Uncharted Waters 1: Bard
Bard marched along the battlements of Dale's innermost walls, frowning. "We would almost double the current charge if we raised it as you suggest."
Sigrid easily matched his long strides, well used to their councils taking place out on the streets rather than in the confines of Bard's office. "Yes, it would be almost double of this year's rate," she agreed, voice decidedly unconcerned. "But we haven't had a single merchant complain about our licence as of yet, which tells you we're not charging even nearly enough for it."
"What if they refused to pay? What use would a market without its merchants be?"
"It won't come to that," she retorted with ready conviction. "Erebor charges three times what we currently do, and yet, it hasn't turned a single merchant away from her Gates."
"Yes, but that's Erebor. The Great Dwarven Kingdom with her fabled craftsmen."
"Aye. And this is Dale. The Great Northmen City that enables trading with the fearsome and inhospitable Dwarves."
Bard had to pause at the pride he could hear clearly in Sigrid's voice, his eyes unwittingly sweeping over the streets beneath the city walls he and Sigrid were walking on. Yes, this was indeed Dale, he repeated, the same pride sneaking into his own thoughts.
This late into autumn, the city was preparing for an influx of farmer's hands, returning home for the winter. The harvest had finished, and young lads and lasses would be leaving the farmsteads that had hired them for the year, travelling back from as far as the Redwater River.
High on the battlements, Bard stood level with the roofs and the attics. He now saw parents airing out their children's rooms, which had stayed closed for long months. Innkeepers were also opening their windows, cleaning out even their storage rooms and cupboards that would once again serve as bedrooms for the lone labourers.
Inwardly, Bard sighed in preemptive exasperation, knowing by now how turbulent the first few weeks of winter always were, what with the youth coming back home with fresh coins in their pockets.
A flicker of grey wings caught his attention and his eyes flashed to trace the movement with the same wistfulness they always did. They found only a pigeon, gliding around the bell tower, and Bard berated himself and his old heart for always jumping this quickly after every sliver of grey in the skies.
"All right," he forcefully returned his mind to the conversation. "Go ahead with the new rate. But only for the craftsmen—we can ill afford to chase away the farmers."
Sigrid frowned; he needn't turn to see it, he could hear it clearly in her next words. "That would create double standards—a system no one would be thankful for."
Bard sighed out loud this time. "All right. New licence rate for everyone, then. But tell the farmers they can pay in instances, if they should struggle to pay at once."
Sigrid was still frowning when she answered, "I'll put together a precise proposal for tomorrow."
Without a single prompt from him, Sigrid headed for the next flight of stairs leading down to the streets. She knew his routes well. Sparring a last glance at the grey pigeon, he followed. Behind his back, he could hear the clatter of armor as Einar and Apsel, his two guards for this afternoon, traced their path at a respectable distance.
"Thank you," Bard remembered to say. "Has anyone asked to see me today?"
"Inge was most adamant to talk to you. Said it was urgent," Sigrid quickly supplied.
Bard felt his eyebrows rise in surprise at the unusual request. He couldn't remember when he'd last spoken to the herbalist. "Well, let's head there right away."
Inge's shop wasn't far from his daily route, and they reached it in a few moments.
"Oh, Bard. Just the man I needed to see today," Inge called when Bard and Sigrid walked in, leaving the guards outside. "And good to see you too, Sigrid. Bard - I'm running low on laserwort—moths got through almost all of my storage of the dried herb. They really couldn't have picked a more unfortunate moment."
She said the last bit with great solemnity that left Bard staring at the weathered woman in incomprehension, whilst behind him, Sigrid snickered rather knowingly.
Content with the fact that at least one of them understood the situation, Bard moved to the point. "How can I help, Inge?"
"I need some of your men to scavenge the forests for any alternatives. It's too late in the year for anything growing so we'll have to search for the roots."
Bard frowned. "I know Eryka's two girls are already helping you with the gathering. Aren't they enough?"
"Enough? Now, when a horde of randy youths is already descending on the city? I'd hate to say to the lasses I'm out of stock when they come in all nervous and guilty looking."
"It's a contraceptive, Da," Sigrid piped in, cheeks blushed but eyes grinning, rushing Bard the rest of the way to the understanding that had already been downing on him.
"Right-" he barked out, flustered at the sudden turn his day had taken, in front of his daughter no less. "I can spare six men for this… expedition. How long would it take then?"
"At least two days in the woods," Inge said after a short pause.
"Right," Bard repeated. "I'll make sure they have the right provisions. Sigrid, would you-"
"I'll have it done, Da," his daughter said, her voice still snickering at his obvious discomfort, giggling like the little girl she hadn't been for a while now.
They split up after leaving Inge's shop; Sigrid rushed back home to carry out the herbalist's orders, whilst Bard and his guards turned to finish his rounds, heading first for the vegetable market.
By now, Bard had perfected the appropriate pace—brisk enough to discourage idle chat, but not too fast to seem unapproachable by neighbours who did have an issue to pick up with him. This afternoon, not many had, and they'd managed to walk through both of the main market squares before the rain chased them out off the streets and into Kallan's inn for an early dinner.
There, he was left open for a barrage of questions from the pub's other dwellers, but Bard bore their shouts with a polite face, reminding himself he would rather have their continued rudeness than any sudden deference.
"When will the sewers be ready?"
"The moment we find a safe way to excavate the hard rock all our homes are built on, Master Grenflick."
"And the well in the smiths' district? It's been flooded with mud for weeks now!"
"Haven't heard of any mudded wells, but be sure to bring it up with Jarl, and I'll check with him whether it's done."
"How about getting married again, eh, my lord? My sister's been a widow for too long if you ask me; started nabbing into my business."
"Is she even half as cheeky as you are, good sir? Because if so, maybe I should better give her a wide berth," Bard retorted with smoothness born out of practice, his tankard raised in salute towards the man to soften the jab. The fisherman roared in laughter, enjoying the attention, and Bard finally returned to his half-full plate. Einar and Apsel had long finished their dinners, now nursing an ale each.
A minute later, someone once again approached their table. He felt his guards straightened up in their seats but they did not reach for their hilts. Not a threat, then. Still hungry, Bard decided he wouldn't glance up until he finished his mouthful. He savoured the fish with perhaps a bit of a piqued deliberation, when a familiar voice made him pause.
"May I join you?"
Bard's head whipped up to look at the speaker, but the sight that greeted him was all wrong and quickly smothered the hope that had flared up in his chest. For once, the stranger was a woman; freshly out of the pouring rain it seemed, as she only now went to take off her soaked cloak. She dropped the grey cloth from her head and shoulders, and Bard's eyes followed as it settled around her hips, as a second layer to her strange skirts. Though long enough to reach her ankles at the back, they were rolled up almost to her belt in the front, showing her entire legs, clad in leather breeches.
He blinked at the peculiar attire, unused to the sight of a woman in trousers perhaps, but more so confused by the cut of it. He had seen his share of Elleths dressed for travel, and probably even Dwarrowdams, yet this woman's clothing did not resemble the slit riding gowns nor the long vests of the Woodland guards, or any other garments Bard had seen females don when the need for practicality struck. Only then did he notice a stranger sight still—a dagger adorned her hip, and another lay across her back, secured over her chest in the style of the Wood-elves.
Realising he had gone too long without speaking, he hastily swallowed his bite and beckoned to the empty chair across from him. "Have you travelled from afar?" he asked even as his eyes swept up and quickly took in the rest of the young woman—a mane of black hair, a lock of it braided strangely across her forehead, bright green eyes and face that was eerily familiar with its foreign features, and yet all wrong.
The woman smiled, her face brightening in a familiar way that unsettled Bard further. She leaned closer over the table, voice lowered so even Bard's guards, who didn't even pretend not to listen, couldn't hear. "Well, it seems I've passed the first test," she whispered, and bestowed another beaming smile at Bard. "It's good to see you again, my friend."
Bard reeled back as if struck.
His thoughts came to a sudden halt even as his mouth, against the sight his eyes were given and his common sense, breathed out the name chiming through his mind. "Harry?"
The woman's smile grew wider.
Bard leaned towards her, bowing low over the table. "Is this a trick? An illusion?"
"No," she whispered back. "This is all me."
"You mean-" he faltered, his mind failing to grasp such a possibility. "You mean, you've always been a-"
"A woman? Of course."
Bard blinked at the lass, mind blank and too full at the same time. Opposite him, very close in their whispered conversation, Harry's eyes were shining brightly, entirely too amused. He- she was enjoying this.
"Why would you-" Bard started only to fall silent, as a mug of ale landed on the table in between them with a loud thump. He looked up at the face of a serving girl, one of Kallan's nieces whose name now escaped him, as she hovered over their bowed heads, her curious eyes taking in the strange sight Harry presented. Suddenly, Bard became aware of the rest of their attentive audience, feeling the gazes of not only Einar and Apsel at their table, but the fleeting eye or two from the rest of the tavern.
"Will the miss be having food, as well?" the maid asked, looking at Bard for an answer.
"Yes," Harry cut in. "She'd like the trout they had."
The girl hesitated, glancing back at Bard who only raised his brows, knowing Harry had spoken clearly enough. The lass finally nodded and scuttered back into the kitchens, throwing them one last look over her shoulders.
"You don't normally get this quick a service during dinner time," Einar muttered into his beard with a low chuckle.
"Einar," Bard barked then, making a swift decision, "ask Kallan for a room. Have them bring the fish there."
"Right away, sir," the guard quipped back with a cheerful nod as he jumped up to his feet and headed for the counter.
Harry snickered at the guard's badly hidden enthusiasm. "You know how this will look, don't you?"
Of course Bard did, but he couldn't care less. Then he paused, casting a careful look at her face. If his friend was indeed a lady, as she queerly but truly appeared to be, then she did have a reputation to protect and Bard wouldn't be the one to tarnish it. "You are right, we should rather brave the rain and go to my office."
She laughed at that, as openly as Harry always had. "I think it might be a bit too late for that. At ease, my friend—if I cared even a little bit about what people say, I wouldn't have approached you in public in the first place."
Bard saw the truth of it in her grinning eyes, and knew she was having entirely too much fun at his flustered state. Decision made, he rose to his feet and beckoned her towards the stairs, where Einar was already waiting, rocking on his heels and wiggling a set of keys on his fingers.
Bard quickly grabbed for them, but instead of just taking the keys, he grasped the guard's hand and held it tightly. "I tolerate your teasing even if you question my honour by your jests. But she's a dear friend and I won't have you show her such disrespect."
Bard didn't often deem it necessary to scold his men, as they were good men and usually tried their hardest. He noticed with grim satisfaction that his rare rebuke was perhaps more powerful for it, as he watched Einar's mirth swiftly disappear and his face flood red in shame.
"The next ale's still on me but you're on your own after that," Bard added in a gentler tone before climbing the stairs to where Harry waited, poised over the railing as she watched the exchange.
Once the door of their room closed behind his back, Bard found himself standing awkwardly in front of it, not braving another step in, at a loss at how to welcome his returned friend properly, now that he could.
Harry took mercy on him, stepping close and embracing him tightly with the same casual disregard to conventional boundaries she had displayed before, as a lad. Bard returned the hug, enfolding her in his arms after only a beat of awkward hesitation.
Embracing this version of Harry was very much unlike it had ever felt to hug his friend before. Where Harry's clothes had always been baggy and many-layered, her bodice now hugged her shape closely. As tightly as she now held him, he had it further confirmed that his eyes were not deceiving him.
When she released him, Bard made one flustered step back. "Why?"
"Why didn't I tell you?" she supplied.
"Why did you pretend in the first place?"
She nodded but then stayed silent whilst she cast her eyes around the chamber they found themselves in. She approached the cold fireplace and sat on one of the chairs in front of it. Without a gesture or a word, flames sprung up from the prepared kindling. The stacked logs quickly caught on fire, too, and before Bard crossed the distance to the second chair, a roaring fire lightened up the otherwise gloomy bedroom. Harry had unclasped the dagger from her back, dropping it carelessly on the floor and settling deeper into her chair with a content sigh just as Bard sagged into his.
"It will sound strange to your ears, but in pretending to be a man, I was allowed to act more like myself," Harry finally started. "I'd watched these lands for weeks as a peregrine before I felt ready to enter Lake-town on two feet. I'd seen that women here were not afforded the same freedoms to which I'm used to from back home. I knew that should I arrive as I was back then, alone, with very little knowledge of the local language or customs, I'd be watched more closely if I were a lass on top of all of that. I didn't wish for such scrutiny, even if it would come with the best of intentions. So I cut my hair, bound my chest and wore trousers."
Harry was right, it did sound strange. To dress as a man to be free to act more as her female self? Bard could easier understand if she had disguised herself for safety, he had heard of female travellers to do so, and yet she hadn't mentioned such reasons. He was ready to trust her words though, and frowned in his efforts to comprehend their meaning.
But instead, hurt seeped through his lingering shock, as it now became clear she had not awarded him the same level of trust he blindly extended to her. "I wouldn't have betrayed your secret," he argued.
Her smile turned rueful. "It wasn't for a lack of trust that I didn't reveal the truth to you earlier," she said softly. "It was just a matter of what was necessary and what was not. I'm trained to tread with caution when on an assignment, and that's how I viewed my stay in Lake-town. Even though I wanted to tell you, I couldn't risk you treating me differently for it. I attracted enough attention as it was."
She reached her hand over the distance between their two chairs. "I am sorry for deceiving you, though," she said, clasping his forearm gently. "For what it's worth, my only lie was in letting you address me as a man. I didn't pretend anything else."
This time, he didn't let himself trust her words as unquestionably as his heart still seemed ready to do. Perhaps it was out of petulance, but the fact remained that she had lied and he had no way to learn what was pretense and what was her real self, other than by observing her.
He didn't voice his grim thoughts, though. Instead, he stared at her fingers as they let go of his sleeve and withdrew back to her armrest, thinking about the reasons she gave. "I wouldn't have treated you differently," he argued. "You have earned my respect as my friend and as a warrior, too."
"I'm glad to hear that," she said, her cheerful smile slowly returning, though there also seemed to be steel in her tone when she spoke next. "Afterall, you'll now have a chance to prove your words. I won't have you treat me differently now either."
Her previous remorse was gone, and Bard received a keen reminder that this was still the same being that had ruthlessly commanded him to take the credit for killing Smaug and to lead the roofless Lake-people into Dale. No matter what face she wore, be it one of a lad or lass, the fierce determination still seemed to lie beneath it.
"Does this mean you no longer have the same concerns?" he asked, partly distracted as she started squirming in her chair as if in discomfort. "That you have returned to Dale as your true self."
She got to her feet and waved her hand over the side of her skirts. Bard watched in fascination as steam rose from her soaked cloak-skirts. No, not steam, he corrected himself as he squinted his eyes further at the wet cloud, realising it was more dew like than steam, tiny droplets leaving the fabric of her coat and flying through the air as Harry directed them to spill into a nearby pitcher.
"Now, I'm finally fluent enough to tell everyone to mind their own business," Harry said as if such a show of power was a natural part of any conversation.
He shook off his amazement and searched back in his memory for what his question had been.
"You have improved considerably," he confirmed and meant it—all her previous clumsiness was gone from her speech, the hesitation that used to precede her sentences no longer present, although a soft accent remained.
"Well, thank you. It has been six years, though," she turned to him then, dropping her chin as in apology for the long absence. It wasn't necessary—he did not hold it against her; how could he, if he half expected her never to return? However, there was a part of him, his more selfish side, that was gratified to see they were perhaps as sorely missed as the family had missed and worried about Harry.
"More importantly though, I couldn't very well return as the same boy. He picked up too many tails," Harry spoke again and Bard nodded, knowing it to be the truth. "I've done my best to appear as far from a dimwitted brat as possible," she added and Bard's eyes took in the invitation before he could restrain them, rowing down the slope of her neck where, from this angle, her open collar offered a generous view even to the top of her underpinnings. He quickly looked away but by the sound of her chuckle, it wasn't quick enough.
A knock interrupted their conversation then. Harry called to let the maid enter. As the girl busied herself by setting Harry's dinner by her chair, Bard sat staring into the fire, feeling his features scrunched up into a scowl.
This new teasing side of her unsettled Bard more than the knowledge he had Harry wrongly pinned for a man this whole time. He knew how to treat his friend, the good-hearted lad who Bard had quickly adopted into his family. He didn't know how to act around this lass who was as comfortable around him as only Sigrid and Tilda were, and yet behaved not at all like his daughters.
Once the maid left, he cleared his throat before he spoke again. "Your eyes look different."
She took a bite of her fish before she replied, "That would be the kohl." When he frowned at her in confusion, she pointed at the black line painted over her eyelids. "I saw some of the Haradrim wear it, so I let myself get inspired. Mind you, it's mostly their men that do so."
He felt his brows rising at her claim to have travelled as far south as the Harad. He squashed his curiosity, though—there would be time to inquire about her travels later.
"You are taller, too."
"Only by an inch or two," she said, raising one of her feet and wiggling it in front of the fire. The boots she was wearing had strangely raised heels. "The rest is just your perception. People are more forgiving of a short stature when it comes to women than men, I'm afraid."
"And the braid—is it to cover your scar?" he asked, vaguely remembering that distinguishing feature, now hidden by the strand of hair braided across her forehead and crowning her head.
"Yes. I plan to pronounce it the way of my tribe, as there's no one to know better."
He grumbled in agreement. "It's a clever disguise, for its simplicity. And yet, you still wear the same features and speak with the same voice. Furthermore, you're too similar in your unusual ways to Harry. People will make the connection."
"Let them. I thought I'd pose as his kin. Probably as close as a sister—you are right, the similarities are too striking to claim anything less."
He frowned at the suggestion. "That is a rather far-fetched idea. A sister following in her brother's footsteps is too fanciful and strange a story to not appear suspicious."
"How can anyone know what's fanciful and strange for the Easterlings?"
"But you won't be judged by the standards of the Easterlings."
"Well, all the better for it, then. If people find it so unlikely that a woman would live and travel on her own, how could they ever accept that a woman accosted the King of Dwarves or halted an army of Orcs?"
When he continued to scowl, she heaved an exasperated sigh and then spread her arms wide, putting her chest up again. "Look at me Bard- I am too strange, and I always will be for this world. But I no longer intend to hide it. What strangeness do you think people will find easier to believe—that the Easterling thief has an equally strange sister, or that he was a woman all along?"
Bard paused, contemplating all she'd just said. "You've never been a thief," he pointed out in the end, the defence springing to his lips as was the habit now.
Harry smiled at him, kindly. "I'm afraid I've become one now. But that's a tale for another day."
Bard felt his eyebrows rising at such an answer. Harry spoke again before he could press her for more, though. "How about tomorrow? I remember I'd promised to give you the tale of my home, back before I left Dale."
"I'll make the time to listen," Bard vowed.
"I'd start tonight but I'm afraid the bed over there looks too enticing," Harry inclined her head over Bard's shoulder, meeting his eyes shortly with an amused glint in hers. "I haven't slept on a cushioned bed in weeks. Tomorrow, perhaps we could ride out of the city together? I left most of my belongings behind, hidden in the hills a few miles from the city. We could go fetch it."
Bard nodded. "We'll ride right after breakfast. Before then, though—I'd prefer you'd come home with me, take your lodgings at our house."
"Afraid of leaving the lady alone in an inn full of drunkards?" she asked briskly, and there was a challenge in her eyes.
He met it with a flat glare, unappreciative of her accusation—he had done nothing to deserve such assumptions. "I'm offering you the home I promised you'll always have in my house. And the girls would surely like to see you first thing in the morning."
She let out a long sigh before she spoke again. "I haven't been travelling as a woman for too long, just a few weeks, and I'm mad at myself for how badly I've been dealing with it. I might be a touch sour about the whole thing." She rose to her feet. "Let's go home, then."
He stood up but didn't follow after her to the door just yet. "What should I call you now?"
"My name's Harry, always been. Feel free to carry on calling me that. But perhaps not where others can hear. I'm using Hattie for that purpose."
"Hattie," he repeated the strange name, as foreign as Harry once sounded. "Why Hattie?"
"It's what my parents called me."
When he frowned at her in confusion, she relented to explain only with a great sigh of exasperation. "When we were little, my cousin couldn't pronounce my full name, so he shortened it to Harry, and it stuck. Later, I met a whole bunch of people who knew me as Hattie and I've learnt to answer to that name, too. I'd always prefer being just Harry, though."
"What is your full name, then?"
She grimaced, as if he was forcing a great secret out of her. "Harriet. But don't you go using it if you still want to call yourself my friend."
When Harry had stayed at his home last time, Bard had learnt to distinguish between the threats she meant to carry out, and the more frequent ones, devoid of true intent. He noted with some satisfaction that he hadn't lost the ability even after all these years, as he was now almost sure that was an empty one.
A/N:
Small clarification—I believe Harriet is a beautiful name. In this AU though, it would be mainly Petunia and Vernon, and the likes of Umbridge, who would insist on calling Harry her full name, thus Harry's dislike of it.
If you were looking forward to reading about Harry's travels, I'm sorry to disappoint. There'll be allusions and explanations but describing them in detail would be a hefty investment of words, too hefty when I'm trying to keep tight to the plot here. Instead, let's explore how much distance Harry has put in between her fumbling in the first arc and her current self.
Now, for today's rec: I'm surprised it took me fifteen chapters to finally mention this fic, as it is such an obvious source of inspiration. I read it many years ago, back when I still scoffed at the idea of a fem!Harry. Funny, how quickly your preferences get pushed aside in the face of a well-written story.
A Long Journey Home by Rakeesh
There are many similarities to be found here (though just as many differences). Both ALJH and Dreamers have an older and (hopefully) competent fem!Harry, plowing her path through historical settings and society. However, my favourite part of Rakeesh's story is the chapter 'Close Encounters'. When I wrote the interlude with Gandalf chasing after Harry across Middle-earth, I got reminded of Rakeesh's Dumbledore searching for Harry/Morgana. The chapter where he unknowingly spends an afternoon with her, thinking her a rather empty-headed Muggle, still puts a smile on my face every time I think of it, even though I barely remember any details.
