Of Aspiration and Assistance

Prologue

After all the pieces had been picked up again- Dale returned to some semblance of the fortress it had once been, Erebor maintained and the treasure divided evenly and fairly between the conquering kingdoms, and claims settled between all -life had returned to it's seemingly normal flux. However, for most, it would not be the same. Some had tasted adventure, and been reluctant to give it up. Others had seen treasure beyond their wildest dreams, and could not bear to live on without it. Even more had seen the scourge of war and sworn to keep themselves safe and happy until the ends of time, never again wishing for battles that promised the fallacy of "glory."

For even more, life seemed precious again.

The looked upon their family with a newfound understanding of just how dear they were. Friends were closer than ever, and a deep comprehenson of camaraderie had overcome Dale. Tighter than they had ever been before, full of more love and life than anyone had ever seen, and proud beyond measure.

It was the kind of thing that brought about a smile to Bard the Bowman's face; the chance to see Lake-town reunited in Dale, a new home and a new beginning. They had begun to rebuild their lives, and he watched in wonder each day as construction laid out through the city(which he often assisted with). Walls fortified, homes rebuilt, and pieces of culture finding themselves etched through the walls and streets of the town. Women had set out to patch pieces of land inside and outside of the city, preparing gardens with the help of Elven aid, and it brought about a fragrance in the air that seemed to eradicate the once pungent scent of death the earth carried. Men had formed tight communities, for fishing and hunting, and set out often to bring back game for the market.

Dale was thriving again. Not perfect, for it was still marred by the wrath of war, but it was alive. Bard could smell ot in the air, feel it in his heart. With each step he took, the street beneath him seemed to beat in time with the pulse of the city, as he saw smiles spring once again to citizen's faces. And this time, there was no pretending. No false happiness set under the guise of a selfish tyrant, a foolish Master. Instead, there was honesty around each corner, as the people of Dale set out with their new lives laid before them.

However, there was a part of Bard, no matter how small it was, that held envy toward them all. While he was endlessly happy for his people, he also had a small part of him, miniscule in all it's jealousy, that yearned for the same. He was no longer permitted to be a simple man, no longer held to simple expectations for simple living. No-- now instead of gossiping about his latest antics, or how the Master's eye seemed glued to him, his neighbors spoke of palaces and crowns.

The decision had been made for him. He was to be king.

Sigrid, of course, was elated and proud beyond measure. Bain gazed upon the opportunity with excitement, and prqised his father for being considered as a king. Tilda buzzed with exhilaration at the premise of becoming a princess. Bard, himself, did not know what to think. How had things changed so quickly for him? When did he become Bard the Dragon-slayer, or King Bard of Dale? When had he stopped being considered a criminal?

If he had known he'd be glorified and his transgressions forgotten so quickly, perhaps he would have marched on Erebor himself long ago. Though, the thought in itself was, of course, composed of bitter, sardonic humor.

While he wanted to claim a throne, to lead his people and instruct them on how to keep their lives ticking along nicely, the thought brought up a bubble of acid to his throat. What sort of king would he be? Might he live long enough to see himself become corrupt? And what of his skills? Experience? What more did he have to offer Dale besides his truant disregard for safety, and thick-headed courage?

These thoughts stirred within him, stronger than ever now that the citizens of Dale had begun discussion coronation. Ceremonies and parties, rumors spreading like wildfire of what day Bard would take the crown and become the true king of Dale. They kept him up at night, spinning in his brain, poisoned with worry and regard for the future. Should he fail, would they remember him as kindly as they do now? Did he hold himself enough for extended diplomacy with the kingdoms around them? How could he learn?

Finally, it was too much. Late into the hours of night, Bard sprung out of bed, covers being tossed off in a cold sweat. He lit a candle with freezing fingers, before softly cursing how he had foregone wearing thicker layers to bed. Yet, before he could truly wake up and reconsider such a rash decision, Bard had taken the candle close to his desk and settled it on the surface. Cold hands picked at the parchment around him, before he swooped up a quill and found his finest stationary. Bard, in the dead of night, quickly scrawled out a note to the only authority he had faith to turn to in such a time:

My Lord Thranduil, King of the Elves of Northern Mirkwood--