"Tell me dragon slayer, is Bard your true name?"
He had to do it his way. The Dixon way.
Everyone got one. That was the deal he'd made himself.
He blew on his tea habitually, finding his gaze straying to the window – the only one in the room that faced the great forest – more than once. He hadn't seen the Elven-King in months, not since the deep snows and bitter cold had rendered travel not just unwise but almost impossible.
And like a house that slowly becomes a home, they'd come into their own.
Not for more than an age had the filth of Melkor been so bold. Nor their foul deeds so costly.
The air was heavy when he let the cover of the bible feather closed. He winced as the spine creaked, in danger of splitting down the center as he looked up at the people ringed around him.
"More," she breathed, looking up at him, lower lip caught between her teeth as she angled her hips – doing her best to try and suck him back down – hungry for it – every time he pulled back to surge down for another thrust. "God, Daryl-please. I need-"
He wasn't sure which of them looked more surprised when the staff slipped out of the wizard's fingers, Dori or Gandalf himself. Personally he'd been too busy memorizing the pattern of Dori's socks - anything to distract himself from the way his feet were dangling, kicking out into nothingness.
An age might have passed as she lingered in her grief. A hundred thousand dances between the moon and stars before she was aware of her King's steps. Unable to summon the energy to startle or even bow her head when he sank low beside her. Trading silences as she carded her fingers through the dark hair pooled in her lap.
Her laugh was weak, a gross shadow of what had once been as she cocked her head and looked him right in the eye. "So, what else is new?"
After all, when had living ever really been easy?
Honestly, she wasn't even sure why she was surprised. Because, quite frankly, Daryl just wouldn't be who he was without having extraordinarily awful timing.
It had been impossible not to follow him. Not to love him. Her archer. Her soul's match
"So hot, yet so disappointingly straight," she muttered, slinking back into neutral territory. Grateful that it was only the church pews that stood witness to her self-imposed walk of shame as she found the first free space that looked halfway decent and practically face-planted head first across the bench.
'At least the dancing hall is tolerably large', she thought, trying vainly not to sweat in her brand new, pearl-white muslin.
The best and worst part of it, was that he'd come easy.
"You're not strong enough."
What was that old saying? The apple never falls far from the tree?
After all, a starving man didn't just stare at the meal he was provided. He gorged himself.