Into the Fire

My Thranduil Winter Holiday fic inspired by the carol, "Good King Wenceslas." I highly recommend the Blackmore's Night and the Loreena McKennitt versions of the song, though both take out at least one verse from the original lyrics.


Good King Wenceslas last looked out
On the feast of Stephen
When the snow lay round about
Deep and crisp and even
Brightly shone the moon that night
Though the frost was cruel
When a poor man came in sight
Gath'ring winter fuel

"Hither, page, and stand by me
If thou know'st it, telling
Yonder peasant, who is he?
Where and what his dwelling?"
"Sire, he lives a good league hence
Underneath the mountain
Right against the forest fence
By Saint Agnes' fountain."

"Bring me flesh and bring me wine
Bring me pine logs hither
Thou and I will see him dine
When we bear him thither."
Page and monarch forth they went
Forth they went together
Through the rude wind's wild lament
And the bitter weather

"Sire, the night is darker now
And the wind blows stronger
Fails my heart, I know not how,
I can go no longer."
"Mark my footsteps, my good page
Tread thou in them boldly
Thou shalt find the winter's rage
Freeze thy blood less coldly."

In his master's steps he trod
Where the snow lay dinted
Heat was in the very sod
Which the Saint had printed
Therefore, Christian men, be sure
Wealth or rank possessing
Ye who now will bless the poor
Shall yourselves find blessing

**********************************************************************************************************************************************************

Deep and Crisp and Even

****************************

Mirkwood, TA 2942

Mirkwood was a forest dark and dangerous at the best of times and the road to death at the worst. While winter’s snowfalls lightened the ground and made the tracking of the dreaded spiders that much easier, its bitter winds kept all inside while its snow storms deadened all signs and sounds of life. Even the elves felt winter’s frost in the wood, their light clothes of autumn replaced by leather and fur, keeping their body’s warmth close to the skin.

The people of Mirkwood, elves and men, still needed to survive the winter. Hunts were required, as was forging for wood to light the fires in the Elvenking’s halls. Things were even more desperate after the Battle of the Five Armies. Lake-town was destroyed and in need of aid from all its allies, even those that raised the people’s suspicion.

Bard knew he had to wander under the snow-covered eaves of Mirkwood to seek the help of the elves. Thranduil had come to the people of Lake-town once with supplies, he was not likely to do it again. If the people of Lake-town were to receive help, they needed to make the journey to the Elvenking and ask in person.

The wood was said to be better, since Gandalf the Grey had cleared it of its dark inhabitants. Evil beings, poisoning the very soil of what was once Greenwood the Great. Bard could not help his fear though; he grew up with stories in his ear about how the woods were cursed. Men disappeared under the branches, never to emerge again. More than elves and spiders dwelled here, he was certain.

A cold wind blew, rattling the bare tree branches and raising a ghostly whistle. Bard pulled his thread-bare cloak tighter around his body. The fur-lined cloaks of his past had burned in the fires of Smaug’s vengeance. Times were desperate, especially with a portion of the dragon’s ransom forever lost, gone with the life of the treacherous Master of Lake-town.

Bard had helped save the people of Lake-town once and he could not in good conscious leave them to fight the winter on their own, even as he tried to re-build Dale from the ruins. So he undertook this journey, this task, with the strength of heart and character that was only found in the truly honorable. Success was not as important as trying, if only to inspire another to take his place if he should fall. The people of Lake-town did not survive the attacks of a dragon and a war only to succumb to winter’s frost.

Bard pulled out his map, trying to find the way to the home of Thranduil. Thranduil had assured him, if ever he needed shelter the path to the Elvenking’s Halls would reveal itself. In all honesty, Bard was hoping to run into an elven party to lead the way.

The snow began to fall and Bard bowed his head, adjusting the hood of his cloak, and pushed through the weather. It would not do to come this far only to be buried in a snow drift. There was a path here, it went around the back of the caves to the front gates. He had crossed the Forest River hours ago, the path had to be somewhere near Bard could not shake the feeling that somewhere in the snow, there were elves watching him struggle to find the way. They were probably hiding in the evergreens, or perched behind the snow covered rocks. He had seen the winter cloaks of the elves, white woven fabric trimmed with white fur. Their pale skin and silver hair let them blend into the winter terrain.

He tightened the strap of his quiver, eyes casting about in search of hidden friends or enemies. He stopped, hand slipping to the knife on his belt as a black dot raced down a tree. He relaxed his grip, seeing it was only one of the black squirrels of Mirkwood. Curious creatures, far too willing to be out among people than most animals. The squirrel scurried along, racing upon a path that seemed embedded into the ground. The snow outlined the way, sinking deeper along a trench, trees and rocks marking the boundaries. Bard followed the squirrel until it moved off the path, running to the right side and perching on a bush. Bard turned back to the path, stumbling forward and catching himself before he landed. He looked down at the forest floor, wondering what could have tripped him up. When he glanced up again, a bridge was in his sight, the gates of the Elvenking’s home not far behind. Bard turned back around to locate the squirrel, but it had disappeared into the swirling winds of snow.

*********************

Bard was led by a she-elf into a comfortable study. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting orange and red shadows on the dark walls. The furnishings were made of wood, as was the door. A window was carved out of the rock, doors leading to what he could only assume was a balcony. The chairs were a mixture of styles, some padded with leather others overstuffed with down, and yet more bare wood gleaming in the firelight. The shelves were crammed with volumes, loose papers were piled up on the many desks. A desk closest to the fire held a workstation of some sort, unmarked virgin bows resting beside a chair carved in the form of a wooden leaf. Resin, string, knife and varnish also surrounded the area. It was clearly the chair of an elf who liked to decorate and fashion his own bows and arrows.

He wandered over to the desk in the corner furthest away from the fire. He did not know much elvish, but he knew a patrol roster when he saw one. There were letters, the wax seals broken and hard, cutting through an image of a river flowing through a mountain valley. There were drawings fastened tight to wooden backings leaning against the wall. Elves, dark-haired ones, in long and heavy robes so different from the elves of the wood.

He stepped back from the desk right as the door opened. Bard turned, dropping his head in a gesture of deference as the Woodland King entered. He was one of the tallest beings Bard had ever encountered, and had more grace and power than any other he had met. The King wore a white robe over a green tunic and brown leggings, golden thread weaving through both. White gems were in his hair, gleaming like snowflakes too stubborn to be melted away. Atop his head rested the winter crown, a garland fashioned of holly leaves and berries, a pine sprig and its cone.

“Please, Bard the Bowman,” the Elvenking gestured to a seat by the fire, “sit down.”

Bard crossed the room and took his seat, surprised at the softness of the chair. His fingers trailed over the luxurious fabric on the arms. The Elvenking approached him, offering up a small glass of some clear liquid. Bard accepted, taking a cautious sniff. It was not water, for the smell was too sweet. He took a tentative sip. He almost gasped at the warmth that spread through is body.

“It is miruvor.” Thranduil said. “A creation from Imladris.”

“Imladris?” Bard asked.

“I believe it is called Rivendell in the Common Tongue. Do you know of this land?”

“Only in legend.” Bard admitted. “It lies over the Misty Mountains, does it not, in the West?”

“Indeed.” Thranduil said. “The Last Homely House of the West, the heart of elven lore and healing magic on Arda.” Thranduil held up his cup, strong fingers adorned with the rings of station, “This drink is one of their best commodities. It is a cordial that renews the strength of any who drinks it, the most powerful of its kind on these shores.”

Bard stared down into his glass, marveling over the powers of a simple drink. “It must be very valuable.”

Thranduil laughed, “Not as much as you think, at least not to the elves. Elrond sends crates of this off whenever he is feeling particularly worried. That daughter of his needs to return home before he mother-hens us all into mindless fools.” He placed his glass down on an end table. “Why do you come, Bard?”

Bard raised his eyes, meeting those of Thranduil, fighting to urge to flinch at the power and years within them. “I need your assistance, Elvenking. Winter rages on and we run out of reserves. What was not destroyed by the fire has been used near to depletion and a portion of the dragon’s treasure we had was taken by the former Master of Lake-town, dead and gone with him. I do not ask for goods from your own stores.”

Thranduil smiled, “Then what do you ask?”

“To know one of your hunting paths. Not your most successful route, just one you know has animals to hunt and possibly nuts and berries to gather and consume. I know the elves hunt throughout the season and I know how much my people will be in your debt if you reveal such a matter to us.” Bard finished his speech and stayed silent as Thranduil studied him.

The Elvenking sat back in his chair, hands placed on the armrests much like he sat on this throne. Bard could believe all the stories about Thranduil’s magic as he sat across from him, watching the shadows of the fire play over his hair and skin. There was a smile of amusement on the elf’s face, as if he found something humorous in Bard’s request.

“We do not own the paths,” Thranduil finally said, “nor do we hide them for any others. The knowledge is there for those to seek if they are willing to look.”

Bard swallowed back his first response, knowing now was not the time for arrogant and angered statements.

“Perhaps I should take into account the lack of time your people have to find the paths, since they are so concerned with surviving.” Thranduil sighed. “I suppose it is time for me to go on a gathering mission. It has been so long since I’ve had to show one of my elflings the way.” Thranduil stood and walked to the door, opening it up and beckoning someone from the outside. “Ormeril, please show Bard to the guest quarters and tell Balanauth I will be taking Bard out on a hunt tomorrow.”

“Would you also like to ask my brother to halt his departure from our lands?” The she-elf asked.

Thranduil looked out the window before turning back to the she-elf. “Tell Tirnion it will be best for him to hold-off his departure for a fortnight. There is a storm coming off the mountains and we do not need him stranded in it.” Thranduil turned to Bard, “Rest tonight, Bard, and we will set out in the morning.”

“I thank you for your generosity, King Thranduil, and your hospitality.” Bard said.

Thranduil smiled, “I hope you remember such sentiments after tomorrow.” The King patted his shoulder and left the room.

“Please, come with me.” The she-elf said, her words slow and careful. It was clear she was not used to speaking the Common Tongue. She was beautiful, young in a way only the elves were.

Bard followed her, his eyes straying back and forth as he went down the twisting hallways and staircases. Tapestries and flags hung on the walls, paintings and weapons of old mounted along and above doorways. Bard knew there were hidden pathways, could feel a draft on his hands coming from what should have been a solid wall, could hear the resounding echoes of the kitchen and the warriors training.

He was brought down a hallway infused with torchlight. There were balconies along the sides and Bard could spy the view of what must have lied between the Halls and the mountain. There were miles of beech trees, stables, small huts. The actions of everyday life were below him, elves laughing and singing, dancing a jig on the ground and kicking up the snow. A large bonfire burned in the middle and Bard watched in fascination as a group of elves went through hand-to-hand combat training.

“Here is your room.” The she-elf said, pulling back a dark wooden door. “You are free to wander and you will hear the sound of a bell when it is time for meals.” The she-elf turned the leave, descending down a flight of stairs that Bard had not seen.

Bard walked into the room, marveling over the skins, furs and linens on the bed. There were books on the shelves. A desk full of writing materials. Flutes and music sheets. Bard did not think he had ever been surrounded by such wealth. He walked to the desk and put down his quiver and took off his pouch and cloak. He poured a drink from the small table in the center of the room, piled with a wide range of small foods, some he had never seen before. Bard sat back, pulling off his boots, and wondering just what was in store for him tomorrow.

***********************************

The wind was stronger today, more harsh and bitter than yesterday. Bard pulled his cloak tighter, opening and closing his fingers in the hope they would stop aching. He studied his companions, both elves. Thranduil stood in front of him, walking through the snow as easily as one would walk through soft grass. The Elvenking wore no crown out here, adorned in the same garb of all the hunting elves. Even so, the manner in which he held himself gave his station away. His head was uncovered and there was an almost childish joy in his face as he walked through the snow. He stopped ever now and then, listening to a voice or a song Bard could never hear, no matter how he strained his ears.

The other elf was different from most Bard had seen. He had dark hair and eyes and spoke the Common Tongue with more ease than any elf he had met. He was broader in frame than even Thranduil and bore a tattooed mark on his wrist. His clothes were not the forest greens and browns of Mirkwood, but dark blues and greys of another land. His name was Balanauth, an elf from Rivendell, recently moved to Mirkwood. His smile was warm and he appeared more approachable than any of the Mirkwood elves.

“Does the cold bother you, Bard?” Balanauth asked. “We can stop for a moment so you can re-gain your bearings.”

“I would not desire to halt us.” Bard answered.

“Your be little use to your people if your limbs drop off from frost-bite.” Thranduil said. He held out a flask to Bard. “Drink some miruvor, Bard, or you will not survive this journey.”

Bard took the offering, glancing at the smooth metal of the flask long enough to note an engraving of two large and sprawling trees, before raising the container to his lips. He took a longer sip this time than he had yesterday but did not gulp the drink down, no matter how cold he was. Bard handed the flask back to Thranduil with a nod. He asked the Elvenking, “May I ask why we did not ride out?”

Balanauth smiled at him, “My captain in Rivendell taught me that the most important lesson of hunting is to never kill more than you can carry. If you do decide to make a horse you beast of burden, you cannot expect it to carry your prize the whole way home. It is greedy to take more than your share, be it of animal life or horse’s endurance. There must be a respect for the animals, even as you make them your food. If you kill something you cannot carry, you have wasted that animal’s life, your time, and the hope of your people. Even if you clean the animal at the site, discarding all uses for its skin or fur, you still have to carry all that meat back.”

“Horses can also startle the animals you want to catch.” Thranduil said. “It is one thing when you use the hunt as a game, quite another when you hunt out of necessity. Though I suspect with all the fishing done in Lake-town, horses are often used to carry bushels of them back to the town square.”

“The population of fish has dwindled these past few decades, first with the darkness poisoning the water and then when we relied on the population for our primary food source.” Bard answered. “I was always taught the first rule of hunting was to not get killed in the process.”

Both elves stopped and turned to stare at him. Looks of shock colored their faces.

“Thranduil, you have been in this world longer than I,” Balanauth said, “has an elf ever died on a hunt?”

“For a food source?” Thranduil asked. “Not that I know of; there have been a few injuries of elves from tusks or antlers, the occasional sloppy work of an archer, but never death.”

“You are not as fragile as us.” Bard said.

“Only in some things.” Thranduil replied, his voice low as his eyes turned to the West.

Balanauth seemed to sense something wrong with the King and motioned Bard to silence. He touched Thranduil on the soldier, bringing him back to this moment as the snow piled around their feet. “Thranduil, may you tell us what path we take?”

Thranduil nodded, turning back to their original direction. “We travel back to Lake-town. I will show Bard the closest hunting ground to his home. The best game to find this time of year are deer, as I’m sure you know, though you may find a moose along the way.”

“Rabbits are also a good choice, if you are desperate.” Balanauth said. “There are other small-game animals, though I am more familiar with those in my homeland.”

“Former homeland,” Thranduil interrupted, “or do I need to tell Tollureth you are planning to run back to Elrond’s good graces before the year is out.”

“Former homeland, then.” Balanauth said. “It will take me some time to break such a habit.”

“How long have you dwelt here?” Bard asked.

“Officially?” Balanauth asked. “Only a few months.” Balanauth pulled his pack higher on his back, “But I have spent may decades living in the King’s Halls.”

“Is it different from where you lived?” Bard asked, hoping to focus on something other than how cold he felt. He knew little of elven realms, he heard there was one group who lived in trees and another who built ships.

“I do not know if you can even compare Rivendell and Mirkwood.” Balanauth said. There was a wistful look on his face, “Winter is not so harsh there, no ice to stop the loud noise of the river and the waterfalls. You never know who will come by for a visit, or what realm they will come from. More than one elf of legend lives in Elrond’s home, not even including Elrond himself. I do not have the words to describe it Bard, I am afraid it is something you must see with your own eyes.”

Bard ducked his head, “I doubt that will be a possibility.”

“Never rule it out; if any group of elves willingly makes contact with the Race of Men, it is them. The Dunedain are descended from the twin brother of Elrond Half-Elven, and there is a certain need they feel to watch after Men.” Thranduil said. He pointed to an object in the distance, “Who is that elderly man?”

Bard walked over to Thranduil, his legs starting to seize up from the cold. He could see no man in the distance, only a spot shuffling along the ground.

“He looks to be gathering fallen tree limbs.” Balanauth said, raising a hand over his eyes to peer into the horizon. “He is too old to be out in such weather on his own.”

“It must be the Old Man of the Mountain.” Bard said, ordering his body to stop its chills. “He is a poor man who lives on the borders of the land, between the forest and the mountains. He has no trade the people know of and the Master of Lake-town did not allow him to cross into the city. I must confess, I did not think him to still be living.”

“Balanauth, what do we have in your pack?” Thranduil asked.

“More than enough food to leave with the elderly man,” Balanauth said, “it should last him for a fortnight or so until we can bring more.”

“How far does he live from here?” Thranduil asked Bard.

“A league or so.” Bard replied.

Thranduil sighed, “And he walked this far looking for supplies.” The Elvenking shook his head, “We must assist him. I cannot in good conscious leave him to Winter’s mercy.”

Balanauth nodded, walking in front of Thranduil at a faster pace, before taking to a run. Soon the elf was far beyond Bard’s sight.

“You are still cold, Bard.” Thranduil replied, resting a hand on his shoulder.

“I must confess, Elvenking, I do not think I can walk much more in this weather, even with your elven cordial to warm me.” Bard was shamed to admit it, but he knew when it was time to speak the truth.

“Tell me, Bard, if you saw that old man on your way, what would you do?” Thranduil asked.

“Help him.” Bard answered. “The Master of Lake-town was not a man of good character; he had no right to expel those in need. We are all in need at this time. Who am I to say the people of Lake-town are better than him?”

Thranduil clapped Bard’s shoulder. “You will make a fine ruler one day, Bard. You know that when it comes to your people nothing separates the peasant from the king when we are in need. Remember, Bard, the best thing a ruler can do is to remember those who are not so blessed, and to help them, if you desire to find any good fortune of your own.” Thranduil began to walk, “Follow in my footsteps, Bard, and you will find what you need in order to walk on.”

Bard watched the Elvenking march on, confused by his words. The wind blew again, causing his teeth to shatter and his body to shake. He sighed, breath misting in the air, and took his first step forward. There were no footprints where Thranduil walked, but there was a visible dint in the snow. As his foot came down, Bard was shocked to feel heat suffuse his body. He stepped forward with his other foot, and still felt warmth, as if it rose up from the very ground. It was too warm to be a natural act, the snow would have melted from such warmth. He studied Thranduil’s strong back, head carried high and hands held out to catch the snow. The Elvenking said nothing of the use of his magic, appeared to be wasting no energy in its making. Bard shook his head again, wondering why he did not remember the Elvenking’s penchant for teaching two lessons at once. Bard strode forward boldly.

He would follow in the Elvenking’s steps, at least where it mattered most.

Bard never was a great admirer of jewels. Bows, however, were another matter.

************

The End.


This story was an experiment in many ways, and I might try it again. Good lord know there are enough Christmas Carols out there to try it with. If I was a little more up on the writing, I'd do a "12 Days of Yule" type fic writing thing of whatever prompts people request or come to mind...which I might still do if Yule can be expanded until after Jan. 2008. ::sigh::