Skin white as snow, lips red as blood, hair black as ebony
-8-
Thranduil hid his astonishment behind a polite smile when one evening Sigrid asked to speak with him. The young woman had been so distant since her arrival in Greenwood the Great – despite her good manners – that Thranduil had wondered if he would hear the sound of her voice again before their coming departure for Dale. She seemed impressed, even frightened, by the ruler of the Forest Kingdom. This he could easily understand: the legends surrounding the Elvenking were partly true and he was the one who had brought his father back from the dead and who had replaced his lifeless heart with half of his own.
Thranduil himself would not have wanted to be in the company of such a creature if given the choice.
Sigrid sat in the chair opposite him, in the room he occupied almost every evening with books and wine. The dim light from the lanterns placed in the room lit up the anxious and delicate features of her face and the light breeze blowing through the high windows opening onto the garden made the rebellious locks dance against her cheeks.
"My father has changed."
Her voice shook imperceptibly but enough for his Elf ears.
"Your Highness," Sigrid immediately added, her cheeks flushed.
Thranduil sighed and sought the young woman's gaze.
"What do you know, Sigrid? Your father told me he explained to you what had happened…"
Hands clasped on her knees, fists clenched on the fabric of her skirt, Sigrid still wasn't looking at him.
"I know he was dead and you brought him back. I know half of your own heart is now beating in his chest. I know he only has a simple scar on his stomach even though his wound was deep. I know he has a bit of Elf in him because your blood runs through his veins."
"Then you know everything," Thranduil concluded with deliberate gentleness.
A lie.
Bard had deliberately kept quiet about their possible betrothal and that was the best thing to do until the bowman had put his thoughts in order.
"My father has changed, Lord Thranduil," Sigrid repeated and this time she looked up, locking her eyes with Thranduil.
"Your father still seems to cover you with a look full of tenderness and affection. I know this because I witness it every day you spend in my kingdom."
"You know what I am talking about," Sigrid said, her eyebrows furrowed.
Thranduil saw in that unwavering gaze the same determination he had seen in Bard months ago as a desperate battle had loomed.
"I have seen you watching him when we dine together in the evening. You have noticed the changes, too. More so than me, I am sure."
Thranduil held the young woman's gaze and sighed again.
Yes. He had become aware of the changes that had taken place in Bard over the days. He had naively thought it would go unnoticed by mortal eyes but Sigrid was his daughter, not just a passing acquaintance. She must have known her father like the back of her hand as he had known Mereneth or Legolas.
Bard was paler than before. Not that sickly pale as when he had arrived at Greenwood the Great, dying and his stomach split open. The colour of his skin was white, almost marmoreal, close to that of the Elves but different nonetheless. It had the purity and brilliance of the first snow of winter and it stood out even more because of the shadows that underlined his gaze, verging on purple, and his eyes that Thranduil had thought he had seen turning very dark.
Even more curiously, Thranduil had noticed that Bard's hair had changed, too. The grey streaks once scattered in his hair, a clear sign of the mental load the bowman had carried on his shoulders throughout his life, were entirely gone, giving way to a silky mane of a brown as intense as ebony wood.
There was something deeply appealing about Bard, almost wild and dangerous, if one had to be honest, but utterly disturbing at the same time. His obvious beauty – Thranduil could only see out of one eye but he had noticed that Bard drew all eyes to him despite his unkempt appearance – was now unearthly.
Besides his looks, his behaviour had also begun to undergo transformations.
Bard barely touched the food laid out on the table for him anymore – Thranduil had however made it a point of honour to provide his guests with everything during their stay at his domain. Worse still, the bowman sometimes looked clearly disgusted depending on the dish offered, wrinkling his nose as if the smell bothered him.
He played distractedly with the food on his plate, under the puzzled gaze of Sigrid who had probably learned never to behave like this, as food must have failed them in the past.
Even the rich Dorwinion wine that Thranduil had taught him to appreciate during his stay in Dale now seemed to disgust him.
An additional detail had raised deep concern and questions in Thranduil's mind. At dinner the night before, he had caught Bard staring at an Elf who had leaned over to fill his glass of wine (even though he was not drinking, Thranduil had understood that Bard was trying to keep up appearances – for his daughter? for him?). Bard's eyes had remained riveted on the servant's exposed neck, where an artery pulsed, clearly visible under the milky skin, inches away from him, and Thranduil could almost feel the irresistible thirst emanating from his guest like a craving to be quenched at the moment. He had seen Bard's pupils dilate and his fingers tighten on the armrest of his seat.
Thranduil had said nothing, contenting himself with observing Bard's reactions to see how far he was now capable of going and if he was able to control these new urges. He knew he was (perhaps wrongly, he had felt so diminished lately) quick and powerful enough to interrupt Bard if he endangered the Elf's life.
He had hoped for a visit from Bard after dinner or the next day but the bowman had not shown up. He wondered if Bard had guessed or sensed that his host knew what was happening to him. They had brought it up together in a past conversation and Thranduil wondered about Bard's motives: did he think he could handle this on his own? Was he ashamed of his impulses?
If Bard did not come to him, he would have to go to Bard. A discussion was inevitable; Thranduil did not want Bard to withdraw into himself, to let himself waste away because of these changes, or to start feeding on the subjects of his kingdom.
With pursed lips, Thranduil returned his attention to Sigrid, who waited, looking both worried and annoyed.
"Yes," he said. "I noticed that your father had changed in some respects, indeed. What do you expect from me?"
"Additional answers. I understand that he might be different because, after all, his heart is no longer beating in his chest and he was dead at some point but…"
Thranduil could not help thinking how valiant and resolute this young woman was: she did not even flinch when she mentioned the death – albeit temporary – of her own father, ready to accept this disturbing truth in order to obtain information from the Elvenking.
"But?"
"I feel like he did not tell me everything, that he is hiding something. I have a feeling that what he is becoming is not just about the elven blood that runs through his veins. Looks like there is something else but I cannot quite put my finger on it."
"It is the first time since we met that you have uttered so many words," Thranduil observed aloud, without the slightest humour in his voice.
Sigrid gave him a cold look.
"I know that… I am grateful to you for saving my father, Your Highness. I am the one who begged you to do it and I am fully aware of it. That being said… I never imagined that things would turn out like this and that… that…"
Thranduil felt emotion overwhelm Sigrid, saw her gaze cloud, and he smiled mirthlessly.
"Say it, Sigrid. That your father would have a piece of the heart of the strange creature that lurks in these woods, right?"
Sigrid nodded up and down, unable to speak again. Thranduil saw the tears streaming down her cheeks and he felt half his heart clench inside his chest.
"If it can soothe you, your father will not become like me. The changes you see in him have nothing to do with who I am."
Sigrid kept her face resolutely lowered and did not speak for a few minutes.
"I am sorry..." she finally whispered. "I should thank you and show you my gratitude because my father is alive thanks to you…"
Thranduil let his gaze run over the tense silhouette of the young woman, far too fragile in this huge armchair and he experienced a curious feeling of compassion towards her.
He could have replied that indeed, thanking him or being grateful was the least she could do considering the fact that if he had not offered a part of his heart to Bard, his father would be nothing more than a dead body right now and that she should have gone back to Dale to tell the sad news to her brother and sister.
Except that a voice whispered to him that the person sitting across from him did not deserve to hear such harsh words because, regardless of her young age, she seemed to have endured far too much torment already – and it did not boil down to the brutal and violent events of the previous months; Thranduil knew without a doubt that the ordeals had been successive and difficult in this short existence.
"That is not how you imagined it, I understand," Thranduil continued in a calm and reassuring tone. "This was not how I hoped to save your father but there was no other way. The most important thing for me was to bring him back to you."
"I know…" Sigrid whispered – her voice breaking with tears that were now flowing unrestrainedly.
Thranduil was shocked when she looked up and her bright eyes, filled with nameless despair, rooted in his.
"I feel like I no longer recognize my father," the young woman confessed before bursting into tears in front of the Elvenking.
Thranduil had a reaction he never thought he would ever have when faced with a daughter of Men. He got up, came to kneel in front of Sigrid and, without a word, he took the young woman in his arms and hugged her.
He feared, for a split second, that Sigrid would push him away. After all, she had never concealed her fear of the Elvenking. However, she must have been even more stunned by the changes that had taken place in her father and she seemed to experience an indescribable loneliness since her arrival in the kingdom of Greenwood the Great. Therefore, instead of rejecting Thranduil, she retreated into that embrace with despair, crying uncontrollably.
Thranduil gently stroked the girl's hair, remembering he had made a similar gesture months earlier. He had spent entire evenings and nights keeping Tauriel in his embrace when they returned to their kingdom after the Battle of the Five Armies. The copper-haired Elf had shed countless tears, cuddled in Thranduil's arms, heartbroken at the loss of the one her heart had chosen. To date, she had not healed yet but time was doing its work nonetheless.
As Sigrid gradually calmed down against him, after what felt like minutes and hours at the same time, Thranduil felt the young woman's body grow heavier, as if overcome with deep fatigue. Still in silence, he lifted the young woman, took her place in the large armchair and he took Sigrid in his arms, keeping her against him as one keeps a child in a warm embrace after a bad dream.
He rocked her as she fell asleep against him, overwhelmed with the exhaustion of all the tears she had shed, and he thought absently that it was the first time in all his thousands-year-old existence that he was hugging thus a creature other than an Elf.
He remained motionless for long hours, concentrating on Sigrid's calm breathing, stroking her back delicately and repeatedly.
He found himself thinking that Sigrid's grief resonated in him and stirred, oddly, the irrepressible urge to defend her against the rest of the world.
He then wondered if the feelings he was beginning to experience had a link with the identity of the young girl's father.
With a resigned sigh, he knew that was exactly why he felt the need to protect Sigrid as his own daughter.
Therefore, he would be well advised to carry on keeping the barriers of his mind firmly erected: if Bard were to discover the emotions he felt towards his daughter, Thranduil knew that the bowman would immediately show himself far less understanding towards him.