thrush family

Bard and his bird-speaking ability

It was not mentioned in the movie; however, in the novel, it was stated that because of Girion, Bard is capable of speaking to the avian species. However, this ability is only extended towards the birds of the Thrush family. This ability is demonstrated through this passage:

(  When Bilbo is frustrated he throws a stone at an old thrush (the same one that speaks to Bard) and Thorin admonishes him: )

“Leave him alone!” said Thorin. “The thrushes are good and friendly-this is a very old bird indeed, and is maybe the last left of the ancient breed that used to live about here, tame to the hands of my father and grandfather. They were a long-lived and magical race, and this might even be one of those that were alive then, a couple of hundreds years or more ago. The Men of Dale used to have the trick of understanding their language, and used them for messengers to fly to the Men of the Lake and elsewhere.”

This was to establish that Bard was truly the heir of Girion, for the Men of Dale were capable of speaking to the bird-folks. That being said: Bard has found companions within a family of Thrush that reside near where he gets the barrels near the River Running.

IN CONCLUSION: Bard can talk to thrushes && he loves birds because he can understand them.

Harbinger of Spring

In honour of the OQ first kiss anniversary, have some feels - angstier than I intended but hopefully worth it. As today is also conveniently merylisoneofakind‘s birthday (good call! ;)), I dedicate this story to her - happy birthday, Karola! :)

It makes its first appearance the day after Regina has tucked the tattered, taped-together page XXIII into the drawer.

It’s both too early in the morning and too early in the year for such a thing. Yet there it is again: a single chirp, as if the bird were warming up, and then a string of sounds, bright and cheery and impossible to ignore now that she’s no longer asleep. Dread stirs in her belly and spreads, and she struggles to breathe, to resist the urge to rush over and yank the drawer open just to make sure the page is really there. She rubs her fingers together, testing the pads for residual glue. The bird flaps its wings and hushes.

At last, she thinks, it’s gone, she can go back to sleep (if only she could) but she’s too busy dealing with the tears suddenly welling in her eyes.

With tremendous self-denial she rolls over, pushes herself up and cracks the drawer open, quite certain now that the whole quest to gather and reassemble was but a dream, that the drawer contains nothing but neatly folded scarves.

It’s there, page XXIII, peeking out shyly, eager to soothe but equally ready to torment.

The bird twitters and trills, won’t leave her alone with its incessant canting just like the picture of alternate Robin and alternate Regina lingers even after she’s slammed the drawer shut.

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