The first time Tilda ever truly encountered the fearsome, so called heartless Elvenking was only days after the great battle. There had been one or two other passing moments in which she had seen him prior, but at those times the girl had been quiet with her sister and brother, standing off to the side waiting as they shadowed her father in his swiftly growing duties.
Bain and Sigrid quickly found themselves taking on tasks to lighten their father's burden, and while there was not much Tilda could do at such a young age, she made it her mission to remain a bright spot in everyone's day. So determined was she to make sure there were no further burdens than necessary upon her exhausted people and family that she managed to push aside the realities of her own trauma.
For days no one knew she wasn't sleeping well, or eating. The child reasoned that others needed it more than she did, and so she gave her portions of food away or lay awake next to her brother Bain to wake him in case he had a nightmare about the dragon. Tilda even convinced herself nothing that bad had happened to her, shoving aside the memories of terror and blood in favor of brining smiles and relief to those still so shaken they could hardly function. Nightmares simply 'didn't happen' and she resolved to say nothing of them when they did, bravely breathing through them and making as little fuss as she could. With how tired her family was, none of them ever heard the small noises she did make.
Words of praise from the adults whispered after her with each blanket, morsel of food or material she handed out. They all marveled at her resilience and bravery, blind to the growing pressure beneath her skin and in the thick of new responsibilities, Bard had little time to puzzle over the almost too carefree behaviour of his youngest child. Bain had enough trouble with nightmares as it was, and Sigrid was running herself ragged in the healing tents, coming home crying with sheer exhaustion some days. Bard himself was burdened beyond anything he had experienced. In truth, the new King of Dale couldn't help finding relief in one of his children bringing rays of normality to his day.
The night things finally broke down for Tilda was the day she realized she'd pushed herself so far from the horrors of the past week that she'd forgotten one of her best friends was dead. She'd seen the mother of the child in the street that evening and ran up to her with a bundle of clothing that would have fit her friend, smiling and saying how they were Hava's favorite color.
The look of horrified compassion on the face of the mother followed by her weeping, yet gentle reminder snapped something inside Tilda.
She barely remembered stumbling away with a shaky apology, feeling as though her entire purpose was rattled to its core. What kind of person was she that forgot her best friend was dead? How had she convinced herself they were still alive? Why had she even thought that? She'd found the body herself by the lake the morning after the dragon fell.
With this revelation, Tilda's fragile mind shattered and all of the sudden she felt as though all the pain in the world was going to crush her.
She wanted her father. She needed him more than anything in the world.
Forcing a numb calm around her and promising herself relief as soon as she found Bard, Tilda's feet carried her to the elven camp near the edges of the ruins of Dale. She paid no mind to the startled and concerned looks from the elves as she headed right for the great meeting tent in the middle. She had no idea the pain of her soul was nearly palpable in the air to them. All she cared about was finding her Da. Bard always seemed to be meeting in this tent with the King Dain and King Thranduil, and so in her dazzled, desperate little mind this must surely be where her father was.
Tilda's steps only slowed as she approached the big tent, her blank eyes trailing up from the ground to the dreadfully tall guards on either side of the entrance. Their faces were hard to see behind their helmets, but even in the growing dark Tilda could see the way their heads craned down to look at her and she shivered as though feeling their eyes on her. Years of being told scary stories of the dangerous woodland elves could not be entirely erased by one week of their aid and Tilda had little interaction with them.
"What do you need, child?" The guard on the left asked.
Hugging herself, Tilda bit her lip while gathering the last of her courage and nodded to the tent. "I'm looking for my d-, for King Bard."
"He is not here, little one. He rode out before dark with some of his men to check on a matter with the dwarves near the lake."
The words were kind, even gentle, and yet Tilda felt as though they had been shouted at her.
Her jaw trembled violently as the guards blurred and she swallowed thickly. "B-but…but I need my da,"
The guards shifted uncomfortably and looked at one another before the one on the right crouched down, leaning on his spear.
"What about your sister? Sigrid, yes? Or surely there is someone else who-"
Tilda burst into earnest tears, cutting him off as she shook her head fretfully and wailed desolately, "No! No! I need my DA! I need Da!"
Utterly lost now that her mission was brought to a screeching halt, Tilda choked as the force of the last few days came crashing up through her lungs into her throat and she sobbed before the alarmed elven guards.
The flap of the tent rustled and through her tears Tilda could just barely make out the figure of the Elvenking. His cool tone of elegant elvish words was directed at the guards.
While they conversed, Tilda scrunched her eyes shut and head tucked down, trying to look smaller. The weight of her turmoil rooted her to the spot, and yet panic now mixed in with the thought of how much trouble she must be causing for her da. She had heard him telling Sigrid just yesterday that King Thranduil had little patience for foolishness, and surely he would think her being foolish now and be angry with her for disturbing him and then da would-
A hand softly alighted on her shoulder and Tilda flinched violently, her eyes snapping open and her limbs tensing. She froze like a rabbit before a wolf when she found herself looking into the eyes of the ancient elf king. He crouched down before her, his fine robes pooling around his feet as he rested one hand on her shoulder and the other lazily on his propped up knee.
"Calm yourself, little one," King Thranduil told her with surprising care, "You have nothing to fear here. Your father will be found and brought to you. Come. The night only grows colder and you are already shivering like a leaf in the wind."
Dizzying relief flooded Tilda's bones with the knowledge her father was being found and new tears sprung up at the kindness of the imposing king. She tried to form words to thank him, but the elf was already rising to his dreadful height and gently propelling her through the flaps of the tent where it was significantly warmer.
After guiding her to sit down in a chair, the Elvenking produced a wonderfully large, thick, soft material and wrapped it around her. Next he handed her a handkerchief, but before she had the chance to feel embarrassed about the state of her face or apologize for her never ending stream of sobs, he crouched down again, looking her right in the eyes.
"You have been brave, Tilda, daughter of Bard. You have shone brightly for your people in these dark times and conducted yourself with all the courage of a queen. However, now it is time to let go, for the burdens you carry are not ones anyone could ever bear alone, no matter their age." Thranduil's tone was impossibly soft and grave, though Tilda felt the depths of his compassion all the same when he took her little hand in his. "You do not have to be brave here. There is no one here for you to take care of. No one to spare. No one for you to fear disappointing or burdening. No one to keep safe from your pain. You are free to be the wounded, frightened child that you are."
Tilda's sobs grew again, hugging the blanket under her chin tightly as she shook. With the permission voiced by an adult, bringing to light that which she had been too young to understand, the pain within Tilda's heart shaped with keen clarity.
Her fingers couldn't seem to let go of the elf's hand as deeper, heart wrenching sobs ripped from her throat. Words struggled to form in her mouth and Tilda felt all of the sudden as though there was so much to tell or confess, yet she could not speak.
"I know. I understand." Thranduil told her quietly, the weight of too many years shining heavily from eyes that had seen so much. "You are not alone. Trust me, child."
Somehow, the way he said it loosened anything that was left of Tilda's apprehension and needing so badly to be held and comforted in the absence of her father the child unthinkingly lurched forwards to twine her arms around the neck of the Elvenking.
If the king was surprised, he didn't show it in the slightest, gathering her instantly with the ease and practice of a devoted parent before she had the chance to be mortified by her actions.
For a while they stayed like that, Thranduil kneeling before the seat with his long arms wrapped around the little girl, and Tilda clinging to him in return with her face buried in the material of his fine cloak.
After a while Thranduil began to sing softly and while Tilda could not understand the words, she felt them so deeply in her heart that it reassured her that the elf truly did understand. She knew he grieved with her, and yet the song still held hope and healing, soothing over the darkness that had taken hold in her soul and drawing it back to the light. The pain inside eased little by little with each note.
Gradually, Tilda's tears slowed and her eyes grew heavy. Somewhere along the way, Thranduil had stood with her cradled in his arms and began to pace the tent with gentle, swaying steps.
The call for sleep was hard to resist, and so, Tilda let go, knowing she was safe and that soon enough she would be held instead by her own father.
And so, the sight that met poor Bard's eyes when he frantically rushed into the tent some twenty minutes later was one that nearly had him sit down with wonder, for there Thranduil was, rocking his peacefully sleeping baby girl and casting him a warning to stay quiet that could rival a mother bear.