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.