Disclaimer: The characters mentioned in this text belong to J.R.R. Tolkien, Peter Jackson and those who officially shaped them. I just borrow them.
The title is an excerpt from the Brothers Grimm's tale, Snow White, so these words do not belong to me.
Author's note: This is some kind of... tale? in which Thranduil differs somewhat from the character as portrayed in Peter Jackson's trilogy. In my story, he possesses ancient magic and it is partly the reason for the mysterious legend surrounding him. Bard is... Bard even though he won't look like the Bard of the trilogy, for good reason.
This story will be 10 chapters long.
Warning: I remained very evasive about the rating and the archive warnings.
However, in this text, mention is made of: significant injuries, explicitly described; death of a character; blood ; vampirism (for lack of a better word), among others. If these themes are likely to bother you, I advise against reading this.
Skin white as snow, lips red as blood, hair black as ebony
-1-
When Thranduil, high king of the Elves of the domain of Greenwood the Great – a territory sadly renamed Mirkwood, a title abhorred by its ruler – had left Dale behind six months earlier, he had not counted on seeing its inhabitants again before some time.
He had left the newly crowned kings on good terms: Dáin Ironfoot, monarch of the Dwarves of Erebor and Bard, Lord of Men of Dale and Esgaroth. All three had agreed on the cordial relations they should maintain with each other for commercial and martial purposes. The risk of a coming war could not be ruled out: Sauron's return was no longer a secret and three unified kingdoms were better than an isolated army in the face of growing darkness.
Thranduil had shown no particular emotion at Dáin's coronation, other than unmistakable annoyance. The Dwarf King was too loud and demonstrative for his liking.
During Bard's enthronement, Thranduil had taken time to observe the new ruler, wondering if his shoulders were strong enough to rule a domain and its people. Although Dale was a moderately sized city whose population had dwindled considerably due to the tragic events that took place before the winter, it was still a strategic crossroads in many respects.
The former boatman had slain a dragon and saved many lives in the process.
He had led his people to the gates of the Lonely Mountain.
He had forged an alliance with him, against all odds.
He had been diplomatic and had tried to reason with Thorin Oakenshield, his soul already lost to the evil of the dragon and its cursed gold.
He had taken part in the fight when an army of Orcs and Trolls had swept over the plain ravaged by Smaug nearly two hundred years before.
Finally, he was the legitimate heir of Girion, last Lord of Dale. The same blood ran through his veins. A similar determination, Thranduil had noted from having encountered the Man in the past.
Therefore, it was highly possible that Bard would be the monarch that Dale deserved.
Thranduil had departed in the twilight of autumn, bringing home the warriors who had survived the battle as well as the bodies of those who had not been so lucky.
Winter had passed within the caverns filled with silence as the Elves mourned the beings they had loved dearly.
Thranduil himself had begun to come to terms with the loss of a son he thought he would never see again.
One morning, during springtime, a young woman appeared at the gates of his kingdom.
Thranduil watched her from his quarters, a motionless figure on a balcony overlooking the entrance to the estate. Despite her dirty and muddy clothing, he recognized King Bard's eldest daughter. He also noted the state of exhaustion of the horse she had ridden and which she had not spared.
He heard the Elves asking her to state her identity, which she did. She declared that she had to meet King Thranduil urgently and that her time was running out.
Thranduil felt Galion's presence behind him.
"You can bring her in. Give her food and drink. Take care of her mount as well."
He did not see the Elf nodding respectfully and disappearing like a shadow.
He returned to his room, put on a long robe over his tunic and trousers, and topped his almost white hair with a crown whose branches were set with apple blossoms.
He settled on his majestic and elevated throne and waited only a few minutes because soon, the young woman came to him.
"Your Highness," she said and bowed.
When she raised her head and Thranduil was able to gaze into her eyes, he took full force of the emotions etched in those: anguish, annoyance, panic, anger... She looked tired, as if she had not slept for days. Her face was pale and dark circles hollowed out her eyes.
"Princess Sigrid," Thranduil replied, bowing his head slightly in recognition. "What is the reason for this unexpected visit?"
"I am sorry to arrive like this, without announcing myself..."
The young woman's voice broke a little.
"I did not know where to turn so I thought… I came without taking the time to think about… I was hoping…"
"Sigrid." Thranduil frowned, slightly taken aback by the young woman's incoherent remarks. "What happened? Does this concern your father?"
He did not miss the tears that beaded in the eyes of the young woman. She nodded and her lips quivered.
"Yes. He has been injured, seriously injured. An ambush, Orcs, he did not even have time to… He was…" Sigrid gulped and wiped her cheeks as the tears now flowed freely over her white skin. "He was hit in the stomach. The healers did what they could but the infection spread. He barely wakes up anymore, the fever doesn't go away and…"
A sob caught in the young woman's throat and she put a hand to her chest.
"I beg your pardon."
"What do you want from me, Princess Sigrid?" Thranduil asked, trying to keep a cool head as he sifted through the information as it came in.
Sigrid looked at Thranduil, her eyes shiny with tears.
"You are said to possess magic unparalleled in Middle-Earth. Mum used to tell me stories about you when I was little and I wondered, seeing you for the first time, if they were just legends."
"What kind of stories?"
"You can save sentient beings in the decline of their existence. You do not fear death because you treat it as a friend. You bargain with it."
A mirthless smile appeared on the closed lips of the Elvenking.
"Legends always have some truth to them," he admitted, his voice deep and low.
He studied the young woman, marking a voluntary silence.
"What are you expecting from me?" he repeated.
"Lord Thranduil… My father is dying and no one can save him but you. Your price will be mine, I will do what it takes, but bring him back to us, please."
It was a cry from the heart, sincere and painful. Thranduil met Sigrid's gaze, considering her request with the utmost seriousness. He had learned that Bard's wife had disappeared years ago, leaving him alone with three small children to raise. It was clear that her eldest had courage, a certain audacity and character.
"Where is your father? In Dale?"
Sigrid's cheeks took on a delicate rosy hue.
"No, Your Highness. A convoy is on its way. I took the lead in order to submit my request to you as soon as possible."
Thranduil felt his eyes widen in shock.
"Is your father on the way while he is dying? Whereas you did not know if I could help him?"
Men were a strange race. They were capable of anything – the best and the worst – and clung to existence with the energy of desperation, willing to take great risks to protect their kin.
"In any case, he will die. Can you save him?"
"I cannot answer to this question until I know the extent of the damage."
The answer of the Elvenking, cold and implacable, made the young woman cry again.
Thranduil stifled a sigh and concentrated on the proper way of speaking to be more reassuring. Sigrid was nothing but a child, anxious and frightened at the thought of seeing the passing of a father whom she seemed to love more than words could say. It was unfair of him to treat her with his customary indifference.
"I will do my best, Princess Sigrid."
These simple words were enough to bring back a little hope to the young woman. A faint smile lit up her tear-streaked face.
"Thank you, Your Highness. Thank you."
She bowed her head respectfully.
"Do not thank me just yet," Thranduil replied.
He had no idea of the current state of the King of Dale. It was more than uncertain whether he could save Bard.
"Where was your convoy when you left to meet me?"
"About twenty miles to the southeast," Sigrid ventured.
"You were insolently lucky not to have been attacked on the road," Thranduil remarked.
He saw a shiver run through the young woman at these words: she had certainly heard of the evil creatures that had earned his kingdom this hated nickname.
"Galion," Thranduil continued, his gaze moving from Sigrid's silhouette to that of the valet who waited in silence. "Inform Tauriel of the convoy's position. Let her join King Bard with ten of our warriors now."
Galion nodded and slipped away.
"Thank you, King Thranduil," Sigrid said.
A heavy sigh escaped her, as if all the fatigue she was feeling suddenly fell on her.
Thranduil refrained from replying that he hoped the convoy had not been stormed in the meantime; worrying her more did not make sense, and she seemed to feel guilty enough as it was.
"I see that you did not take the time to drink anything, or even to eat before meeting me. This is understandable given the urgency of your request. However, I would like you to regain your strength while waiting for the convoy to arrive. Tired, dirty and hungry, you will be of no help to your father."
Sigrid blushed again, obviously aware of her unkempt appearance in the presence of the Elvenking.
"When Galion returns, he will escort you to the kitchens. You may then take a bath, dress in clean clothes and you may rest in the room assigned to you."
"Thank you, Your Highness, but you really do not need to…"
"Do not be silly," Thranduil cut her off, in a hurry to end this interview because more compelling thoughts required his full attention. "You are a princess, daughter of the King of Dale. It is my duty to welcome you as such."
Sigrid looked down at the floor and did not answer. She looked more like a little girl, suddenly hunched over and vulnerable. Thranduil felt his jaw twitch. He wished he could reassure her… but that would have been a potential lie. By now, the ruler of the City of Men might already be dead.