan patterns in yet more gold thread. The forked front end was additionally weighted with two golden tassels.

Finally, Bard shrugged on the sleeveless surcoat, open down the front like a jacket. The stiffest garment in his ensemble, the coat was a heavy silk brocade in light purple that dropped to mid-calf, narrowing slightly at the waist before flaring out and lined with piping in hues of medium yellow. Mistress Malkin and her fellow clothiers had truly outdone themselves, Bard thought. The coat glittered over the shoulders and around the slit bottom with what looked upon closer inspection to be tiny faceted glass beads sewn into spiraling swirls. More bemusing than impressive in Bard's opinion, though, was how the coat came to rigid, upturned points at the corners of his shoulders, jutting out a short distance over his arms. These made Bard feel as if he might poke the eyes out of the unwary when he moved too quickly or sharply.

There were still accessories to don—a ruffled collar, short cape, and hat—but Bard first sat on his bed to pull on his boots. He had not ordered a new pair from the cobbler, not wanting to suffer the inevitable pinching of his feet as he broke them in. Besides, he reasoned, his old pair was clean enough and could barely be seen from under the broad folds of his pants. And they are a comfort to me.

Boots on, Bard turned his attention to the last three articles of clothing and the most troublesome. He grimaced, then sternly reminded himself that he had no time to delay.

He shook the cape out and swept it around his shoulders. It was two-toned: a bright, shimmering purple on the outer side, edged at the top with a collar, but lined inside with a dark yellow felt, trimmed at the bottom in golden fur. The cape fastened diagonally across his chest from over his left shoulder to under his right arm. Though not a fashion he was accustomed to, Bard supposed wryly that a more conventional cloak wasn't practicable with the points on his coat ripping holes in it.

What he was less comfortable with, however, were the chains of amethyst-studded gold that fastened the cape, hanging in ever longer loops almost to his waist. The only jewelry of any note Bard had ever held was a necklace, lost with Laketown, made of a half dozen strings of small multicolored glass beads twisted together that he bought as a bridal gift. He felt self-conscious, the weight of true gold heavy on his chest.

With a sigh, Bard forced himself to pick up the next piece of his costume—a collar of layered ruffled lace. The collar rested in a tight frilly circle around his neck atop his other clothes, and Bard had to constantly fight the urge to tear it off. Once his collar was unhappily in place, he lifted the lid off the lacquered chest Sigrid had brought home two days ago and removed his hat from its bed of deep red velvet. And what a hat!

Remarkably light, the hat had a rigid frame of fine gold wire mesh, stiffened on the sides with wider strips, and fitted on Bard's head not unlike a helmet. Its most striking feature was the rectangular board, also of reinforced gold mesh, that extended more than a finger-length from the crown out past the front and back of his head. From the ends of this board dangled long strands of round beads in different sizes and shades of purple, a larger amethyst at the very bottom of each string no bigger than a blueberry. The beads were spaced just far enough apart that Bard could see through the curtain they formed before his face. They swayed and clinked together with every movement; he found them rather distracting, if his mind was not kept occupied. Behind each of his ears hung two silken purple ribbons. One was for securing the hat with a knot under his chin, but the other was in fact a continuous loop that dipped to mid-calf and served no purpose that Bard could discern beyond decoration.

Bard decided that the hat could wait and merely tucked it under one arm before heading downstairs to check on his children's progress. All three were dressed and groomed, Sigrid making final adjustments to Tilda's headpiece. The children had been amusingly secretive about their outfits for weeks, even his usually talkative youngest, so this was Bard's first look at Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda in their finery.

Sigrid wore a loose blouse and petticoats in patterned greens and gold, delicate embroidered flowers and vines branching across the cloth. A long, wide swath of light green silk bordered in stitched golden fronds and trimmed along the lower edge in white fur covered her hair, bound there with a circlet of gold filigree, a single dark emerald hanging low from the center on her forehead. The silk wound about her body: one end draped in front across her left shoulder to wrap around below the right knee and finally over her left arm, trapping the other end as it fell down her back behind her right shoulder. His eldest had grown much indeed in grace and poise, Bard thought in wonder, carrying the folding style with ease.

Leaning against the common room table, feet crossed, was a tall, lanky young man Bard hardly recognized as his son. Bain had hit a growth spurt this past year and would soon be able to look his father level in the eye. His clothes, cut in straight vertical lines, emphasized the extra height.

Bard grumbled a bit at seeing that Bain's attire was much simpler than his—just a knee-length tunic, unbelted, in light blue over dark blue pants. Both tunic and pants were lightly decorated, the latter pinstriped in gold and the former embroidered in purples with the same flowing abstract designs Bard recognized from his own vest. The needlework ringed Bain's neckline, spread across his shoulders a ways before narrowing to a border along the row of buttons down the center, and at last settled at the hem like water collected at the bottom of a well. There was some stitching at the end of Bain's long sleeves, too, above his lacy cuffs. And Bard was mollified to note that his son also had to suffer a ruffled collar, which though shorter than Bard's was stiffer, sticking out at right angles in a circle of puffy ridges webbed together with lace.

Yet more startling was the purple fabric that completely swathed the top of Bain's head, leaving not one curly hair in sight. Bard couldn't begin to guess how the strange hat, if it was a hat at all, stayed in place. It was crowned in front with a light sapphire the size of a small bird's egg set in a large silver brooch, three silver chains studded with lesser sapphires looping around to the back on either side. A soft white feather the length of Bard's index finger curled at the top, shaft held by the brooch.

"Da!" cried Tilda. "How do I look?" She twirled, bold red dress billowing out in a truncated cone, layers of white and pink petticoats underneath. Tied at her side were two golden cords, one longer and the other shorter, that ended in white tufts of fur.

"Lovely, dearheart," Bard said, crouching to give Tilda a hug before holding her at arm's length and obligingly admiring her dress. Closer to, the skirt shaded from red to a dark pink at the top, which was actually above the waist about level with Tilda's bottom ribs. It was embroidered in gold at the hem with a thin margin of flowers and vines. "A proper princess."

Tilda blushed, suddenly shy. She fingered the strands of small pink and white pearls hanging unevenly at her right temple down to her shoulder, a matching set on the other side. Her headpiece was a beaded band of reds and gold, a single dark ruby like a teardrop at the center resting low on her forehead. "You look very handsome, too, Da," she whispered in Bard's ear, as if telling a secret.

Bard gave Tilda another one-armed hug, hand smoothing down the white silk of her tunic. It was trimmed in white fur at the wrists and along the edge of the cloth as it wrapped diagonally across from left shoulder to waist, a cascade of stitched light pink flowers tumbling at the neckline.

"But he hasn't tied his hair back or put his hat on," said Sigrid. "Da's hopeless, Tilda, so don't you go about flattering him." Bain stifled a chuckle into a cough, hiding his grin with a hand.

" 'Tis true, Tilda. Da's been remiss," Bard intoned solemnly, "and your sister's quite right to take me to task for it." He was rewarded with a giggle, Tilda turning daintily from side to side, still fascinated with the silken fall of her dress. Oh, it is indeed lovely to see her so happy with girlish things, Bard reflected. Life in Laketown had been hard, and Bard watched his youngest grow old beyond her years, just as did Sigrid before her, expecting nothing in the way of the frivolities that so pleased little girls, aside from the array of scarves her mother had knit her before her birth and the occasional bracelet of woven hemp, strung with the odd wooden bead, her father made her while waiting for barrels to float down the Forest River.

Sigrid laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, a smile curving her lips that didn't reach her eyes, as if she sensed the somber cast of Bard's thoughts or felt the same herself. "Why don't you sit, Da? I'll tie back your hair." She searched in the pile of colored ribbons on the table until she found a suitable length of dark violet silk, as Bard took a seat in one of the chairs. Bain led Tilda to the door by the hand, nodding to his father as they passed.

"Come, Tilda," Bain said. "Let's leave Da and Sigrid to their"—he smirked, though Bard deemed that unjust—"preening and go pay a visit to Dreng, Ingvar, and their friends outside. Don't you want to see what they're wearing?" Tilda had taken a liking to Ingvar, who was scrupulously careful to call her "my princess," even if he stammered over the words half the time, face going bright red. One to watch in the coming years. Bard couldn't help but glower at the prospect. For now, Tilda bobbed her head excitedly and, hand in hand, went with Bain out the door.

An aggrieved huff came from behind him, and the tenor was familiar to Bard. "Bain been giving you trouble again?" he asked Sigrid, amused.

"Has he ever!" Sigrid's hands moved surely to untangle Bard's hair with a fine wooden comb, gathering the strands into a short tail at the nape of his neck. "Always he teases me for worrying so over our clothes!" With a few quick and expert twists, she knotted the silk in a tight bow around his hair. She gave her handiwork a final tug, then pulled away from Bard.

"Not that he can fool me," Sigrid mumbled, haphazardly stuffing the leftover ribbons into her sewing basket. Bard turned to watch her, concerned at the quaver he heard in her voice under the exasperation. "He worries as much as I, being the crown prince and your heir." She stared at the cloth strips in her hands, winding them together into a loose coil of green and blue.

"Sigrid." Bard shifted to cover her hands with his, stilling her repetitive motions. He waited until Sigrid, biting her lip, met his gaze before speaking, lightly squeezing her hands. "Whatever happens this day or in the next few weeks, know that you and Bain have made me very proud. As proud as a father can be." Now Bard was the one to look away. "I'm no man of words, Sigrid—never have been—and for that I'm sorry." He hesitated, then forced himself to go on. It is no easy task for a man to admit his failings. Bard glanced at Sigrid, not long enough to read her expression. Even to those he loves best. "If I haven't shown you the care and attention you—"

"Oh, Da!" cried Sigrid. "Don't apologize!" She lifted their joined hands and kissed his knuckles. "You listen to me here. We've never doubted your care for us. Not once." Sigrid raised a hand to coax Bard's head up so he could see the smile in her eyes. "We only don't want to reflect poorly on you."

"You couldn't, Sigrid," Bard said, startled that she and Bain would feel insecure on his behalf. "Good children you are. I can ask for no better." Sigrid's smile went watery and, for an anxious moment, Bard feared there would be tears. Thankfully, a polite knock sounded on the door.

It was Dreng. "Sire? Are you and Lady Sigrid ready?" A pause, so Dreng could fidget, Bard imagined. "Prince Bain says we must away."

"Enough of my nonsense!" Sigrid straightened and visibly steeled herself, hands aflutter adjusting the fall of her silk drape. "Put your hat on," she commanded, and Bard hastened to obey. After his hat was secured, though, he caught Sigrid by the shoulder on her way to the door.

"If... you ever need to talk..." Not for the first or even ten thousandth time, Bard wished her mother yet lived. He was a poor substitute as confidant.

Sigrid nodded, said, "I know, Da," then flung open the door and swept outside, head held high. He sighed, understanding that her royal mask was firmly in place for the day. And she's right. Duty calls.

Bard followed and was greeted as he stepped across the threshold by a boyish, piping voice shouting, in as manly a tone as it could manage, "Guards! Attention!" Fourteen pairs of brand new boot heels clicked smartly together as his honor escort assumed positions in two orderly lines of seven to the left and right of the door—Dreng at the head of one and Ingvar, the other—forming a short corridor for Bard to walk down to where his family awaited him.

Eyes were fixed front, spines stiffened, and arms locked in place along sides. Only two facts marred the martial bearing of his young guards to any great degree, Bard noted wryly. They were armed with half a bargepole each. And the tops of these were festooned with bursts of gaily festive streamers in every shade of the rainbow.

More curious hats, too, Bard saw, pacing down the ranks and inspecting his "men" as they seemed to expect him to. Black with broad, rigid brims that shadowed all of the face but the chin, the hats were topped with long orange tassels that hung over the rims, one each, and the brown feathers, striped with black, of some bird of prey. A braided rope of orange and black closely circled the raised center of the hat, resting on the flat brim. The hat was secured under the chin with a black tie but, similar to his own headgear, a purely decorative string of polished light brown beads, a cat's eye shining in each, looped to mid-chest.

He examined the loose dark orange pants, bottoms neatly tucked into black calf-high boots. Bard gravely nodded his approval at the sleeveless, wraparound black tunics, belted with silver buckles over bright orange shirts that lightened to yellow at the wrists, where the boys wore black bracers studded with more silver. Finally, he reached his family, Sigrid with an arm around Tilda and Bain with hands clasped behind his back, posture straight but relaxed, the picture of a young lord. Bard then turned and found that not one of his escort had moved a muscle. He frowned.

"They're waiting for you to dismiss them," Bain whispered, smirking again. He didn't show so much cheek before, Bard thought. Just what has Gilvagor been teaching him?

Bard tried to remember the orders he'd been given during his stint in the Laketown guard, a time he didn't much like to dwell on. Not only because he was green as grass and naive as to the corrupt ways of the Master, but because he'd resigned upon the death of his wife, passing up a promotion to captain of a company of archers. In the difficult months from then until he was hired as a bargeman, Bard often wondered if his grief and, yes, anger at the Master's denial of his request for compassionate leave led him to a poor decision. For surely the wages of a captain of guards would've better supported his children.

"At ease!" Bard at last commanded, hoping he sounded more authoritative than uncertain. To his relief, Dreng, Ingvar, and the others shifted to rest positions. What now? Bard was at a loss and, knowing they were on a schedule, settled for a less than military and decidedly impatient, "Let's go." Bain's hand covered his mouth, no doubt hiding another grin, though he was courteous enough to not outright laugh at his king and father.

"Guards! Move out!" yelled Dreng. He and two friends took the lead while Ingvar marched his own contingent of three to the rear. The remaining eight guards prepared to pace the royal family, four in a line on each side. Bemused at the practiced evolutions of this little company, Bard realized the boys must have drilled together to learn and perfect these formations. Shaking his head, he offered his arm to Sigrid, who accepted with a gracious smile. Bain behind them followed Bard's example and escorted Tilda, who blushed as pink as some of her pearls, clearly pleased by the courtly gesture. Thus they proceeded at a stately walk to the fairgrounds.

As they drew closer, they met more townspeople, not yet garbed in their festival finery but rather practical working clothes. Men rolled casks of cider, ale, and wine, some containing the fine Dorwinion red ordered special for the occasion. Women balanced tall stacks of plates, bowls, and cups, lugged pots and kettles filled with utensils, trailed by children with armfuls of banners and hangings in reds, blues, and greens. Trestle tables and long benches, baskets of fruits and vegetables, sheep and pigs still ignorant of their fate, candles and white paper lanterns—it seemed half of Dale was lending a hand to make ready for tonight's welcoming feast. And Bard knew the pavilions had been raised at first light, that the bakers were laying out their loaves for the ovens and the hunters returning with their catches, fresh venison and fish. Dreng was gleefully clearing a path, bargepole swinging as he cried, "Make way! Make way for the king!"

Heads turned. Those who could put down their burdens and bowed, doffing their hats if they had any. The rest cheered, calling his name, Sigrid, Bain, and even Tilda's. "Right fine you look, Your Majesty!" "Prince Bain! Blow us a kiss!" "Fair Lady Sigrid! Princess Tilda!" Bard acknowledged his enthusiastic subjects when he could with what he hoped were regal nods, Sigrid doing the same beside him, one hand tight on his arm above the other nestled in the crook of his elbow. Bain and Tilda waved, smiling madly, while their guards tried to keep appropriately serious countenances, mindful of their duty, though their efforts were quite in vain. Bard resisted the urge to break into a run.

After an interminable fifteen minutes or so being thronged, the royal party separated from the crowds, to many disappointed looks, continuing on a more westerly course to the site where Bard had arranged to meet the Elvenking and King Under the Mountain before throwing them to his people's curiosity. A bit of foresight Bard himself was now exceedingly grateful for. He and Sigrid heaved twin sighs of relief as soon as the townsfolk were out of view, then exchanged wide smiles at their own nervousness, safely behind them.

They walked briskly but comfortably, the day fair and the air bracing, reminiscent of early autumn. The weather had turned unseasonably warm after the bitter frost of a couple weeks ago and was ideal for strolls, though they'd all be glad for the blaze of the firepits on the fairgrounds come evening. Bard kept his silence, reviewing what he planned to discuss with Thranduil and Dáin. Bain and Sigrid respected their father's apparent wishes, quietly peering around at the scenery, but Tilda hummed to herself, a lilting melody that struck Bard as vaguely Elvish. Their escorts were wholly preoccupied with intently scanning the hilly swards, broken here and there by a stand of trees, for potential threats.

Suddenly, Sigrid laughed delightedly. "Bain," she said, a sly glint in her eyes, "since when did girls start asking you for kisses?"

Bain sputtered, all decorum lost. "They... They're just..." He collected himself and glared at Sigrid. "Being a prince is considered very dashing, is all. Or so they tell me. What do I know about girls?" He shuddered.

Bard raised an eyebrow. "Bain, don't tell me you've been bandying your title about to woo girls." He rather liked the return of this less self-assured Bain and didn't mind helping Sigrid roast her brother. He no doubt deserves it, Bard thought, amused as always by the impudent affection between his eldest children.

"What? No!" Bain cried, horrified at the mere suggestion. He recovered quickly, however, and pointed an accusing finger at Sigrid. "It's her you should worry about, Da. She's 'Sigrid the Fair' to every young man in town, who all act as besotted as if she were Lúthien come again."

"Oh, don't exaggerate. I'm hardly an Elven enchantress!" Sigrid sniffed haughtily at Bain's inept literary citation, then patted Bard's arm reassuringly. "Besides, every young man in town is far too afraid of Da to play at suitor." Her expression was sweet and convincingly ingenuous.

Tilda, who'd been all but forgotten by her siblings in their feud, chose to make a pertinent observation. "Sigrid's always getting bunches of flowers from people, mostly boys."

"Tilda!" Sigrid drew in a sharp breath and rounded on her sister with a wounded look. "I thought we agreed that would be our little secret."

Bard's other eyebrow was climbing his forehead to join its counterpart. "You didn't pick those yourself?" Every few weeks, there would be a fresh bouquet of wildflowers on their table in a painted clay vase. Bard had assumed Sigrid gathered them when collecting herbs for seasoning and medicines. That would've been unusual for his ever practical daughter, were it not for the romantic streak Sigrid was showing lately, so Bard suspected nothing.

I've been blind. ("Ha! I knew it!" crowed Bain.) Bard struggled to recall exactly what flowers Sigrid had received: small anemones in blue, purple, and white; stalks of heather; white water lilies; fragrant wild roses in every hue of red. ("I'm sorry, Sigrid," said Tilda, forlorn. "I forgot.") He was beginning to think there might be some ambitious young men in Dale he ought to take hunting. To have a talk in the woods with my bow.

"Da, can you not look so grim?" Sigrid pleaded. "The flowers don't mean anything."

"Names, Sigrid. I want names."

She refused to tell, of course, chiding Bard for being overbearing, which he did not appreciate in the least. Bain heckled them both, though he carefully stayed out of scolding range, not willing to jeopardize his escape from parental attention. Tilda lost interest in the entire episode. Dreng, Ingvar, and the other guards feigned deafness, with limited success. And so it was a rowdy group that arrived at the appointed meeting place. Two figures awaited them there, a Man and an Elf.

Holte had volunteered to keep a watch for the Elves and Dwarves, with instructions to make Bard's excuses with his glib tongue and lead the dignitaries to the fairgrounds, if necessary. Bard had no intention of missing his first opportunity to confer in person with his fellow rulers in a year, but he figured there was little harm in letting Holte feel useful to his king, as the man plainly wanted to be. The Elf Holte entertained wore the dark green and leathers of the woodland guard, though the armor seemed more ornamented than the Wood Elves' war gear to Bard's eye, with elaborate silver tracery, and a silver-green cloak fell from the Elf's shoulders. He was also armed not with bow and arrows but a tall spear of golden white wood and a fine, curving sword belted at his side.

"—until you see King Bard, the young prince and princesses, Master Elf. My darling wife—she's a draper, and she's had nothing but praise for the fabrics she and her associates provided the clothiers. Rich silks in so many colors, lovely brocades, the softest lamb wool and ermine fur!" Holte had clearly been speaking for a while, hands waving in the air with his excitement. "Ah! Here comes His Majesty with his family now. I'll be off then, leave you lords to your great councils."

The Elf laughed musically at this, bringing to mind wind chimes. "Holte, how many times must I tell you that I am no lord among my people?"

Holte simply shrugged, as if to say the Elvish reckoning of lords was of no import to him, then trotted away towards town. But not before bowing deeply to Bard with a quiet, "With your permission, sire." Bard nodded his dismissal, only slightly awkward.

Tilda let out a joyous cry. "Gilya!" She threw herself into the Elf's arms as he turned to greet them.

Gilvagor picked the running girl up in a swoop, graceful despite the spear still in his other hand. He brought Tilda's face close to his and said, voice brimming with mirth, "Glad as I am to learn that I've been missed, you shall soon be too heavy for me to lift, Tilda." He gazed at her with mournful eyes. "I beg of you, my lady, to take pity on the back of this poor old Elf!" Tilda giggled as Gilvagor staggered and groaned in exaggerated pain. "You would not have me lose standing in my king's guard, would you, my lady?" he asked in entreaty.

"No!" Tilda said, though she continued, "I don't think you very old, Gilya. For an Elf." Her face scrunched in consideration, then she nodded solemnly. "But you may put me down now," she granted, gracious as a queen. "And I will excuse you in the future."

"Thank you kindly, my lady," said Gilvagor. He set Tilda gently back on her feet and sketched a bow to her as Bard chuckled at this display of the Elf's youthful good humor.

Sigrid and Bain greeted Gilvagor with far more courtesy, which the Elf answered in kind before looking at last to Bard. Something of a curious smile had grown across Gilvagor's face as he spoke to the children; this expression froze as Bard stepped forward to welcome him. Bard thought Gilvagor resembled in his arrested motion nothing so much as one of his beloved beech trees or perhaps a startled woodland creature and instinctively sought the cause of his alarm, finding only bare grass nearby.

Puzzled, Bard was about to ask Gilvagor what troubled him when he saw the Elf's equanimity was restored, fair features once again as placidly pleasant as Long Lake on a clear summer's day. Was I mistaken? Elves! Who besides another Elf could know the inner workings of an Elven mind, and Wood Elves were more mercurial than the rest, as changeable as the seasons in their forest home.

Bard dismissed the matter as a passing Elven fancy and said, "Gilvagor, your arrival has been much anticipated," with an indulgent smile at his children, who all seemed abashed to varying degrees, Tilda the least. "I thought that you might travel with the Elvenking's party, though."

There was a slight pause, barely noticeable, before Gilvagor responded. Bard hoped Gilvagor had not slipped away without Thranduil's leave to see his students, even if that did strike Bard as unlikely given the Elves in question. With an understanding glint in his eyes, Gilvagor assured, "My king granted me permission to ride ahead for a private reunion." His focus shifted from Bard first to the south, then north; Bard was disconcerted to notice that two groups of riders were suddenly approaching, having rounded obscuring hills. Bard had chosen this meeting place for ease of access to both town and fairgrounds, reachable by short walks no longer than ten minutes on level grassy paths. But, he realized, he had not foreseen the effect standing in what amounted to a bowl-shaped hollow would have on his visibility—namely that he'd have little warning of the coming Elves and Dwarves. A shiver of anxiety curled up Bard's spine.

His abrupt feeling of near panic was not relieved by the uncertain note that crept into Gilvagor's voice as his gaze stayed distant. "King Thranduil and the King Under the Mountain will soon be here, but you..." The Elf hesitated, apparently at a loss for words, which was rare indeed. "When Sigrid asked of me lore on the customs of Men, I did not think to give you counsel." Bard watched in confusion as Gilvagor slowly shook his head. "It... is not my place and too late besides," he finally said, subdued from his earlier high spirits, eyes fixed on the lead rider in the Elven cavalcade. "I shall take my leave, Master Bowman. After you meet with my king, I will find you and make amends." To Bard's surprise, Gilvagor, who'd never stood much on ceremony with him in their yearlong acquaintance, made a full bow, arms swept wide, before sprinting lightly towards town in the next breath, leaving Bard no time to wonder at his strange behavior or speech.

Sigrid and Bain were as perplexed as he when he looked to them for an explanation, Bain offering a shrug. And then Bard could afford to think no longer on anyone's mysterious actions, motioning his children and young guards to take their places in preparation to formally greet their distinguished guests. Bain stood to his right, as his heir, Sigrid to his left and Tilda to her left. Dreng and Ingvar stood at attention a few paces removed from the ends of the line Bard and his family formed, the rest of the boys arrayed in two additional lines a few paces back. Bard took several deep breaths, silently rehearsing his words of welcome.

The Elves and Dwarves arrived together, which Bard suspected was no coincidence, neither delegation willing to surrender precedence to the other. Both groups were ahorse, the Elven mounts as tall and fair as their riders, silver bells jingling on their headstalls, and the Dwarven ponies as stout and long in hair as theirs, coats brushed to a lustrous shine and tack agleam with gems.

Like Gilvagor, the Elven escorts, some twenty strong, wore dark green and leathers tooled in silver, the ends of their silver-green cloaks draped over their horses' hindquarters. Each was armed with a pale spear, about half of these actually topped with streaming green pennants, and a curving sword belted at his side. The Dwarven escorts, of similar number, wore what must surely be ceremonial armor, so intricately wrought the metal was in geometric patterns that dizzied the mind, every piece polished sun-bright. They were unhelmed, however, Bard thought the better to display their braided hair and beards, clasped with gold and silver, beaded with jewels. Each was armed with a pair of small single-bladed axes as finely decorated as his armor, and four bore dark blue banners with the hammer and anvil device of Durin's folk stitched in mithril, though Bard could not vouch for the last.

Bard swallowed his nervousness, stepped forward, and said in a carrying voice that he steadied by force of will, "Hail and well met, my lords. Dale welcomes her honored friends and allies, the Dwarves of Erebor in the Lonely Mountain"—he nodded to King Dáin—"and the Elves of the Woodland Realm"—he nodded to King Thranduil—"on this most auspicious occasion, the one-year anniversary of the great events that could forever have sundered our three peoples but bound us together instead in good will and amity for the peace and prosperity of all." Bard then paused to await responses from Dáin and Thranduil, wishing his lacy cuffs were a bit longer so he could hide clenched fists in them. Don't fidget! He trusted Bain and Sigrid not to, Sigrid to manage Tilda, and hoped Dreng and Ingvar were too overawed by their visitors to do much except stare if their soldierly dedication failed them.

At last, Dáin dismounted, his lords and escorts after him, closing the distance between him and Bard on foot. The King Under the Mountain was resplendent in velvet robes of black and a deep, rich wine-red, collared in dark fur and embroidered generously in silver as well as with tiny gemstones, flashing blue and purple. Dáin's beard was by far the most magnificently adorned of the Dwarves', and he wore much gold jewelry besides in his hair—a broad belt, rings of different fashions on every finger, and finally a crown that was striking in its relative simplicity until one examined it closely. Bard had never seen gold nor any other metal so cleverly shaped and engraved, the geometric reliefs almost seeming alive with light and shadow.

"Hail, Bard, King of Dale," Dáin intoned resoundingly. "I, Dáin son of Náin, son of Grór, King Under the Mountain, do hereby graciously accept Dale's offer of hospitality on behalf of my people, who would honor our friendship and alliance with the Men of Dale until the world is remade." He inclined his head at Bard, who reciprocated, while behind them Dáin's lords exchanged courtesies with Bard's children. Greetings done, both Bard and Dáin turned their attention to the Elvenking.

Who did not look as if he intended to answer Bard's welcome, in truth. Thranduil's face was forbidding beneath his crown of bone-white wood, autumn leaves and berries red as heart's blood. He stared unblinkingly at Bard, eyes narrowed.

Is he offended I greeted the Dwarves first? Bard thought. The Men of Dale would not forget the kindness shown by the Elvenking after Laketown's destruction but, after all, their town lay practically on the front doorstep of Erebor. No, Bard decided. As difficult as he knew relations between the Elves and Dwarves to be at times, he did not believe Thranduil could be so easily slighted. But I know not why he is displeased. Though perhaps the more pressing question was how to salvage the situation.

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 the 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.

· · ·

TBC