Venture not into the woods, child. The forest is accursed.
How so? Sigrid smiled. What lies beyond those sentinels?
They say souls linger there, unseen, quiet as dead wind. The forest is home to these wood sprites, an enchanted river, and nightmares turned beasts. Those who enter fall under their spell and never return.
"Surely you don't mean that, Ida," Sigrid said softly as she held up a shift to her washing line. "We were here today a year ago, you and I, and the rest of us all the same... When the elves marched upon these lands and drove away the darkness. We lived to see the morning, did we not?"
"Hear me, child," the grey-haired widow grumbled, "Do not go around getting those ideas into that pretty head of yours. One of these days you shall drive your Da mad."
Sigrid stood on tiptoe, clipping the fabric to the line and watched it swayed sadly in the wind like a lost ghost. She let her eyes roam towards the forest that lay far to the west beneath the grey sky. The Woodland Realm.
It was a year today since that morning in the tower atop Raven Hill... Within the year, Dáin II Ironfoot had rebuilt Erebor, as had the Dragon Slayer his ancestral home of Dale. The dwarves kept in their mountain, but they traded. The Men of Ithilien and Rohan traded with them at times, too.
She heard no more of the elves.
They had disappeared without so much as a whisper into the thin veil of mist that bordered their twilight realm and the lands of Men that fateful morning. They had moved swiftly, quietly, and when she closed her eyes and opened them again, the fair folks were there no more. Some people in Dale said it was best to leave the mean spirits alone to their kind, others said the Woodland-King's robes left a red trail of blood from his enemy's severed heads in their wake, and the rest said the whole battle was naught but a trick of the eye.
So Sigrid let them believe what they would.
She bent down to collect her empty washing basket just as a thundercloud passed over the grey sky. It was noon time, but the days had grown dark. Sigrid's fingers fidgeted at the hem of her old dress where the stain from the bloody battle remained. The people of Dale called her the Lady of the town now, being the Dragon Slayer's daughter and the savior of the poor. And Sigrid's laugh would toll like a bell, for their Lady wore not silken robes but old rags of rough cambric, and her hands were coarse and withered from hard chores and steering. She would not shower herself with gems and jewels while there were still mouths unfed and roofs un-thatched and some who had naught to live by. She was Sigrid of Esgaroth, she was the people.
Sigrid tucked a loose curl behind her ear and bid the old lady a good-afternoon as she made towards the house. Tilda had grown another year now, and Bain too. With their eagerness to help, the duty of the household chores were lessened from her shoulders, and Sigrid smiled fondly at the thoughts of her siblings, she thanked the Valar's blessing every day for keeping her family whole.
"...She is not home, sir."
Sigrid stopped short at the gruff sound of her father's voice as she neared the house. Pinning herself behind a wooden pillar, the young woman leant forward to glance upon the figure that stood before her father.
A soldier of Men.
"I come with a proposal, Sire."
"Call me Bard, and like I said, my daughter Sigrid is not home."
The man dressed in nobel garbs gave a little cough.
"I shall be staying at the town's inn. Do let me know once the Lady Sigrid returns, for I will make my intentions known."
She did not need to look at Da's face to know he was scowling. Sigrid sighed. It had been this way since Dale was rebuilt. Despite their tiny home and their modest attires, noblemen and fathers of unwed daughters voyaged from distant lands unto their doorsteps, for they knew the widower and his eldest-born were the most eligible passage to the riches of Erebor.
"Da," Sigrid called once she was sure it was safe to approach the house. She noticed the flag was at half mast, swaying grimly in remembrance of the blood bath.
"Sigrid!" Bard gasped, his gaze flicking towards the direction where the nobleman had left, "You are pale as a ghost, my child. Come in and sit by the fire."
Sigrid let her mind wander to the old hearth waiting inside the house, its dancing flames would be a welcoming change to the damp and cold air outside. She tried not to shiver.
"No, Da." She set down the washing basket by the door before looking up, "Old Cayne's little one has been poorly for a fortnight yet, they fear the shadows hold her, Da. I promised to visit in the morn, I shall tarry no more."
"Make haste," said Bard quietly as he draped a worn shawl around his eldest-born, "Do not to linger about after sundown."
"Yes, Da," she embraced him.
The door fell shut, and the ghostly wind wailed as the sky darkened.
"Lady Sigrid...-"
"Just Sigrid, sir."
"Sigrid," the nobleman sighed, looking uncomfortable as he eyed her ragged garb and unkempt hair, "I trust you know why I am here, thus a preamble would be unnecessary..."
"Indeed, sir."
They were walking along the edge of the market which bordered a great forest behind Dale. Sigrid's visit to Old Cayne's family had been welcomed, for the family was relieved to learn the child had merely come down with a cold. Upon leaving the house they thanked her, and a certain eavesdropping nobleman realised then that this pale creature with honey brown eyes was the Lady Sigrid he pursued. So pursue her he did, until he finally caught up with the maiden who moved like a silent shadow on the edge of the woods.
"-...cept my proposal then, Lady Sigrid?"
She was then shaken out of her reverie. Sigrid sigh, and repeated the same words she had said to the last Baron who came after her, and his cousin before him.
"M'Lord... I cannot thank you enough for your most gracious offer, but I fear this hollow shell stood before you would make neither a good wife nor the Lady of the house. I am but a common thing, sir. I can neither sing nor dance, and my harsh voice knows not the words to please your guests ears."
"That can be rectified," he proclaimed, and reached out to grasp her arm. Sigrid's eyes widened in bewilderment, not believing a man of such noble birth to be so daring in his actions.
"You shall wear the finest furs in the kingdom and drink from goblets of gold..." he leaned in to whisper in her ear, his grip slid down to her hand, halting Sigrid in her steps. "My serving maids will worship your body with scented oil and warm baths of rose petals, and weave beads of diamonds and gems into your hair... In time, my dear Lady Sigrid, these-" he grasped her palms with both hands and looked her in the eye, "These rough flesh will smoothen like a Lady's true."
It was as if he had branded burning iron on her, and so Sigrid turned to him and laughed coldly, the quiet wind carrying her voice away into the forest behind them.
"My Lord, for all the gold in Erebor I must decline!" she cried, "My hands and heart belong to the rivers and lakes that flow through these lands. My joy lies not in gems nor fineries but in seeing hope in my kindred's weary eyes. Keep your diamonds and your furs, sir, I am no subject of such flimsy dreams!"
Then she beheld in terror as the nobleman's features melted away into a horrible sneer. Sigrid tried to wring her hands out of his, but the vice-like grip only clamped down harder, and she was hurled against a tree with a sharp thud. Sigrid gasped and collapsed against it, pain exploding behind her eyes.
"This is how you would have it, then?" he spat, "The daughter of the Dragon Slayer, so high and noble, would decline my kind offer for these hope forsaken lands! You wretched and foul thing!" he fumed, "Is this what you would say to your savior?"
"I am Sigrid of Esgaroth!" she cried, "I have seen a war while you dined from your golden plates with your mistresses. I need not a savior, I belong with my people!"
In a flash, he lunged and forward with a roar and clamped one hand around her throat. Sigrid choked, trepidation filled her eyes as she saw his other hand raised high, preparing to strike. She turned away and closed her eyes, resigning herself to the fate of an oncoming blow...
A blow which never came.
Seconds passed, and Sigrid gingerly lifted open an eyelid, but the sight before her made her jaws go slack and her eyes wide.
A ray of sunlight had broken through the grey clouds, and now shone upon a striking, tall figure who towered over her and her captor. He was donned in dark flowing robes and a velvet cloak of deep maroon which came down to shield his face. His strong hand effortlessly formed an impossibly tight grip on the man's wrist.
"Loosen your hand or lose it." The command was simple, and yet effective, for the moment the words were uttered Sigrid felt her man's grip slackened and fell away. She slumped against the tree trunk, fighting to breath. Her mysterious rescuer graciously lent down to help her up, his fingers on her arms were gentle, unlike the dead grip she saw mere seconds ago.
"Who are you!"
The nobleman regained his senses and drew out his sword, pointing it at the cloaked figure who stood a head taller than him. Their commotion had now drawn a large audience from the market place. The people of Dale formed a circle a distance away, their faces were grim and etched with worry, but nobody dared move a muscle.
"How dare you command the Stewart of the House...-"
The tall figure threw his hood back, and there! His striking golden locks shone in the sun! The whole marketplace gaped in awe for there stood the magnificent Elven-Lord, his robes blowing in the breeze and his features regal, Esgaroth's very own savior.
The man backed away a few steps and let his sword drop with a clang. The Stewart of Men did not know the otherworldly being stood before him, but Thranduil's piercing eyes which commanded all invited no quarrel.
"I shall be the Lady's escort, Ecthelion of Gondor. Your presence here is no longer required," The King's voice was colder than the ice beneath their feet.
Just then, a horn sounded and somebody cried.
"All hail, Thranduil, King of he Woodland Realm!"
They all fell down on their knees, but the Elven-Lord's arm around Sigrid kept her standing up, leaning against his chest. Sigrid tried to steal a glance at his face, but her height would not permit it. Not far behind the trees, she spied a great silver-white steed standing by.
Oh yes, of course. The memory of the fallen elk came back to her, and Sigrid suddenly felt very weary in the King's arms.
"Come..." Thranduil murmured, as he turned his back to the crowd and guided her through the rows of trees. Sigrid never looked back, but she heard a voice from the crowd addressing the nobleman of less than noble intentions calling out from behind them.
"Aye... I do believe 'ee meant you migh'ta wan'a bugger off now sir."
And then...
"Scram, filth!"
"Thank you... Your Grace," Sigrid said, as the Elven-King helped her onto the back of his silver-white stallion before mounting himself up behind her. Thranduil's smile was cold, though she did not see it.
"Bowman's daughter... Look upon yourself, child. Why invite yourself into the company of his kind?"
"He was my suitor, Sire. The choice was not mine to make."
The King did not flinch, but she could feel his strong body stiffening up a little.
The forest path widened, and soon the three found themselves in a little clearing. Sigrid thought she could hear music lulling softly in the distance, but it could just be the sound of the rolling stream.
"What ails you, My Lord?"
"How would you know me?"
"Your face, Sire."
"You do not see my face."
"But I did, and I hear your voice. It sings of sorrow."
"Aye, my heart mourns those we lost yet, but it is something else you hear."
Sigrid allowed her eyes to fall shut and leaned against his strong form, for a while she was silent.
"I hear singing in the woods..." she finally said, "I had thought it to be the tricks of the senses, but they are there, whispering behind the trees... Voices as real as yours and mine. They grieve, Sire, they mourn for loved ones who have departed, yet I do not know the words."
"My people are in these woods," Thranduil's voice was low and quiet as he urged the steed on, towards where she did not know, "They chant names of companions lost and buried in these lands after the Great Battle."
The mournful chants of the elves became clearer as they approached a denser part of the forest. Sigrid could see some silvery shadows standing solemn beneath the branches, still as sentinels of carven stones, and as beautiful and sad as the last light of day.
Thranduil dismounted, and reached up to help her down. Their eyes met and lingered for a moment, before he turned and lead her gently by the hand deep into the woods. The songs of the fair folks became more distinct with every step she took, and soon they came upon a clearing glowing in pale, blue light, where hundreds upon hundreds of wood elves formed a great circle and lamented their lost ones with a hymn.
They were hidden behind the trees and unnoticed. How much time had gone by while they stood there and watched, she did not know. Sigrid finally looked up at the Lord of the grieving folks who still held her hand, and soon his silver blue eyes met hers.
"What of yourself, Sire?" she felt words escaping her lips, "Will you not chant with your people?"
Thranduil only smiled down at her with what seemed like pity.
"My dear child," he said, leant down to place a kiss on her hand, "I would stand here today and a thousand years more rooted to this spot like an old huhorn were I to remember all those dear to me who have passed."
He turned, and lead Sigrid away from the enchanting circle. She let her eyes linger back to the standing figures in the dim, blue light for a little more, before following him.
"Does it entrance you?" the King asked.
"I will not lie, I am still a little captivated yet."
"We the undying walk amongst these woods..." Thranduil whispered, and halted his steps to take her hands into his. His piercing blue eyes bore into hers, luring her in. "All who look upon us fall under our spell... Tell me, are you bewitched, daughter of Men?"
Sigrid gazed upon his fair features as if in a trance. Unknowingly, she reached a hand out to touch his face, running her cold fingers over his cheekbones, feeling age and sadness running deep under his marble white skin. Thranduil did not protest.
She slowly leant in closer and looked him in eye, a knowing smile dancing on her lips.
"My Lord... Why do you seek to seduce a simple mortal?"
The corners of Thranduil's lips curled up.
"I do not seduce, such triviality is a human deed."
"Aye Sire, for you are indeed above all that."
"The dwarves would not toil away so deep beneath the Earth had they known to mine silver form your tongue."
"You flatter me, My Lord..."
It was not until the silver-white stallion had taken them to the edge of the forest near her home, and Sigrid turned back to face the Elven-Lord for the last time, did they speak again.
"Run home, child, lest your father worries."
"Your Highness." She dropped into a curtsy and replied before turning to walk away. But as Sigrid was approaching the last row of trees, his voice halted her.
"You will not meet with any more suitors."
She stopped, and let a smile dance on her lips. Sigrid did not turn back but she let the Winter breeze carry her voice.
"I make no such promises, Sire."
"Child, how much longer until you let your heart know."
So she turned to him finally, and addressed the Elven-Lord, loud and clear.
"My Lord," She met his eyes, "I will know it when to you I am a child no more."
With that, she left. And Thranduil stood there, stunned, letting his gaze follow the daughter of Men back into her world. At last, a trace of a smile graced the King's lips, and Thranduil whispered.
"Until next time, Sigrid of Esgaroth."