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We Happy Few
Skyborn Huntress & Orion
Authors' Note:
This story was conceived as an attempt to show how the narrative would be altered by the changes introduced by Jackson. As these changes became much more radical in The Desolation of Smaug, we have used that film's ending as our jumping-off point. We extrapolate from there, demonstrating some of the larger-scale implications of the new characters and timeline. To further flesh out the world, we have made extensive use of original elements and our own headcanons; these are explained in the notes as necessary.
We hope you enjoy our thought experiment. :)
See end of the work for footnotes (i-vii).
Chapter 1 — The Lady and the Loom
"And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott."
— Alfred, Lord Tennyson, The Lady of Shalott
It was said in the North that Arda did not subsist alone, but was Gyr's (i) tapestry; and for each man born the ever-wise one meted out a silver thread of days. And of all gods and men only Gyr knew where, amidst warp and weft, each thread should fit; and her hands alone bore the wisdom to place each knot and cut.
Nia Harald's daughter was not one of the Einir (ii), but she knew the way of the threads, and when she pointed from her loom Sigrid went to fetch a ball of dyed yarn.
"Yellow?" she queried, holding one up, but Nia shook her head. That one.
Baskets upon baskets of bright yarn crowded the floor of Nia's bedchamber. Sigrid followed her gaze to the one nearest her feet and amassed a gold-spun bundle.
The other girl smiled.
Nia sat with her hands in her lap while Sigrid picked a careful way back to her side. She was three-and-ten, but she was as slight and narrow-shouldered as Tilda, two years her junior. Beneath the snowy lace sleeves of her gown her wrists were thin, her nimble fingers short and pale.
Nia was always pale, though perhaps that was because she never opened the window. Sigrid cast a glance toward the heavy drapes to her right, tinted red in the sunlight. Dust motes trickled around them in a breeze she could not feel. Watching made her a little dizzy: she mopped at her brow.
When the golden thread was on the shuttle, gleaming beneath the iron lamps, Nia appealed her softly.
"Sing?"
Sigrid wet her lips and reflected a moment as she walked the shuttle across the loom. The warp-weighted loom rested at a slant, long enough to occupy most of a wall; alone, a weaver would necessarily maintain a constant pace across its length. But there were two of them, and they could just manage to pass the shuttle back and forth in front of a field of blue, orange, and red. Nia liked the bright colors best: and upon a field of sunset she had just begun the upright figure of a warrior, sword outthrust. His hair would be a golden mane, just like one of the heroes from the summer-years.
The sight of the warrior inspired her. Sigrid straightened her shoulders, handed off the shuttle, and began to sing:
In days of yore, when Brannon's (iii) Dale
did gleam beneath the sun,
and all throughout the verdent vale
the caravans did run,
—
when em'ralds green on gilded chain
which dwarvish hands had wrought,
in gladness, from the neighb'ring thane,
to Girion King (iv) were brought,
—
the River Running flowed with gold
that poured forth like a fount,
and Lords of Summer ruled the hold
o'ershadowed by the mount.
—
These golden days the poets hail,
ere did befall this doleful tale.
—
Now forty winters Girion reigned,
Giridhion's noble heir,
his days untroubled and unstained:
that was ring-giver fair!
—
Yet summers wane, and dark must fall,
and nights grow long and chill:
on North's breath Margir Hamar's (v) thrall
came down to valley still.
—
Before him swept a cloud-wrack grim,
heat crackling 'gainst the leaves,
the trees were shaken limb from limb,
and blight came o'er the sheaves.
—
From out the storm-gale's iron veil
death-shadow came, ablaze;
the sky-wyrm fell on slumb'ring Dale
her tow'ring halls to raze!
—
His fire-hail rained o'er field and fell,
his voice a thund'rous boom,
and loudly clanged the warning-bell,
that iron crier of doom.
Sigrid stopped then, though she had scarce done justice to Girion's last plight. Perhaps it was the talk of death-shadows and burning, but she was starting to feel a little faint.
"It's much too warm in here," she said suddenly, laying the shuttle in Nia's hands. Her companion implored her with unblinking gaze, but offered no protest as she strode to the window. Seizing the musty curtains in both hands, Sigrid flung back the covers and inhaled a breath of salty air.
The glass pane beneath was propped open. Below the tower of the Great House sprawled Lake-town's winding planks, fish-markets, and low piers. Sea-birds squalled, and shoppers ruminated, and the low murmur rose and crested over her, silhouetted at the window. Sigrid leaned out. The Long Lake sparkled in the sunlight. To the North, at the very edge of her vision, clouds brushed the tops of low hills. The lone peak slumbered in mist.
"Please," said Nia.
Sigrid turned back. The younger girl blinked owlishly in a halo of midday light, a hand brought up to shield her face.
If not for the lake, she would enjoy the daylight.
Sigrid ceded, ruefully tugging at the curtains until they were nearly closed again. Their tails stirred teasingly against her hands.
When she returned to the loom, though, she was smiling. "Where were we?"
She remembered:
As building crashed and storehouse burned
Man's courage slipped away,
but one there was whose heart still yearned
to see a battle-day!
—
Thus Girion grasped his pennant gold,
upthrust it to the sky,
and summoned he his kinsmen bold:
"To me," he cried, "draw nigh!"
—
Then gathered 'round him two-and-ten
whose hearts were yet unbowed,
and onward charged the brave bowmen
in war-graith grim and proud.
—
But of a sudden came a gust,
a wind from out the East:
the battle-fume away was thrust
and all beheld the beast!
—
Each man felt terror wring his breast
— the stoutest souls would quake —
yet one could not withstand the test
and fled before the drake.
—
And so, despairing of their plight,
did Grimald Green-Heart fall;
six more, disheartened by his flight,
broke oath and rank withal.
—
Yet five recalled the bonds of kin
that tied them to their King
and by his side they braved the din
which all about did ring.
—
Thus Valrós stout and Sveinrós stern
marched on at Girion's side,
while Einvald One-Hand, Ernhold Kern,
and Bronn came on behind.
—
The warriors trudged through flick'ring flame
towards the banquet hall
'till Girion to the Windlance came
atop the ramparts tall.
Nia listened quietly, her head bowed over their work. The lone shaft of sunlight Sigrid had preserved fell across the girl's shoulder, spinning gold into loose flaxen curls. But it was not Nia who had disturbed her then.
A shadow moved at the edge of her vision, behind Nia's back. A figure lurked round the doorframe to her left. Sigrid did not need to look twice to recognize him.
That man.
The black sable had perhaps been noble upon its first owner, but it now hung oily and grungy upon the housecarl's narrow frame; and its high collar forever gave him the hunched air of a vulture.
Sigrid's skin was prickling, but she wet her lips and smiled when Nia lifted her head, a question in her gaze.
She pressed on, boldly:
Yet that day failed his hunter's eye,
as ne'er it should have done.
His shaft-hail sailed over-high:
'twas just as Gyr had spun.
—
Lo! One dread arrow in his hand,
black-forged in fires of Ol (vi),
once loosed, shot straight by his command
and sought a glimm'ring coal.
—
It struck its mark! It loosed a scale
beneath the left-most wing
and tumbled down to smould'ring Dale
where skald-smiths no more sing.
—
Had Girion one more shot, and true,
th'outlandish thing were dead;
alas, his final barb ne'er flew,
to flesh it went unwed.
—
For then the dragon cruelly sent
brave Girion and his guard
to Baðr's (vii) enchanted halls, and rent
the line of Brannon Bard.
—
The burning city was his pyre,
the wreck his fun'ral mound,
his gleaming ring-hoard lost to fire,
his heir ne'er to be crowned.
The watcher in the doorway rustled and coughed. But Sigrid was not yet finished. She pushed back her shoulders and concluded her reminiscence:
On winter's eve we close our tale,
whilst ashes snow on des'late Dale.
"A lively song," said Alfrid, sweeping into the room. Nia jumped in her chair and sat frozen, straight as a rod, her back to the door. Sigrid looked at her friend's wide eyes, then, slowly, up to the housecarl's insincere smile.
"Thank you, sir."
"And how actual," Alfrid went on, apparently choosing to ignore the frost in her tone. "I don't suppose you are aware that Grimald son of Grimulf is my lady's forebear? The great-great grandfather of our current Master?"
Sigrid said nothing. Alfrid paused, tilting his head.
"Although, to mine ears, it sounded almost as though you named noble Grimald a coward. Do the words revolution and treason mean anything to you, girl?"
Sigrid did not move. "The Lay of Girion tells nothing but truth, sir."
"I would not care even as you filled her ears with tales of krakens and lindworms." Alfrid shuffled forward. Ignoring Sigrid, he laid a hand on Nia's upper arm. "Nia, my sweet lady, your father beckons. A word."
Nia nodded slowly and set down her golden shuttle. While her head was bowed, Alfrid touched Sigrid's shoulder. His low voice filled her ear.
"But I caution you, your words may be taken as...less innocent by others."
Sigrid twisted free of his grasp and instead crossed her arms over her chest. "Forgive me then. I meant no harm with my singing, only to cheer Nia."
"Of course not," soothed Alfrid. "I would not besmirch you. I know how such silly trifles captivate girls."
He tutted softly. "But your father..."
Sigrid had turned away, fixating the curtains, but at those words her fingers clenched against her forearms. "What of my father?"
"His doings are known to be less innocent." Alfrid's hands closed on her shoulders. Sigrid froze. "Where is he now?"
"Working. As always."
"Are you so certain?"
Alfrid did not give her a chance to reply, though her tongue seemed melded to the roof of her mouth. Leaning down, he spoke in her ear, his breath hot and rancid. "I am not the only one with a watchful eye on him. So do be careful whom you offend, dear Sigrid. You would not want your father's ill repute...his imprisonment...to be laid on your shoulders, now, would you?"
Sigrid found her tongue. "Then your carrion-birds feed you lies. My father is innocent."
Alfrid chuckled. "Silly girl."
A noise at the door distracted him: it was a serving-man, a lean weedy figure whom Sigrid had seen at market before.
"Sorry, sir, m'ladies, but you told me to find you at once when Bard returned—"
No.
Alfrid squeezed her shoulders. "You shall see soon enough," he said, and then he released her.
"Nia, my lady, get to your father."
Then his shuffling steps dissipated. The servant vanished with him. Sigrid stood staring mulishly at the glow around the curtains, a hint of the bright and airy world beyond this musty room. She started when a hand touched her arm.
It was only Nia.
"Sigrid...scared."
"No. Of course not." She smiled, turning back, and clasped Nia's warm hands. "But I must go. My father... Well. You heard that crow: my father's returned."
And I have much to tell him before long.
To be continued...
Authors' Notes, cont.:
On Dalish: The language and culture of the Kingdom of Dale is principally based on Old Norse, with hints of Sindarin influence arising from elvish contact in the First Age. This is most noticeable in their mythology. The native Germanic-inspired pantheon was merged with Valar worship: the Valar themselves were elevated to god-like status, taking on aspects of the earlier Dalish gods; and their Sindarin names were adapted as borrowings. This mirrors the conversion of the Germanic peoples to Christianity, wherein Christian virtues came to be extolled in their poetry and prose, while at the same time Christian figures were moulded to fit the Germanic cultural landscape. See, for example, the appeals to God in Beowulf, and the image of Jesus as a Germanic war-king in the Old Saxon Heliand.
On Timing: This chapter takes place immediately prior to Bard's smuggling the dwarves into Lake-town. Their house is being watched... ;)
Footnotes:
(i) Gyr: Dalish name for the Vala Vairë; borrowed from Noldorin Gwîr, 'Weaver'.
(ii) Einir: Dalish name for their gods, that is, the Valar. From Quenya aino 'god, holy one', through analogy of the plural to the commonly used -ir of Old Norse. (-ir then caused umlaut from ai to ei.)
(iii) Brannon Bard: Founder and first Lord of Dale; a distant ancestor of Girion.
(iv) Girion's emeralds: As a gesture of goodwill, a necklace of 500 emeralds was given to Girion I by the dwarves of Erebor. Girion I is not to be confused with Girion II, last Lord of Dale, who in canon used the emeralds as payment for a coat of dwarf-linked rings.
(v) Margir Hamar: 'Many-Skins', a Dalish name for Morgoth.
(vi) Ol: Dalish name for Aulë; borrowed from Noldorin Ôl, 'Invention'. As Aulë is commonly associated with dwarves, the 'Fires of Ol' are a kenning for the smithies of Erebor.
(vii) Baðr: Dalish name for Námo; borrowed from Sindarin Badhron, 'Judge, Ordainer'.