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Whatever Bard was doing, it wasn’t riding a horse. Certainly he sat in the saddle and allowed the beast to carry him forward, but that was where all resemblance ceased. To anyone watching he might have appeared asleep, head bowed, hands scarcely holding the reigns before him, swaying with the motion of his mount’s steps like a mound of clay being slowly washed away by the rain. His shoulders slumped under the massive weight of water currently pouring down on him from above. Smaug on his cold bed of reeds at the bottom of the Lake could hardly claim to be wetter than him.
When he set out for the Woodland Realm the day had been sunny with a stiff wind and scarcely a cloud above. The rain had begun when the sun had scarcely traveled a hand’s-breadth in the sky, and it showed no sign of stopping yet. It was a dense, fat, clinging rain that sunk deep into every piece of permeable fabric on him. Being under the trees hardly helped–the leaves seemed to funnel every drop of water that fell on the forest at large directly over Bard’s head. So far he’d spent most of the ride trying to come up with a joke revolving around the pun “Moistwood”. Either way he had a sneaking suspicion that he himself was the punchline.
Bard might have considered muttering a commentary on Mirkwood’s debatable charms under his breath to help him feel the rain a little less, but with all the ears in this forest it rarely was well to insult it. So he rode in sullen silence with his head tilted forward under its sodden cloak, and watched the rivulets of water go spilling down the front of his hood rather than the path ahead. He trusted his horse to keep to the road without his guidance–and it was for that reason that, when the rider appeared out of the grey mist of rain before him, Bard only registered his presence when the two of them were about to collide.
He tugged on the reigns, pulling his mount up short as the grey-cloaked rider stopped his. Bard squinted through the skittering rain droplets, too cold and tired to summon any sense of wariness. “Who goes there?”
Without a word the rider dismounted, his booted feet splashing in the mud. Bard watched as he stepped forward, no weapon in his hands, until he was standing just before Bard’s horse. Only when he tilted his head up to reveal his face did Bard finally smile.
“Come to join me in this fine weather, my lord?” Bard asked, swinging his leg from the saddle and sliding down to stand at Thranduil’s side. With his stiff limbs and numb fingers it was a miracle Bard didn’t end arse-up in the mud.
Thranduil looked at him at eye level now, a faint smile growing in his eyes. “I thought it best. Even after the fall of the Necromancer, these roads are unsafe to travel alone.”
The elf seemed to be holding up better than Bard was, his Elven cloak keeping out the worst of the water. The tips of his hair were wet, though. Bard could take some satisfaction in that.
“I’m touched by your concern,” Bard replied. “Though I might note that you yourself have brought no guards.”
“Good thing I’m no longer alone.” His hands wound into Bard’s cloak, and Bard scarcely had time to laugh before he was yanked forward into the kiss. Thranduil’s mouth was blessedly warm against his, and a much pleasanter sort of wet.
“Impatient, aren’t we?” Bard murmured against his lips. Thranduil did not deign to stop and reply. For a moment the pelting rain was forgotten. One brief, wonderful moment. And then a leaf above them shifted, and dumped what felt like half of the Long Lake over their heads. Bard looked like a drowned corpse. Under his hardy cloak, Thranduil was untouched. Bard resisted the sudden urge to drag him to the nearest puddle and give his head a good dunking.
“You’re the one who insisted on coming here with such awful storms on the way,” the elf commented with a glance at the sky.
“Not all of us can read the weather like you can.”
“Pity. You might have thought to come yesterday, and spare us both the rain.”
“And you could have had me a whole day sooner,” Bard said with a grin, tugging Thranduil in for another kiss. This time he let his cold, wet hands wander up to cup the elf’s jaw, ignoring the faint murmur of complaint from the back of Thranduil’s throat. He slid them into Thranduil’s hair, somehow completely dry, and felt the warmth blossoming in his fingertips. He sighed against Thranduil’s lips, curling his fingers in deeper. After a moment, Thranduil opened his eyes and pulled back.
“Bard, are you going to stand there with your hands pressed to my scalp, or are you going to keep kissing me?”
Bard thought about it. “The first one,” he decided. “At least until I can feel my fingers again.”
A slow smile spread over Thranduil’s lips. “There is a cave nearby, if you wished to take shelter from the rain. Perhaps put those fingers to better use.” His eyes were positively lascivious.
“A cave, Thranduil? Really?” Bard groaned. “Absolutely not. You are going to take me back to the Woodland Realm, you are going to install me next to a roaring fire, and you are going to give me a bowl of hot food, like a civilized and courteous host.”
Thranduil raised one eyebrow. “It’s a hot-springs cave.”
Bard paused. “I’ll consider it.”