Stone Soup

Summary: In Early Third Age, after the Battle of Five Armies, a cook finds an Elf lingering among the refugees and offers him food. The traditiona telling of "stone soup" with a twist. Originally written for Teitho October Challenge "Stones".

This was originally written for the Teitho October Challenge with the prompt "Stones", but due to real life commitments, I was unable to post it in time. As a result, I didn't post it for the challenge.

Enjoy!

Chapter 1

She watched the Elf for nearly half an hour now. He looked lost among the refugees but he didn't seem inclined to seek out his own kind. So the Elf, dressed in dark green and brown common livery of a foot soldier, stood alone among the busting refugees and studied each person who passed him by.

Finally, she decided she had enough. He looked half-famished and fresh out of battle in spite of clean clothes, face and hair. She trudged up to him with her sturdy boots digging into the rocky terrain. She reached him and pressed one hand upon his arm. The Elf startled out of reverie and his head swirled around until his grey eyes rested on her.

"You look half-starved," she said. "Come. I will give you food."

The Elf frowned and he opened his mouth to argue, but she turned on her heel and walked away. She heard no one following her for the first few steps and she was beginning to feel foolish in expecting an Elf follow someone as low as her. She turned her head subtly, and found to her surprise that the Elf was indeed behind her. He was silent; his footfalls were inaudible. She heard the legends around the Elves that they walked without a sound or a mark. Feeling the rise in her self-esteem, she faced forward and climbed the sloping, stony side of the hill with more speed.

She tiptoed her way about the uneven stones with ease. The Elf behind her seemed just as comfortable in the terrain. Refugees gathered around small lit fires for warmth. They acclaimed tiny pieces of land for their own, where they huddled with their belongings. Soon, Halla reached hers. It was small, with a pit built for fire and one log laid for sitting. Her small bundle of belongings rested against the log.

"Sit," she commanded him. Again, she didn't expect him to follow her command. But the Elf wordlessly complied. He sat on the log, posed to spring up in case of any danger. A soldier's instinct; she expected nothing less.

She turned and knelt in front of the dead fire. A single pot rested on top of the stones. With the winter approaching, food got cold easily. So once she put out the fire, she covered the pot with as many layers of cloth as she could and set it directly on the bed of warm stones. She unravelled the cloths carefully and ladled the soup out and into one of the few bowls she managed to salvage from her destroyed inn. It was still warm, much to Halla's relief. The soup was runny, full of cut vegetables and small strips of meat. She placed the lid over the pot and covered it again. She turned and held out the bowl to the Elf.

"I am not hungry," the Elf said and looked away. Halla remained where she was, her bowl thrust out insistently. Then she tilted her head and gazed at him. He was handsome, more than any man, but unspeakable sorrow lined his face. Even his voice was colourless, devoid of any warmth, as if the winter air wrenched his feelings from him. Halla refused to be dissuaded.

"A man emerging from battle is often thirsty but not hungry. That's because you see too much blood and gore. But your stomach wants food nevertheless. Eat." Halla commanded. The Elf's head snapped back to her in surprise. His eyebrows rose slightly and again, she felt foolish. She began to wonder if calling this Elf to eat was more trouble than was worth. "The feeling of hunger will come after the first bite you take."

The Elf studied her. Then he raised both hands and accepted her offering. He shifted a little, making himself more comfortable in his seat. Halla had no spoons, so the Elf sipped the steaming soup carefully. The brief fluttering of his eyelids told Halla what she expected. The Elf was hungry. He was probably even starving. She saw how men returned after skirmishes, or hunts. They rarely ever knew if they needed food. How long was it since the battle? A night and a day. From the way the Elf drank his soup, she suspected it was the first full meal he had.

She turned around and busied herself with her belongings. Only few survived the fire, like her mother's bracelet that was an heirloom passed down from mother to daughter and her father's old, battered knife that had blunt edges and a fragile blade. She kept it nevertheless because it reminded her how her father taught her to skin and cut game for cooking. Then she managed to save the coins she had, hidden under a burned plank of her old home. It was a pathetic amount but it will do.

She turned a subtle eye at the Elf while she worked through her belongings. The Elf sat straight and stiff, taking the steaming soup in intervals. He was more cultured than most men who came to her restaurant, which was actually her home. She lived and slept in the first level while she allowed her customers dine at the ground level. The men who came devoured food like hungry primal beasts. Very few were civilised and none of them had the sophistication like the Elf before her.

As if he sensed her scrutiny, he looked up and Halla was entrapped in the grey eyes. There was no emotion on his face but he wasn't dull. In fact, his body was alert and ready for any sign of danger; a honed warrior, indeed. Most men slept deep and long after a skirmish or hunt. But the Elf showed no apparent signs of exhaustion. And while his gaze was intense, it was by no means intrusive. She turned her head away and focused her attention at the spices and mismatched knives she managed to salvage.

"So Master Elf, did your mother give you a name or are you nameless?" Halla blurted, in an attempt to break the tension. The tension broke, and so did the silence, but not in the graceful way she wanted. Instead the Elf started in surprise and raised his brows at her. Then the Elf unexpectedly laughed.

"Aye, she gave me a name," the Elf said in humour. "I am called Thranduil."

Thranduil… the name sounded oddly familiar. But there was nowhere to place it. Slightly unnerved by his smile, Halla said nothing. She shook her head slightly and rolled the pouch in another cloth to keep the spices from humidity. It was a poor substitute; spices survived better in airtight ceramics. But it would have to make do.

"What is your name, lady?"

"Halla, daughter of Kollr," she answered. She did not look up from her work. "And I am no lady."

Thranduil only inclined his head.

"It is merely an honorific, lady Halla," Thranduil said. "You gave me food and that is a noble gesture."

Halla thought to convince him to leave the term 'lady' but she decided it wasn't worth it. Elves were peculiar. They did as they pleased.

She knelt before the cluster of ash, wood and stones and began to dig out the ash. She rearranged the stones and placed the dried wood the refugees collected for fire. Thranduil set his bowl aside quickly and rose to help her but Halla waved him away. She pulled out her precious tinderbox and got to work. Soon the sparks flew and the fire blazed over the wood.

When the fire crackled and burst forth, Halla sat back and watched the red and orange flames. Then she heard a soft exclamation in unknown language and child-like laughter.

Halla turned around. Her full-grown son of twenty-one summers sat on the log beside Thranduil. The Elf retreated to the far end of the log, with eyes wide in surprise. His son gave a happy gurgle and edged forward.

"That is my son, Svartr." Halla said. Her voice was brusque. At last the Elf would know how her son was and he'd leave. All left her when they saw her son.

Halla watched from the corner of her eye as Thranduil looked at the man, less wary than before. Svartr had his mother's soft facial features set in a masculine frame. But his eyes were wide and doe-like. He traced the scarce embroidery on Thranduil's sleeve with fascination. Evidently the way the golden thread reflected the firelight caught Svartr's interest.

"He seems different," Thranduil said carefully.

"He was born with the cord wound tightly twice around his neck, and he couldn't breathe. When he grew, he was found lesser in mind than his age fellows."

Then something in Thranduil changed, much to Halla's amazement. Thranduil shifted comfortably on his seat and looked as if he wasn't in the mood to leave anytime soon. He spread out his thick cloak until the embroidered edge settled on Svartr's lap. The man clapped his hands happily and sat down with his fingers tracing over the silver thread. Thranduil watched him, expressionless while he finished the bits of meat that settled at the bottom of his bowl.

"And where is his father?" He asked. Halla's grip tightened over her tinderbox until the metal cut one of her fingers. Bitterness that slumbered within her for many long years came bursting forth. Old scars opened into wounds again.

"He left me." Halla said. "I gifted him a son, but because he was sick in mind, my husband left me. To bear a firstborn who is a boy and ill the way Svartr is a bad omen."

The Elf gave a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. She placed her tinderbox in a torn bag and looked at him warily. But the Elf wasn't amused. He seemed incredulous.

"It isn't your fault or your son's for him to be born this way. This is no omen." Thranduil said. Svartr abandoned the Elf's cloak and instead tugged one of Elf's hands into his own until Thranduil held the bowl with only one hand. It was then Halla noticed he wore many rings, some with large stones and others with smaller ones on both of his hands. Svartr circled each stone with his finger as he gurgled to himself. Halla knew her boy couldn't speak. His gurgling was a way he spoke to himself. Thranduil's eyes softened lightly and his hand remained limp in her son's hands. Halla took the empty bowl from him, in spite of his protests and cleaned it with the first fresh snow that fell a night before.

"Thank you," Thranduil's voice was quiet and gentle. Halla inclined her head towards him and set her bowl with the rest of the ones she had. The bowl she gave him was one of the two that were undamaged. The rest three were slightly chipped or broken from the sides.

"What was your trade, my lady, before the dragon came to Lake-town?"

"I was a cook," she said. She sat on a large boulder across the fire. She wrapped her hands with rags and held them out for the fire to warm. Thranduil winced lightly when Svartr tugged hard on his fingers. Before Halla could scold him, Thranduil twisted his hand free and replaced it in Svartr's hand, this time with a murmur in his own language. Oddly enough, Svartr didn't tug on his fingers again. "It was an easy life, before the Dwarves came."

"Do you blame them?" The Elf's voice was even. Halla wondered if he blamed the Dwarves as well. But why did his name sound so familiar?

"Nay, I do not. At least a part of does not," Halla returned. "Fate isn't something we can change. And so we must adapt to the situations in life."

"You speak wisdom, my lady."

"I am sure you know more wisdom given your long years, my lord." She returned. She still wasn't sure of his title. Perhaps he was some noble, or perhaps he was an ordinary soldier. One can never tell with these Elves.

Thranduil gifted her with a small smile. It was a sorrowful one and for a moment, she wondered if he was married, bore children, and if his children bore children. That smile certainly belonged to an elder.

Svartr released his hand and twisted and turned his own fingers, humming to himself. He leaned back and forth as he hummed, but Thranduil did not pay him any attention or pass him an odd look. And Halla was very grateful.

"King Thranduil!" The masculine, deep cry came from afar. Thranduil stiffened visible and he stood up and turned about. Halla remained sitting, stunned. "We have searched for you, but you were nowhere to be found."

She watched, dazed, as an Elf walked up to Thranduil-no- to the Elvenking. He was a tall Elf, with black-haired and with a face angled so it looked bird-like.

"Thorontur," Thranduil returned. "I didn't expect to find you here, my friend."

"We were going worried." Thorontur returned, his eyes snapping close in concern. "You disappeared without a trace and you left no word as to where you were going- and why are you wearing a common soldier's livery?"

"One of my soldiers was kind of enough to offer his spare when I couldn't find my tent… or warm water." Thranduil returned. But from his voice, some part of Halla's numb mind gathered he wasn't pleased. Gone was the sorrow, the strange vulnerability in his manner. A king took the place of the Elf whom she served. And that was difficult for her to accept.

She served the Elvenking.

"Your majesty," Halla whispered. Her words were dim, even to her ears but both Elves' heads turned to look at her. She rose to her full height, dressed in odd layers of clothes to ward off the cold and her only pair of sturdy boots to brave stone, ice and snow and began to curtsy. But Thranduil's next words froze her in place.

"Do not," Thranduil said. His voice was softly spoken, but the words contained both a command and a request. She paused, head ducked. She shivered lightly. The situation was ridiculously absurd and it wasn't the funny in the least.

She raised her head slowly and met the eyes of both Thranduil and his comrade. Thorontur shifted his eyes from her to him.

"And who is this woman?"

"She?" Thranduil said. He tore his eyes away from her and looked at his friend with a wry look. Halla rose to her full height. "She gave me a feast to put our feasts to shame."

Thorontur raised both his brows at him. Halla felt warmth creep up her neck and flush her cheeks. She held her head high. She reached a kind age of forty summers.

"Indeed," Thorontur said dryly. There was faint humour in his voice. At what, she didn't know. But she was insulted if it was directed at her. "I apologise, my king, if our kitchens cannot provide you according to your esteemed and rich taste."

Thranduil gave a laugh. It was short but it was genuine. Halla's lips twitched upwards in spite of herself.

"Go and assemble the army. We return to the forest before the light fades. Seek out King Bard. I wish to speak to him ere I leave." Thranduil commanded him. Thorontur nodded, turned on his heel and left. Only Thranduil and Halla were left.

"I must leave, my lady." Thranduil said. "Thank you, for the lunch." He expected no answer, because he already began to turn.

"That was unkind." Halla said, before the king moved. Thranduil paused and gave her a questioning look. "You need not jest so at my expense."

"What I said was true," Thranduil answered. "I was hungry without realising it, heavy as my thoughts were. I was searching for company without knowing it. And your son was more than willing to give it to me." Thranduil's smile directed towards Svartr, who was lost in an innocent world of his own. The grown man with a mind of child snatched at something in the air, mouth wide open in a smile as he giggled to himself. "And I thank you for it, and also for many more good that I haven't found at the moment."

With that, Thranduil left and joined his comrade. She stood there for a long moment, until finally Thranduil and Thorontur disappeared from view and she turned, too, to tend to her son.

oOo

She resided in the city of Dale, which, in the course of four years returned to most of its former glory. The buildings were rebuilt from its ruins and she managed to buy a house for herself. It was small and humble but it was protection against the harsh winters.

She was the breadwinner for their small family. No man wished to marry her. Those that wanted her did not wish to join her in marriage, but she wasn't that kind of woman. She was strong, independent and she braved worse storms.

So she shifted from one trade to next. She worked with the merchants for a while, after which she cleaned houses. She didn't mind any respectable trade as long as it placed food on the table and clothes on their back. The furniture in their house was sparse, with only two rickety cots with meagre furs and two cooking pots, and some remnants of crockery she salvaged from her burned home.

It was one night when she came home and found a band of cloaked men waiting by her door. Fear struck her heart at first, but the one standing closest to the entrance of her house removed his hood and looked at her.

Her heart leaped when she saw who stood at the door. It was none other than the Elvenking himself. But then she looked into his eyes and knew it was not he. Thranduil's eyes were grey, not blue. And the Elf before her was lean but not broad-shouldered. The Elf smiled kindly at her and inclined his head.

"My name is Legolas," the Elf said. "I am the son of King Thranduil."

A son. As young and ethereal as the Elves looked, she couldn't imagine them with families of their own. She studied Legolas carefully and found he had the same noble, thoughtful air as his father.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" She said after she inclined her head and gave her greetings. She wrapped the woollen rags tighter around her palms. She washed dishes before she left, in wrenchingly cold water. Her fingers were numb and wrinkled. Legolas' eyes dipped towards her hands and his jaw clenched momentarily. She was aware of her own impoverishment. They lived practically hand to mouth. She wasn't ashamed it, but compared to her clothes to theirs, to her thin features from continuous hunger to their fully-formed features from adequate nourishment, she grew nervous. To find something to do, she reached for her front door, unlocked it and stopped at the threshold.

"My father sends his wishes." Legolas said. Her forehead creased slightly and she listened guardedly. "He also sends payment for the lunch you gave him."

The statement was absurd and she gave a baffled laugh.

"He is four years late," Halla returned.

"The king was otherwise busy…" Legolas explained. He hesitated for a moment and then he added, "And he feared he'd offend you if he sent aid too early."

Halla opened her mouth to argue but she knew it was true. Apparently the king discerned more about her in the brief encounter. She was independent, even when she was just a young girl. Her father encouraged her and taught her many skills that were ordinarily left for men.

"A woman is capable of many things than men believe," his father once told her. So when her husband left her, aside from heartbreak, she was capable of holding her own.

She closed her eyes and smiled. Then she opened her eyes and found Legolas smiled in return.

"Clearly, the Elves understand more than we see." Halla said. Then her smile faded. "But no. I have supported myself and my son before I met the king and after, and I can do so in the future."

She tried to close the door, but the Elf's hand shot out, too fast for her eyes to follow. She looked stunned at the Elf's long hand with slender callused fingers that stopped the door from closing. He passed her an apologetic look.

"Please, my lady." Legolas said. "Forgive me for protesting. Do reconsider. Let us help you. Our king is dear to us. It will be an honour, but say it one more and we will leave without persisting further."

Halla held Legolas' gaze. It neither encouraged nor discouraged her. She looked over his shoulder, and found the rest of the Elves were just the same. Whatever she wanted, they'd respect her wish.

"Come inside," Halla said. "But please, no expensive gift."

If she expected trunks of gold, bejewelled necklaces and hoards of finery, then she was disappointed. But while she expected it, the true gifts he sent her filled her with surprise and unbridled joy.

She looked around at the array of blankets, cloaks and articles for warmth. She looked at the fresh stack of wood for the fire. She turned her attention to the airtight jars filled with spices- some of which were precious and hard to find. Halla grabbed the nearest blanket, soft and thick in her fists and threw it over her son, who snoozed by the lit fire. She whirled around to Legolas, breath caught into her throat. Of all the riches, power and fame, this was the most heart-touching gift he could have given her.

"Thank you," she whispered to him.

Chapter 2

Life wasn’t kind to Halla in the next two years. She left her chores as a cleaning woman and took on the role of a washerwoman. It was hard work. In the summers she went to the streams with a pile of dirty clothes, soaked them, rung them and slapped them against clean smooth stones to dry. The washing stoop was a bustle of activity of with other washerwomen putting in just as much effort as she. And there she made some friends.

But one coming winter, she found her pantry was empty. There was no wood, or coal, to warm the fireplace unless she went herself to the edge of the forest to find fallen wood. The wages were low, and what money she had disappeared without a trace in a single spending. With new winter approaching quickly, Halla had no idea how she would keep them both warm with food and clothes. Her home was sturdy, thank the Valar, but her home could very well turn into their cold grave, if she didn’t have a miracle. Her friends helped her from time to time, but they had their own families and many young mouths to feed. Svartr was just the same. His mind didn’t grow, and remained a child in a body of full-grown man approaching his thirties. He hummed to himself, spoke to her in audible clicks and high-pitched shrieks but that was all. Blessed Valar, she was relieved to find he didn’t chase young girls like the other mentally ill men and boys did. No, her son was innocent, finding joy in little things. He grew enough in mind to relate her as his caretaker and recognise her face in the crowd. He also showed emotion towards her, like wiping away her tears with soft, unlaboured hands when the burden of responsibility weighed too heavily on her shoulders.

At least she still had the precious gifts the Elvenking left them. What food she cooked at home was richly flavoured with spices. She had a gift of cooking, and the dishes she put forward were always wholesome. But food was far and in between and what little weight they put on, disappeared quickly. The furs, cloaks and blankets kept them warm and safe during the harshest nights, and she was grateful. Her son was liable to all diseases, and he spent more his time as sick than as healthy.

And then one day she returned to the city, her hands cold and wrinkled, with a wicker basket of fresh damp laundry resting on her hip, along with the rest of the washerwomen. She remained silent, entertaining herself with the chattering of her companions when fanfare echoed from the city to the surrounding hills. When they entered, they found Elves riding into the city. Halla paused for a moment and watched them.

They were ethereally beautiful, like images sprung from the music of minstrels or from pages of a forgotten ancient book. Their horses tossed their heads, manes shining in the evening light. The Elves wore cloaks dyed in deep exotic dyes of green and gold. Their standards flapped in the evening wind. The Elvenking rode at the front, but his son or Thorontur were nowhere to be found. Halla hurried to the side along with her companions before they came in the way of Elves. Crowds gathered to watch their allies. Cheering greeted the Elvenking and their escort. Atop their horses, they looked magnificent, otherworldly, as if no harm can reach them and they were grave. But the Elves inclined their heads to the greeting crowds. Some even accepted the flowers from young girls with a nod and an inaudible word.

A sudden commotion caught Halla’s ears. She heard jeering voices first before the familiar but alarmed gurgle of her son. She sought him out frantically and found a group of young men, all of whom belonged to higher class, in circle around her son. Her heart leaped in fear, as mothers’ do when they find their young in danger, and she shouldered her way through the crowds as quickly as she was able. Svartr was thrown on the ground and he wailed with in the voice of a young frightened child. He didn’t get up. Halla pushed away the last people in her way, her clean laundry spilling over the stones.

“Stop it, I beg of you!”

The commotion was not lost on the Elves. All their heads turned in unison but it was the Elvenking who stirred first. The king gave a command in his own language and his white stallion reared before it galloped towards Halla, the young men and Svartr at a speed by which she was half-afraid they’d be trampled. To protect her child, Halla rose to her full height and stood right at the front. The young men cowered away from the approaching Elf.

The spurs on the Elvenking’s boots jiggled as the stallion came to a full step barely a pace away from Halla. From such a close distance, she saw the spurs were blunt and more ceremonial than practical. Of course; Elves were kindly to animals. She expected nothing else. She lifted her eyes to meet the king’s and found he looked past her head, at the young men who terrorised her son earlier. His eyes glittered in unspoken wrath.

“For shame,” the Elvenking chided them, his voice dangerously low. “There is difference between the Free Peoples and animals. When animals give way to their basest nature, they still retain some civility. The same cannot be said for the Free Peoples and especially cannot be said for the lot of you!” The last words cut through the air like a whip.

Svartr remained prostrated on the floor, curled tightly. He didn’t recognise Thranduil and Halla knew he wouldn’t; his memory was short. Laundry forgotten, she scrabbled over the stone steps and knelt before her son. Svartr saw her familiar face and gave a small whine of complain as he wrapped his arms around her neck. His large hands gripped into her braid for comfort. She hummed soothingly in his ear and looked up.

The Elvenking remained atop his stallion. His hand rested upon the hilt of his sword, as the young men all but fled when he commanded them to leave his sight. She was alone with her son, in a wide empty circle the crowd left her in. The Elvenking’s fury melted away and an impassive mask took its place. He seemed distant, but there was a gleam of gentleness in his eyes. Halla clutched her son close to her chest. He recognised her.

“I hope your son is well, my lady.” Thranduil said. The stallion tossed his head, but the king calmed him with one hand on his neck. The stallion wore no reins or saddle. She nodded silently, her throat too dry for her to speak. Thranduil looked about the awe-filled crowd, and frowned. He clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Is there none among you to help this woman with her burden?” He demanded, his voice carried over the crowd. Halla clutched her son, pulled away his hands from her hair and stood up to her full height. She tugged her son upright with her. A broad-shouldered, bulky man with grey hair who stood nearby hastened. He stooped down and gathered the damp laundry into a basket and offered it to Halla. She accepted it with unfeeling fingers. Svartr, already forgotten his turmoil, hummed and began to wander. Halla placed her basket on one hip and gripped his belt before he moved any further.

“I thank you, my lord,” she spoke. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

He seemed so young, mounted on his horse! And yet his eyes, his face, the way he moved and the way he spoke… he possessed a body in the prime of its youth, untouchable, undamaged and yet his eyes narrated tales of sorrow and joy, of hope and despair, of victory and defeat.

What things have the Elves seen, that she didn’t know of?

The Elvenking tore his eyes away and she was freed from his spell. He didn’t look at her when he answered her words of gratitude. No doubt his answer was eloquent, but she didn’t hear them. The Elvenking directed his horse and she watched, dazed, as he rode away. Whispers erupted about her and she ducked her head. She shifted her keen eyes to the sides and noted that among the crowds were the ones who enjoyed spreading gossip and said more than a few unkind words towards her. Halla wasn’t one to give into fear and show insecurity. So she lifted her head high, gripped her son by his elbow and with another arm holding her basket, trudged her way back home.

It was night when she returned home. After the incidence with the king, she deposited her son within the safety of their home, returned to the building where the washerwomen did their trade. When she came, she relit the fire with last few wood branches she had and covered her snoozing son with another layer. Svartr gave a damp cough and his chest shuddered. She paused, worried, before adding another layer of warmth.

A knock echoed through the house from the front door. She paused and turned towards it. None called on her at night. She grabbed a cloak and wrapped it about her before answering the door.

A lone hooded and cloaked figure stood at her doorstep, his face hidden from the folds of his hood and from the shadows. The streetlight behind him encased him as if he were a dark, sinister figure from children’s tales. He raised his head when the door opened and pulled back his hood slightly. She looked upon the high cheekbones, the straight nose and the firm jawline of the Elvenking. It snowed in the evening, and it was still snowing. His clothes were dotted with white snowflakes.

“You are mad,” Were the first words Halla uttered when she finally found her voice. The King chuckled lowly.

“Nay, but I am cold.” Thranduil said. It was clear to Halla this was his way to subtly ask for entry. But Halla planted herself firmly in the doorway.

“If you must help,” she said. “Then pray help the king in returning this land to the way it once was.”

“I have helped your king,” Thranduil protested. “I have come to help the cook who offered me food when even I did not know I was hungry.”

“You have given more aid than a single bowl of soup covered,” Halla returned. “You have paid fully and more. You need not give me more.”

“Your life is laborious. You toil every day to make sure you live for the next day. What sort of life is that? Let me give you help, my lady.”

Halla pursed her lips and tilted up her head.

“I need no help. I built my trade in Lake-town after my father’s passing, and my husband’s disappearance. I can build it once again.” Halla said. Was it pride that made her speak? No, she wasn’t prideful. The Elvenking’s offer was genuine and she wasn’t offended by it. But she truly believed in her power to turn her life around in her own way, in her own time.

The Elvenking raised both his brows at that.

“Help?” He echoed. “And what is wrong with help?”

Halla gritted her teeth. He refused to move. Again, he discerned she hid more than she spoke. She denied the truth even to herself.

She would not accept his offer. She could not accept his offer. Gossip spread like wildfire in Dale. Already rumours circulated about how Halla the cook met the king after the battle. Some said they were more than acquaintances, that they had a relationship more than friendship. All knew that Elves married once, loved their spouses only without reservations, but for her kind, they were willing to believe anything, as long as it was dirty gossip.

Others spat at her efforts to better herself and work for a living. What use has she to work? If she was artful enough (or conceited enough), she could ensnare the king to give her everything she wanted, like the tale of stone soup.

Stone soup. They likened her tale as similar to the tale of stone soup. Replace the travellers with a cook, who had nothing to cook with, they said. And replace the villagers with a rich and mighty king. All she needed to do was to shamelessly ask for his aid. Take advantage of it, they told her. Entrap him. But Halla was a righteous woman, an honest woman especially when it came to her trade and commerce. Above all, she was easily offended if someone questioned her ability to look after herself or her family.

Elves were strange, and their king even stranger. He brought no escort with him. No one else accompanied him. She saw the shadow of a sword hidden under his cloak, but she didn’t fear him. He was hardened by time, but there wasn’t any doubt in her mind that he was soft at heart. How could he show kindness to her son otherwise?

Her inner turmoil was mercifully hidden from Thranduil, but the king’s eyes waited for an answer. He spoke first.

“Will you not let me in?” Thranduil asked softly. Halla’s reply came immediately.

“Nay, I will not!”

There was a small pause and the Elf looked taken aback. She felt regret briefly but then she ground her teeth in determination and strengthened her will.

“Have I insulted you in some way, my lady?”

Still blocking the entrance, Halla gave a harsh laugh.

“Please do not play games with me, lord.” She said bitterly. “There are many here who made my living more difficult by your coming.”

Thranduil’s eyebrows drew together in a frown.

“And how is it that my presence caused you misery, lady?”

Halla pursed her lips and said nothing. But Thranduil raised one brow.

“I would not call it misery.” She said finally. Thranduil waited. She knew he would not leave, so she gave in. “Stone soup,” Halla said carefully. It was all she said, because she feared her next words will offend the king. So she kept her silence and hoped the king understood. He was not slow, and after a few minutes, Thranduil’s expression cleared to understanding.

Anger soon followed.

“Stone soup?” The King asked in measured calm tones. But it was clear to Halla he was offended. “My lady, I am not as gullible as the people in your folk tales.”

She felt the sting of his rebuke, the underlining steel of his anger. She remembered the stories surrounding the woodland Elves; dangerous but not wise. They were quick to anger. Before she retreated into the safety of her house and close the door at his face, the king took in a deep steadying breath. The danger she sensed was gone but she knew he was still angry, still aggrieved by her suggestion.

“My lady,” Thranduil said, in calm, measured tones. “Not all lives are tied to your folklore. Asking for aid does not necessarily mean conceit. Those that said it to you were envious and nothing more.”

“And what do you know of our lives?” She lashed. Her chin tilted downward, eyes glittering in defiance. “What do you know of hunger? Or of struggling every day for survival?”

A muscle jumped outward in his cheek as he clenched his jaw and she knew she went too far. When he spoke, his voice was low and measuredly soft.

“When you live as long as I have, you walk all walks of life, my lady. I was born in the lap of luxury, with high name and a place in court. But I chose the life of a soldier. War came upon my home, and the very people we called kin turned against us. My mother burned in our house and I tore my father away from the ruins else he burned too. We became wanderers and what land we found to inhabit again, was burned to the ground as well. And then we came here, to the forest. But death follows those who play with it,” Thranduil ducked his head and Halla breathed in, relieved from the reprieve she was granted from looking into his eyes. The pain, the grief, the restrained rage… Then the Elf softly smiled and the shadows of his previous emotions departed.

“I made friends, found companions I can trust with my life. I found a love, had a family and for a brief moment, though it may be many lifetimes when measured in the lifespan of a Man, everything was just the way it should be.” When he took in a deep breath, it was a ragged one. “But war came again. Dagorlad took a high toll on me and my people. Elves do not recover as quickly as your kind does. We take centuries to build something worthy and it takes as much time and strength to rebuild when it could be torn down in a mere blink of an eye.” When the eyes made contact, Halla looked at him with a stricken expression. “Nay, my lady, I know precisely what it is like to sleep without any food in your belly.” His outburst left a tightly drawn silence between them. He bared his entire life to her in merely a few sentences and yet the words played in her head like a continuous theatrical play. In her mind’s eye, she watched him grow from a babe to a young happy Elf, to a fresh-looking soldier, to a broken Elf who lost his mother in a brutal way. The rest of his words played, where war returned at intervals.

His narration caused the memory of Smaug swooped down on her, and she remembered everything of that fateful day; how she and her son were saved from burning in her house because she made the choice of stepping outside for fresh air. She remembered the smell of death, the burying of the death. She even remembered that she watched the Elves bury their dead, how they sang sweet, lulling songs for their passing and how many of them wept. There was nothing left for her to say.

Her words came out in a loud whisper.

“Leave me be, I pray you.”

“If that is what you wish, my lady, then that is what you will have. I swear it.” Thranduil said curtly. She recoiled slightly, feeling the slight rebuke in his words, but then he gave a small smile. It was not warm; rather it was a mixture of bitterness and warmth. She knew the bitterness was related to her refusal, but the warmth was his way of showing he understood.

But she would be damned if another cluster of robust Elves showed up at her doorstep. She was a fighter, with a lineage going up into the Men of Dale. Like the rocks around her, she was firm and steady on her feet, and did not need any aid to provide herself and her disabled son basic needs of life.

So, without crossing the threshold of her house, or even with a word of farewell, he left.

Svartr passed two weeks later, when a sudden fever seized him in such viciousness that there was no hope for him. He passed, peacefully, in his sleep. There was no one beside her to comfort her except the closest of her friends, and they were only two in number. Both were elderly. As for her heart, it was senseless, as if the grief of her son’s passing didn’t penetrate it. Had she grown too harsh? Did her heart turn to stone?

“Perhaps,” one of her friends said hesitantly. “Perhaps the Elves would’ve helped-“

“Nay,” Halla interrupted, her voice was colourless. “Even Elves have their shortcomings.”

Her friend fell silent but the second one knelt before Halla and caressed her cheek soothingly.

“Weep, Halla,” she told her softly. “Weep for your son. Let loose your tears, before they consume you from within.”

Halla stared at her friend. Her eyes burned, her vision blurred and the first tear was set free. It tracked from her lower eyelid, down her cheek and fled her jawline. Then the rest of her tears were set free from their prison. Her friends held her close as she wept her grief and pain.

And true to his word, Thranduil did not send help.

oOo

Five years later, life treated Halla more kindly than it did before. Nearly half a year from the day the king left her doorstep without entering her home, she found a small, respectable inn where the innkeeper and his wife were too willing to let her lead the kitchen. Neither of them was good at cooking. For Halla, it was a dream that came true, and she returned to her familiar trade with a happy heart. After that, her soul soared with the familiar scents of the kitchen, the heat of the fire and the touch of knife hilts and uncooked meat.

The inn was a respectable one. Halla’s cooking was gained small amount of fame and her wages rose until she lived comfortably. Her dream to work in a larger kitchen faded until it thrived only in her sleep. She was too old. Her back possessed a slight stoop. Her hairline was higher and her brown hair turned into a smooth sheet of grey. Wrinkles emerged around her eyes and mouth. Her hands became spotted and the skin covering them became folds. Thank the Valar for the strength in her arms and the fact that her old body carried her further than it should, when compared to the other elderly. It seemed as if the long years of turmoil and hard work returned to repay her. Her bones barely ached except in the harshest of winters. She was rarely ever sick in her youth and the same held true when she matured into an elderly woman of the city.

Then one day, a guard dressed in royal livery came to her while she was working in the inn and declared that she called up to the palace. The owners of the inn were amazed, but they encouraged her to go. There was no time for her to change, and while her working clothes were somewhat presentable, she wasn’t prepared for the royal company she found in the palace.

She was led to the throne room, with the stone floor covered with furs to ward off the cold. Fire burned and hissed in its hearth. But her eyes were not set on the grandeur of the hall but at the two figures seated before her.

Both wore crowns; but one wore a crown of metal and the other of wood and winterberries. The first was man with greying hair and lined face and the other…

She looked directly at him and tried not to recoil in shock. He sat the same way, at the edge of his seat as if posed to rise at the slightest sign of danger. His skin was smooth, untouched by time. What happened? Did time swirl and sped for her, but left him be?

It seemed otherworldly. In a way, Halla thought it even unnatural. She felt pity for the Elves, to live on when everything around them faded, aged and crumbled to dust.

Then she realised it was probably him who bid her to come here. She glowered at him.

“So this is the lady who provided you with food after the Battle of Five Armies?” Bard asked. His voice was a deep rumble from his chest, undoubtedly masculine. Thranduil inclined his head and only hummed in reply. The Elf didn’t even look at her! As for Bard, he studied her face carefully. Then he smiled.

“Welcome to my hall, mother!” Bard greeted her. “I apologise for the abruptness in which I summoned here. My long-term ally, and a good friend,” Bard gestured at the Elvenking, “told me you make an excellent cook.”

“I am honoured that he thinks so.” Halla said, without looking at the king. If the king didn’t look at her, then she refused to look at him!

“If it pleases you, and you are not too weary for the night, perhaps you could make something for us to taste.”

Halla raised her head high and tilted her head before she dipped into a curtsy. Age didn’t allow her to bend too low, but she did as much as she was able.

“I will do as the king commands.” She answered. At least time left her voice as it was. It left her clearly. She was old, but she had yet to enter dotage. Bard waved a hand towards the guard who brought her.

“Escort the lady to the kitchens. See to it that she is given everything she needs to prepare the meal.”

The men behind her saluted and Halla lowered herself into a deep curtsy. The guards escorted her to the entrance of the hall. Before she left the hall, however, Halla threw a vicious glare at the King of Elves but Thranduil’s face remained expressionless. His gaze was firmly fixed at a plant just past Halla’s shoulder, as if all the secrets of the world were embedded in its fibres. She muttered under her breath the stubbornness of foolish Elves and their incessant meddling.

Her grumbling was forgotten when she entered the kitchens. The rich scents of spices, of cooked meat filled her senses. Her hand trailed over the clean counters in awe. She forgot what it was like to have such a large kitchen and even the one she stood on was much larger than the one she possessed when cooking was her business.

It was too long since she had a vast variety of ingredients to choose from. She touched the handles of fine knives reverently, opened the pantry and found the familiar store of ingredients like the one she possessed such a long time ago when Lake-town was whole and the dragon didn’t descend upon them.

The next two hours passed in a blur as she moved from cutting vegetables and slicing meat to turning the broth in the cooking pot. She wasn’t disturbed, and the helping hands in the kitchens were more than willing to help her.

The dishes she served were traditional. One dish had a fillet trout, which was baked in a house of salt, stripped from its skin and served with warm, fresh bread. The other was made from venison- the soup she served the king. It was a cheeky thing to do. But Halla felt young and wildly mischievous in a kitchen that used to only exist in her dreams. When she was done, she bade the servant girls to take them for the kings. They carried the dishes away, and she stayed behind to clean, but the maids shooed her off. So she joined the servants in the hall.

As the servants scooped out decent amounts of each dish with their ladles, Halla explained what each dish was. But she remained purposely vague when it came to the soup. Her eyes were set on the Elvenking as she waited for him to take a spoonful. As soon as he took a sip, his head flew up and his eyes met hers in surprise. Halla merely raised a brow.

The Elvenking’s lips spread in wide, warm smile.

“Just as good as I remember it,” he complimented her. Halla’s lips twitched upwards. She already forgave him for his meddling when she entered the kitchens. To a king, his treasury might be precious, and for Halla, it was wide, spacious, airy kitchens. Bard said nothing. He only frowned after the first bite and finished eating.

They didn’t take another serving and ate only what they had in their bowls. It was well past dinner, and they probably ate before Halla even arrived. Halla waited to be dismissed now that she had done her duty. It looked as if Thranduil waited too, his eyes on Bard.

The King of Dale turned his attention to her and said in a quiet, respecting voice, “If it pleases you, mother, I would like to have you as a member of our kitchen staff. The wages are comely, and the lodgings are comfortable. If you feel your age upon me, then you may work as much as you are able and your wages will be given to you nevertheless. I give you my word you will not be turned away when the years pass. You may even teach the younger cooks if it suits you. There is always room for a good cook in my hall.”

To say she was only stunned was laughable. She was shocked, unable to comprehend. But Bard’s offer was genuine, judging from the open, honest look on his face. Words failed her at first, so she forced out some that would make do.

“It will be an honour.” Halla managed. Bard shook his head.

“Nay, the honour is mine.”

She was dismissed and the servants led to her lodgings, a dorm she shared with other cooks who had no families. The bed was soft, the fire gave warmth and the food she was offered was fresh and not even leftovers from the hall. When Halla fell asleep that night, it was a dreamless one.

The next morning she woke early than the rest of the staff, so she readied herself and descended into the kitchens to begin working on the dough for morning bread. She was so absorbed in her task, she didn’t notice of the company lingering by the doorway.

“How is Svartr?”

Thranduil’s voice froze her in motion, the dough hanging loosely inches away from the table surface. Silence broke when the dough fell with a dull splat. She lowered her hands and pressed them deep into the dough before turning her head towards the ElvenKing.

“He died,” she said in flat voice, “Five winters past.”

“I am sorry for your loss.” Thranduil said in quiet tones. But Halla shook her head.

“It was neither your fault nor mine.” Halla said. “When Svartr was born, the midwife told me he would live a short life. He did not grow the way other children do. He was not strong. I did all I could do but he died in his sleep.” She remembered that night, after spending an hour chasing down her son and wincing when he pulled on her braid too hard. For all his shortcomings and mental illness, she loved him dearly, as a mother would.

She worked the dough and kneaded it. Thranduil reached forward and placed his hand across her two wrinkled, dough-covered ones. She halted her task but didn’t look up.

“Such strength and resilience,” he murmured. “It provokes admiration, my lady.”

She looked up and saw the contrast between them; he was young and she was old. He saw the rise and fall of many kings, and she was living through the life of just one mortal king. Wrinkles lined her face, but his was untouched. He was a king, and she was merely another person walking the face of Arda with no significant role. They were worlds apart. It was fate that brought their worlds together… that and her courage to approach the lost-looking Elf among a crowd of refugees. She gave him an understanding smile of her own, and suddenly the unease of their previous parting evaporated when they came to a silent agreement between themselves.

“I tarried too long here.” Thranduil said. He released her and she went back to work, her back aching pleasurably and she welcomed it. It was a sign that she was still hale, still able. “My forest calls for me. I leave now. I merely wished to speak to you ere I leave. Farewell, my lady. May you find happiness here.”

“And may you find reprieve from your duties as a king,” she returned. The king smiled and she was sure her prayer was very welcomed. When Thranduil left, Halla reached for the nearest knife and pulled it free from it sheath. The blade was strong and its edge was razor thin. Knives were a cook’s trade. A good knife meant a good trade.

Halla smiled.

Author’s Note:

And there we are. All done. :)

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