King of the Alder Trees
May. 9th, 2023 11:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
texasdreamer01Rating: Teen
Fandoms: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Characters: Bard the Bowman, Thranduil
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Germanic Culture & Folklore, Scandinavian Culture & Folklore, Referenced Erlkönig (Folklore), Referenced Elveskud (Folklore), Elements of Horror, Happy Ending
Summary:
"The woods were dangerous, he knew. But as he brushed his fingers for the umpteenth time upon the string of his bow, he ignored the warnings everyone knew by heart.
His children were already missing, there were none more in his home for the elf king to take.
"The woods were dangerous, he knew. But as he brushed his fingers for the umpteenth time upon the string of his bow, he ignored the warnings everyone knew by heart.
His children were already missing, there were none more in his home for the elf king to take.
Though he had stuffed his pack with as many apples and smoked sausages and rolls of bread that he could scrounge from his cellar, the forest was large enough that he doubted it would be enough. He drew a breath in, a prayer on his exhale as he stalked through the underbrush, the perpetual gloom of the forest just barely enough light to see in.
Resisting the urge to shiver, he let his gaze scout out the surroundings, attempting to parse whether the flickers he caught were the eyes of roaming animals or the shimmer that preceded the appearance of an elf. Neither were things he was keen to see, but a complete silence boded worse than unexpected – or unpleasant – company.
It seemed prudent to continue onward, and he left the bracing comfort of a tree trunk that he had surreptitiously marked with a dagger, wondering if the oft-cited path through this wood was as mythical as its inhabitants.
His neck itched with the expectation of being watched, but he learned many days ago that indulging such thoughts was a path to madness, and he let his feet lead him between the bushes dotting the ground.
Bard was tired, and hungry. Such woods did not allow for a restful sleep, and the feeling of being slowly hounded toward a particular destination would not leave him, no matter what he did to dissuade himself of the creepy unease. He cut off a portion of sausage, rewrapping the rest in its cloth and resolving to eat the rest of the link before he bedded down for the night.
It would do him no good to fall to the temptations that lingered here, to consume all of his food in a fit of madness that would starve him quicker than the poisonous pricks of his fear. He muttered another prayer, taking a precious sip of his water and wondering if the dehydration would kill him first, not trusting so much as dew lest it already be enchanted.
He flipped up the collar of his coat, knowing it would do nothing for the eyes that followed him since shortly after he had entered this cursed place. His wife had already passed many years ago, and his children could well have perished the moment they set foot under the shadows of these trees.
Still, he must try.
At some point there was a constant, low drone of noise in his ear. He did not know if it was singing, or speaking, but it was melodic and soothing, drugging in a way that encouraged him to sleep.
Whatever river that was rumored to pass through this wood was yet unfound, and so he grimly ignored what his ears were filled with, knuckles white with the tension it took to keep him upright and following a randomly-chosen path. Bard knew that he could be going around in circles, slowing draining his supplies as well as his sanity.
But still he bade his tired feet to move, in the smallest hope that he would at least be reunited with his children one last time. Belief was scarce, but it was a matter of habit to pray whenever his thoughts were low, a stream of words that combated the sonorous voice that followed him.
He did not realize when his gait slowed, nor when he leaned against a tree that seemed to appear in his path, but the shuttering of his weary eyes was unexpectedly welcome.
The light that greeted him when he awoke was soft, and nothing like he had been told to expect. He felt refreshed, and it took him a long moment to remember why that should frighten him.
He gasped, sitting upright so swiftly that the sheets which had been placed over his sleeping form. Coolness wafted upon his skin, and the pleasant sensation made him realize that he no longer bore a heavy leather coat upon his shoulders, nor his quiver or pack. It made his heart thunder, clutching at sheets that felt as soft as the gentle tickle of a stream upon his fingertips, wondering how such pleasure would quickly be warped.
“Ah, he awakens,” Said someone, and that rich, captivating voice was deathly familiar, making a shiver wrack upon his frame, “Peace. You are safe here.”
Bard laughed, “Am I?”
His captor – or host, he supposed, depending on this being’s mood – merely stepped forward, entering his narrow line of sight. And surely such stories must be true, that beauty could envelope even evil, for he never saw a more fair creature. The sight of pale stone eyes fixed upon him caught his breath, trapped by the smooth expression which gave no hint of thoughts toward any direction.
“You are safe here,” The creature repeated, and it was said with such placidity that its finality was assured. He nodded, briefly considering sinking back against the pillows that had cradled him while he slept. As if knowing the precise workings of his mind, more words were spoken in that lilting accent, “Rest. All will be well when you awaken.”
And so he did.
The next thing he knew, awareness as brittle as over-dry kindling, was warm weight piled upon him. It was so staggeringly different from what he last felt, be it that whisper of bedding and pale eyes fixed upon him, or of the unending wood pressing down on his mind, that he roused into wakefulness with nary a second thought.
He stared at the sight that greeted him.
A snuffled sigh issued from beside him, and he comforted the child already in his arms out of habit, shushing his daughter and threading a hand through her hair. His actions caught up with him, and he fought a stifled sob, wondering how this blessing occurred and whether it was truly real.
Bard pulled his children closer, listening to their mumbled complaints and refusing to move even as he fought the relieved fatigue pulling at his limbs. His last sight before he was pulled back into slumber was two polished glints from an erstwhile shadow in the room, captivating his fear even as he drifted off.
Waking was slow, pleasant in the recognizable forms of his children sitting around him. There was a low voice murmuring in the background, and he sighed at the metronymic quality of it.
It seemed to bring his children’s attention to him, for their excited words overlapped as they piled onto him – he grunted at the sudden weight, arms struggling to hold all three of them as he levered himself into sitting. It was more difficult than usual to do, and he wondered if someone had done something to his bed, that old thing which needed more rushes than he was willing to spend coin or time on.
He spent his thoughts instead on the inexplicable miracle that was his children hale and hearty, even if he could not understand the reason behind his lingering unease and the slow starvation it seemed his body was yet unwilling to leave. He curled his fingers together, breathing in as he listened to the familiar settling of those most precious to him.
“Da!” Bain exclaimed, wiggling in his father’s hold, “You’ll never guess who found us!”
His heart plummeted, “Who, son?”
All of his children turned toward what he could now see was indeed the strange creature he thought of his dreams, who only stared unblinkingly back at the family. Bard felt a shiver slide down his back, and he clutched his children close, even as Tilda seemed unafraid to introduce them, “It’s Thranduil! He found us!”
“Did he now,” He said faintly, wondering if they had already been death-touched and were now awaiting their unwitting ends. It seemed to run against how cheerful his children were, and how his body felt healed of its aches incurred over his long travel through the wood. This Thranduil only tipped his head in mild greeting, hands clasped behind his back as if awaiting further instruction.
Bile threatened to rise up his throat despite his growing misgivings about the situation at hand. This Thranduil seemed to be able to read his mind, a smile blooming on the otherworldly face and illuminating the dreadful visage into a doubtlessly kind beauty.
Oh. Now he felt faint for another reason entirely.
“Thranduil,” He addressed this… this being, feeling the name sit heavily and copper-tasting on his tongue. The smile grew larger,tinted with yet-unknown emotions, “You- Were you the one to help my children?”
It was better, he knew, to make sure the truth was known. And yet it felt a paltry accusation when the other merely relaxed, leaning against what must have been a chest at the foot of the bed, “I know all who pass through my realm, Bard,” And his name in the other’s mouth made him jolt in shock, his children attentive to how he clutched them closer as a matter of habit, “Be at peace. Those unwary travellers who pass through my kingdom and never return to their kin broke many other rules.”
A brow was raised at him, and unaccountably he flushed, remembering at once the feeling of eyes upon his neck as he had trekked through that self-same realm, “I believe you only crossed my borders so willfully out of duty as a father.”
Such words were phrased as a plain remark, but he recognized the undercurrent of askance, and nodded, “Yes, my lord.”
“Am I?” Thranduil said back at him, voice ringing with a silent laugh.
Bard breathed in, cautious. “You are the lord of this realm, Thranduil,” He said, tasting the tinge upon his tongue and treading each word with care, “I am but a simple bowman, who had followed my missing children.”
Said children were blessedly quiet,even Sigrid, who had been learning the ways of a household and how to fend for herself before this ill-timed disaster.They knew the stories of their people as well as he did, raised upon them in the same manner in the hopes of growing wise and teaching their own children. Thranduil merely looked at them, face scarcely shifting away from the amusement that graced his features.
“Few mortals could stay so close to the path,” The king announced with a low voice, as if this was a great secret to be shared, “There have been few others who accomplished the same.”
When Thranduil nodded toward his children, Bard felt his heart seize up and wasn’t sure if it was in awe or fear, “What… does that mean?”
He had asked a question of a fey being, and by rights this Thranduil could require anything of him. But beg of him patience, he needed to know – to know why he was reunited with his children, why they all slept in peace, and why upon a bed of such fine make in a room so undisturbed.
Another smiled graced him, smaller though warmer, “This wood will curse any with ill-intent, causing them to wander until their minds twist upon itself, their feet bleed from many weeks of wandering, and their food is devoured thoughtlessly or forgotten until it rots beyond use. Only those
with pure of heart may find the path at any point in my realm.”
It was a heavy idea, that the qualities of their minds were so easily found, and Bard found himself recalling the murmured stories hearkening back to his grandfathers and grandmothers. A part of him was so profoundly grateful that all of them had survived the terrors of the woods, and he found himself smiling back before he could think better of it.
“You have cared for my children finely,” He said, “And you have restored my health and children to me.”
The gratitude was twined into his words, much like the branches of the ever-tall trees of this king’s wood, solid and sure. Thranduil gave him, this time, a short bow, voice laden with an emotion Bard was now keen to have named, “You are most welcome.”
Notes:
Written for Barduil month's April 2nd prompt, "Fairytale AU".
Thranduil is a mix of some details about the Erlkönig, particularly how English tends to mistranslate "Erl" as "elf" (Wikipedia), and the original Danish tale of the Elveskud (Wikipedia). Alder trees correspond to the figure in these myths, and the genus itself is both widely-spread and useful in many ways (Wikipedia), which I figure Greenwood/Mirkwood would be.
Because of the referenced fairy tales, imagine the setting thereabouts medieval Swabian/Bavarian (anachronistic but appropriately forested and approximately the same technology level of Men in Tolkien's canon). Since this is Barduil, I leaned into Thranduil's personality, so the referenced folklore is a little less terrifying. Bard knows the genre he's in, though, so the overabundance of caution and dread is thoroughly justified.