[ Humming faintly, Thranduil lets his gaze flicker over the man for a moment longer before he releases an amused chuckle. It’s rather bold on Bard’s behalf, to have entered his chambers like this. But he can’t find himself minding, finds it rather pleasant, in fact. Bard is certainly a fascinating man. ]
Mm, your words ring true, certainly. But do you not think that, if I did not permit this, you would still be lounging in this bed beside me?
[ The question is posed with a raised brow, and Thranduil shifts subtly, so that he may get a better look at the man beside him. ]
(He’s stilent, mulling to himself despite the fact that he can hardly think when the other is so near, and he looks elsewhere, a distraction by dim lit ceiling. But eventually he must meet the other’s eyes, so he turned. He really ought to have contemplated this better. Not just rashly 'sneaking’ in such an unsubtle method in here. )
No, I would not be.
( it's either this strange game he’s implanted in of his own mind, otherwise the implication taken appropriately by he. ) That means then, you permit this. Do not play me for a puppet, Lord.
Personal Thranduil Headcanon: Losing the Elk Hurt Him Deeply
Thranduil’s pause after being thrown from his dead friend’s back and the stunned expression that follows is him processing the elk’s death. He begins for only a short moment to take it in, to think he’s fallen… he’s dead… my friend, he’s- before he forces himself to do what he does so well… swallow his pain. Collect yourself, he thinks. Now is not the time for grief. And so he pushes the loss down deep inside himself, to come to rest where the memories of his father and wife and so many others reside, and continues to fight. The grief was there outwardly only for one brief moment but will be there inwardly… forever.
I will remember you always, dear one, as I do all those I have lost. It is the curse of those who survive to forever mourn the fallen.
