The Starflower
Winter in the Woodland Realm is a stark and dead affair. The great trees stand skeletal against gray skies, their branches bare and black. Most elves stay indoors during these months, content with warmth and wine and the company of their own kind. It is a season for drawing inward, for long nights by the fire. Most children are conceived in the winter and born in the spring, which is why Legolas’ story is relevant.
Thranduil remembers his wife. Remembers their winter together when they shared counsel with their bed more than the dining table, more than their own people. The people had understood. The heir was vital to both of them. In two springs, Legolas had been born to their delight and pride.
Two springs after that, it had been just the two of them. Legolas and Thranduil. A grieving father who did not know where to start, and a son who barely understood why his mother was gone.
It is winter now. The snows fall thick in the woodland realm, and the trees have shed their leaves to allow the white blanket to stretch down to the forest floor. The cold seeps through stone, through wood, through the very earth itself. Even the great halls, carved deep into the mountain and warmed by braziers and hearths, hold the bite of frost in their corners.
Thranduil sits in his own chamber, lying on a low bench upholstered in forest green velvet, worn soft with age. He is wrapped in thick robes of silver-gray wool, and a long blanket the color of summer leaves is draped across his lap and legs. The fire before him roars in a fireplace so massive a man could stand upright within it. The heat rolls off the flames in waves, but still the floor is cold enough that Thranduil keeps his bare feet tucked beneath the blanket.
The room itself is more sitting room than bedchamber, though his bed stands against the far wall, draped in heavy curtains to trap what warmth it can. Tapestries line the stone walls, their colors muted in the firelight. A low table sits before the bench, scattered with maps and correspondence he has been ignoring for the better part of an hour. The windows are shuttered tight against the wind that howls outside.
He turns his head as the door opens. A guard appears in the threshold, speaking in low tones to Elisha, the guard stationed inside. Thranduil can hear the murmur but not the words.
“What is it?” he calls, his voice carrying easily across the chamber.
The guard in the doorway straightens. “A human was found headed this way through the woods, Sire. He says he knows you. Says his name is Bard.”
Thranduil feels something tighten in his chest. Bard. In winter. Through the Mirkwood.
“Bring him to me,” he says, the words coming out more quickly than he intends.
“We will have him in the throne room shortly, my lord.”
“No.” The word is too sharp, and Thranduil knows it. He moderates his tone, making it merely firm rather than urgent. “I am comfortable where I am. You will bring him here.” He gestures to a spot in front of the fire. “I shall speak with him in this chamber.”
The guard hesitates only a moment before bowing and withdrawing.
“Is that wise?” Tauriel’s voice comes from behind him, near the door to his private study.
Thranduil does not turn. “You are here, Tauriel. I am safe.”
She does not respond. He hopes she takes that as both his belief and his command. Tauriel has always tested the boundaries of protocol, pushed further than any other guard would dare. He allows it because she is skilled, loyal, and because they share a peculiar understanding. She rebuked his son. His son rebuked her. And perhaps that creates a strange kinship between them, even if it must exist within the bounds of king and guard.
It takes nearly fifteen minutes. Thranduil hears the approach before the door opens again—boots on stone, heavy and human. The door cracks open.
“Through here.” The guard’s voice is formal.
“This is a bedchamber.” Bard’s voice is deep, rougher than Thranduil remembers, and confused.
“It is a sitting room,” the guard corrects, stiff with offense as they enter.
“Forgive me...” Bard’s tone is dry. The door opens wider. Bard is brought in, and Thranduil sees him correctly for the first time in months. “That appears to be a bed.” He says, almost smugly, and Thranduil has to work to keep the smile from his face. The bowman looks worn. His coat is heavy and travel-stained, crusted with ice along the shoulders. His dark hair is damp, melting snow leaving tracks down his temples. His face is wind-burned, his lips chapped. But his eyes are sharp, taking in everything. The tapestries, the fire, the bed half-hidden behind its curtains, Tauriel standing like a sentinel near the study door.
Thranduil waves the guards away with a slight motion of his hand. They bow and withdraw, pulling the door shut behind them. Tauriel does not move.
“Thranduil.” Bard’s voice is warm despite the chill still clinging to him.
Tauriel’s eyes widen. Her hand moves fractionally toward her blade. “He shall be—”
Thranduil raises one hand, the gesture minimal but absolute. She falls silent.
“Please, sit, Bard.” He looks at Tauriel, meets her gaze steadily. “You may go.”
“Your Majesty, I will not.” She stands firm, her spine straight, her jaw set.
“King to everyone but this one?” Bard asks, tossing a thumb over his shoulder in her direction, and there is something pointed in the question, something almost amused.
“It is protocol,” Thranduil says, defending her actions, shifting slightly so that his bare feet touch the floor. The wood is cold enough to make him draw a sharp breath. “A guard may not leave the king alone with a non-elf.” He looks at Bard properly now, taking in the fatigue in the set of his shoulders, the way he is trying not to shiver. “You have traveled far in snow and ice to come to me. What is so urgent that it could not wait for spring?”
Bard nods, his jaw working for a moment before he speaks. “I still have to ferry, even in winter. It still takes me far and wide.” He pauses, and Thranduil can see him choosing his words. “I found something.”
“Found something?” Thranduil keeps his voice neutral, but curiosity stirs beneath his ribs. “Something that would bring you this far into the Mirkwood in the dead of winter? What did you find?”
Bard reaches into a pocket of his large coat. His fingers are stiff with cold as he pulls out what appears to be a small linen rag. He opens it slowly and carefully, and inside is a piece of jewelry: a flower. Delicate metalwork, silver petals curved just so. Even from a distance, Thranduil can see the craftsmanship.
“It was found along the river.” Bard extends it toward him. “It has Elvish writing on the back.”
Tauriel moves faster than a human eye could follow. She is between them before Bard’s arm is fully extended, one hand out in a staying gesture. “Do not.”
“Don’t?” Bard looks past her to Thranduil, his brow furrowed. “What have I done to offend?”
“Nothing.” Thranduil keeps his voice even, though something cold and unpleasant has settled in his stomach. “You have done nothing wrong.” He nods toward a small table near the bench, away from where he sits. “Set it just there.”
Bard stands, and Thranduil notices the way he moves: stiff, sore from travel, from cold. He crosses to the table and sets the wrapped flower down with care. As he straightens, he seems to notice the fire properly for the first time. He holds his hands toward it, rubbing them together, and Thranduil can see the tremor in his fingers.
“Send for tea, Tauriel.”
It is not a request, and she knows it. Still, she hesitates. “Sire.”
“I said—” Thranduil’s voice rises, fills the chamber with the weight of command, before he catches himself. He softens it, but only just. “Send for tea. You may leave the door open.”
She looks at him, and there is something in her expression. Not quite defiance. Not quite fear. Something between the two, something complicated. Then she turns, moving to the door and pulling it wide. She steps into the corridor to speak to another guard, her voice low and clipped.
“What did I do wrong?” Bard asks. He has come to sit on the opposite end of the bench, keeping a careful distance. His voice is quieter now, uncertain in a way that Thranduil suspects he hates.
“Nothing. You do not know our ways.”
That makes Bard pause, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “If I had handed that to you directly, what would it have meant?”
Thranduil is quiet for a moment: the fire crackles and pops. Outside, the wind throws snow against the shutters. “Courting,” he says finally. He gestures toward the flower on the table, still wrapped in its linen. “Starflowers are given as gifts to those being courted. In winter, when there are no such flowers on the forest floor, sometimes an elf will craft one.” He studies the shape of it, the curve of the petals he can see. “This one was lost. Or rebuked, it would seem.”
Bard stares at him for a long moment. Then he laughs, short and sharp. “So I just, without knowing, attempted to ask you to court me?”
“You were stopped in time. Your pride is safe.” Thranduil looks at the flower again. Something about it tugs at his memory, the particular style of the metalwork. “Could you turn it over?”
Bard stands and crosses to the table. He unwraps the flower fully and flips it with careful fingers. “What does it say?”
Thranduil can see it from where he sits. The script is small but elegant, unmistakable. His jaw tightens.
“Tauriel?”
She appears in the doorway immediately, as if she had been standing just outside. Waiting.
“Send Elisha in. You are dismissed.”
“Sire?” Her voice rises slightly, incredulous.
“Do not question me.”
The words come out harder than he means them to, and he watches her flinch. Her eyes go wide, and for a moment, she looks very young. Then her face hardens, and she bows stiffly before backing away into the corridor.
“You didn’t need to yell at the poor girl,” Bard says quietly.
“That poor girl is more than six hundred years old,” Thranduil replies, his voice flat. “If she cannot take orders from her king, then there is a greater issue at hand.”
He knows he will regret it later. Knows he has given Tauriel a longer leash than he would ever grant another guard. But just now, he cannot have her in this room.
Elisha enters and closes the door behind him. He is older than Tauriel by several centuries, steadier, and less inclined to let personal feelings cloud his judgment. He takes his position near the door without a word.
“Eli.” Thranduil does not look away from the flower. “Anything said in this room is said in confidence. If it leaves this room, I will know it was you.”
“Aye, Sire.”
Thranduil takes a breath. “The writing on the back is Legolas’ name.”
“Your son,” Bard says. Not a question.
“Yes. He tried to give it to Tauriel.”
Understanding crosses Bard’s face. “That’s why you dismissed her. So she would not see this.”
“Chances are she knows already,” Thranduil says. His voice is tired. “But she has no intention toward him. I will not reawaken those pains by allowing her to see this again.” He looks at the flower, at the delicate work his son must have spent hours on. “She cast this away. Rebuked my son’s invitation to her heart.”
“So it’s just a courting gift.” Bard sounds uncertain, as if he is unsure whether this is important or trivial.
“It was. Now it belongs to you, as you have picked it up.” Thranduil nods toward it. “You may take it with you when you go.”
“This doesn’t lock me to Legolas, does it?” There is alarm in Bard’s voice now.
“No. It was rebuked. You came upon it by chance. It is yours to keep.” Thranduil pulls his feet back under the blanket, suddenly aware of the cold again. “It does not need to return to these halls.”
The door opens. A servant enters with a tray, moving with the particular quiet efficiency of the household staff. Bard stands to scoop up the jeweled flower, wrapping it carefully and tucking it back into his coat pocket. The servant sets the tray on the low table in front of them. Tea, still steaming. Lembas bread. Dried fruits and meats arranged on a wooden platter: simple fare, but good.
“Eat. You are probably hungry.”
“I am.” Bard does not let pride get in the way of that admission. He reaches for the bread first, tearing off a piece and eating it without ceremony.
They eat quietly before the fire. The wind continues to howl outside, but here in this room, with the flames high and the shutters holding fast, it is warm. Almost comfortable. They speak of their children and the changes in the world around them. Of the Lonely Mountain and its new dwarf king. Of Laketown and its slow rebuilding. Of trade routes and weather and the small, ordinary things that fill the spaces between significant events.
And for a little while, in the depths of winter, a king and a ferryman sit together like old friends, sharing tea and warmth while the snow falls thick and white outside.
The conversation winds down naturally, the way good conversations do. Bard sets down his empty cup and shifts on the bench, and Thranduil can see the weariness settling into his shoulders now that the cold is finally leaving his bones.
“I should go,” Bard says, but he does not move to stand. “I’ve a room at—”
“You will stay here.” Thranduil cuts him off, his voice leaving no room for argument. “In the guest quarters. It is full dark outside, and you will not travel through Mirkwood at night. Not in winter.”
Bard opens his mouth as if to protest, then closes it again. He looks toward the shuttered windows, and Thranduil knows he is imagining what lies beyond them. The dark paths. The ancient malice that still lingers in the southern reaches of the wood, dormant but never truly gone.
“In the morning, then,” Bard says finally.
“In the morning, we will see.” Thranduil lets his gaze drop to Bard’s feet, to the boots that are cracked and worn, the leather separating from the sole in places. “Those will not last you another journey. We will have the cobbler fit you with proper boots before you leave. And you will take provisions. Real provisions, not whatever scraps you have been carrying.”
Bard follows his gaze and has the grace to look embarrassed. “They’ve seen better days.”
“They have seen their last days.” Thranduil rises from the bench, pulling the blanket with him and draping it over one arm. Without the fire’s direct heat, the room feels immediately colder. “You have children, yes? Three, if I recall correctly.”
“Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda.” There is warmth in Bard’s voice when he says their names. “You remember.”
“I remember.” Thranduil moves toward the door, his bare feet silent on the cold floor. “We will send gifts. Small things. Suitable for winter.” He pulls the door open, and Elisha straightens from his post. “Have the guest quarters in the east wing prepared. Ensure that a fire is laid and extra blankets are available. And send for the cobbler at first light.”
“Yes, Sire.” Elisha bows and departs quickly.
Thranduil turns back to Bard, who has stood and is watching him with an expression that is difficult to read. “Someone will come to show you the way shortly. Sleep well, Bard of Laketown.”
“Thank you.” Bard’s voice is quiet, sincere. “For all of this.”
Thranduil inclines his head, a small gesture that nevertheless carries weight. “You brought news of my son, even if you did not know it. That is worth more than a bed and a pair of boots.”
The next morning arrives with a peculiar quality of light. Thranduil wakes to it: that odd brightness, which means only one thing. He does not need to open the shutters to know what he will find.
He does anyway.
The courtyard below is invisible. Everything is invisible. The world has become nothing but white, great drifts of snow piled against walls and covering the pathways entirely. It is still falling, thick flakes that swirl and dance in a wind he can hear but not feel. The trees beyond are ghost shapes in the distance.
They are snowed in. Deeply.
Thranduil dresses in layers, heavy robes over lighter ones, and makes his way to the main hall. Elves move through the corridors with their usual efficiency, but there is a different quality to the morning. Servants carry extra firewood. Guards stamp snow from their boots after coming in from patrol. The air itself feels thicker, muffled by the weight of the storm outside.
He finds Bard in the guest quarters, standing at the window with his arms crossed. Someone has indeed built up the fire, and the room is warm, but Bard is staring out at the white expanse with an expression that Thranduil recognizes.
“How bad is it?” Bard asks without turning.
“Bad enough.” Thranduil steps into the room, and Bard finally looks at him. “The southern gate is impassable. The northern gate is nearby. We could dig out, but the storm has not stopped. We would be digging for days.”
“I need to get back to my children.” Bard’s voice is tight, controlled, but Thranduil can hear the fear underneath it. The particular fear of a parent separated from their young.
“I understand.” And he does. He remembers that fear, remembers what it felt like when Legolas was small and the world felt full of dangers. “We can send a messenger. Through the trees. Some paths do not require the gates, paths that an elf can navigate even in weather like this.”
“Can I follow them?”
Thranduil holds his gaze. “No.”
The word hangs between them. Bard’s jaw works, and Thranduil can see him struggling with it, wanting to argue. Wanting to insist he can do it anyway.
“Bard, of Laketown.” Thranduil steps closer, his voice firm but not unkind. “The paths run through the canopy: Branch to branch, places where the trunks grow close enough to leap between. An elf can do it. After all, we are light because we have done it since we were children. A human—” He pauses. “You would fall. And in this cold, that fall would kill you.”
“So I’m trapped here.” There is an edge to Bard’s voice now, something sharp.
“You are safe here,” Thranduil corrects. “There is a difference. Would you rather I let you go? Let you try to make your way through snow that is waist-deep in places, through a forest that is dangerous even in fair weather? You would freeze before you reached the forest’s edge. Your children would wait for you, but you wouldn't come. And in a week, we would find your body half-buried in a drift.” His voice goes cold. “Is that what you would prefer?”
Bard flinches. Thranduil can see the words land, can see Bard imagining exactly what he has described.
“I need them to know I’m alive,” Bard says finally, and his voice has lost its edge. Now it is just tired. Just afraid.
“Then we will send word.” Thranduil moves to the door and calls for Elisha. When the guard appears, Thranduil gives his orders clearly. “Send Lindel. He knows the tree paths better than anyone. Have him carry word to Laketown that Bard the Bowman is safe within our halls and will return when the weather clears. Tell him to be certain the message reaches Bard’s children directly.”
“At once, Sire.” Elisha bows and vanishes.
Thranduil turns back to Bard, who has sunk into a chair by the fire. He looks defeated, and Thranduil finds he does not care for the sight.
“How long?” Bard asks quietly.
“A week, perhaps. Maybe less if the storm breaks quickly. Maybe more if it does not.” Thranduil studies him for a moment, this mortal man who traveled through the Mirkwood in winter to return a piece of jewelry he did not understand. “You cannot spend that time in this room, staring at the snow and worrying yourself into madness.”
“What else is there to do?”
“Many things.” Thranduil allows himself a small smile, barely there. “When was the last time you bathed properly? In hot water, not a river?”
Bard blinks at him, caught off guard. “I, what?”
“You smell like travel and horses and wet leather. It is not offensive, but it is noticeable.” Thranduil’s tone is matter-of-fact. “We have baths, proper baths, with water that is actually hot. You will use one. And then you will have fresh clothing, things that fit and do not have holes worn through them.”
“I don’t need-”
“You do.” Thranduil cuts him off. “And when you are clean and dressed in something that does not look like you fished it out of a river, I will show you the halls: The true halls, not just the guest quarters and the throne room. Few mortals have seen the Woodland Realm in winter. Fewer still have been given leave to walk freely through our home.” He tilts his head slightly. “Consider it an education. Something to tell your children when you return to them.”
Bard stares at him for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he laughs. It is a short, rough sound, but genuine. “You’re serious.”
“I am always serious.”
“You’re going to give me a bath and a tour because I’m stuck here?”
“I am going to ensure you do not spend the next week spiraling into despair and making yourself and everyone around you miserable.” Thranduil moves toward the door again. “The baths are this way. Come.”
It is not a request.
Bard rises from the chair, shaking his head but following nonetheless. “You’re a strange king, you know that?”
“I have been called worse.” Thranduil leads him out into the corridor, where the cold is less oppressive but still present, held at bay by braziers that burn at regular intervals. “A week is not so long, Bard of Laketown. You may even find it passes more quickly than you expect.”
Behind him, Bard says nothing. But he follows, and that is enough.
