A/N: At the end.

There is no more room to retreat.

An easy stone's throw away, ten elves are still carving the orc trash into twitching chunks of flesh. Almost as near, the contingent from Dale is likewise steadily moving forward under the cover of archers from upslope. Thranduil knows the sound of it - the high-pitched grunts of elation, the gasps of exertion, the flat thwak of flesh against leather as fighters grapple together inside each others reach. He knows what an engagement sounds like, on the cusp of victory.

We shall win. The certainty is building in Thranduil's heart even as his arms tremble with effort, and his breath comes short.

We shall win, but I am about to die.

Two of his guard are down, their long legs tangling his footwork as he parries the quartet of orc that have backed him into a hollow of stone. The mountain juts forward overhead, foolish, foolish to get pushed out of range of the archers. Another guard goes down even as Thranduil strikes at the orc that killed her. The final guard is still fighting but with two orc working in well practiced teamwork, the elf can do little more than hold his own.

There are still three orc facing Thranduil. He cannot retreat.

I will die here.

It is not how he ever wished to fall - not with his gaze locked with a foul servant of the dark, not with his breath mingling with the rotting stench that hissing from between yellow teeth, not in this obscene parody of joining.

It comes as it will, Thranduil thinks, and carves the arm from the largest - and slowest - of his opponents. The fastest one snorts and bares its teeth, as if to say,impressive, but then the third is on Thranduil, and his sword is coming up too late, too slow, he will kill this orc but the body will fall with his sword locked in bone and his whole body exposed and the clever orc sees it, knows the opportunity, and the blow that will kill the third orc has not yet fallen and already both of them know, they all know how this will end –

A voice screams - a Man, loud, rough, bestial - and Thranduil's sword connects, the third orc falls, dragging down Thranduil's sword as it descends, jerking Thranduil aside, and it is worse than he thought, he has no defense –

- and needs none, because the king of Dale has buried his sword in the neck of the clever orc - the one too stupid to keep a Man from stepping into his blind spot- and the black blood sprays them both as the orc falls.

Thranduil goes to his knees - relief, shock, astonishment - and is still there when Bard jerks his blade free. He steps toward the elf-lord, stumbling over more than bodies, and crouches down, far down, how ever did Bard grow to be so very tall? until his eyes are level with Thranduil's.

Half the Man's face is black with gore. His hands are coated with red to the elbows, the last of the winter's light gleaming off the scarlet curve of his fingers as he raises his hand to touch Thranduil's jaw.

The elflord's sword is still bone-locked in the orc's body. It is this reason, and this only, that prevents Thranduil from tangling both hands in Bard's mahogany mane as the Man's mouth mets his.

He is limited, perforce, to one hand, and to all the promise he can put in lips and tongue and breath.

The battle is still raging on. He does not close his eyes. There will be time enough for that, should they both live.

Two heartbeats, three, and then Bard is jerking away - no, surging upright, and bringing Thranduil with him. Their bodies meet, hard, both of them staggering on the bitter footing. Thranduil looks down, finds Bard's eyes dark, his breath comes as fast as Thranduil's, but there is only time enough to say, as if as one, "Later."

end

A/N: Post BoFA, Barduil (?)-ish, smutless, T for violence, in response to a prompt from TheReadersMuse