Chapter Text
Sigrid of Lake-town wakes to pain.
It ebbs over her body and pulls her up from its darkness. The sounds of commotion mutedly surround her—people talking, supplies shifting, armor clanging, wounded moaning. A calm fire crackles nearby. Each shallow, aching breath settles heavily in her ears.
She opens her eyes.
The dark ceiling of her home is not there; instead, tent canvas hangs above her. Sigrid can’t feel Tilda’s warmth. The blanket on her carries the fragrance of an unfamiliar soap. A terrible burning pulsates through her chest and up the side of her neck.
“Lake-daughter.”
Despite the ache, Sigrid angles her head to the person sitting beside her.
“…Terion?”
He reaches out to rest a hand on her forehead. The weary elf is dressed down to a gray tunic. His right arm is in a sling, and bandages around his shoulder and chest peek out from beneath the fabric. Yet despite his own injuries and exhaustion, he smiles at Sigrid like she’s the first breeze of spring.
The truth comes to her then. Impossibly. Undeniably.
Sigrid’s vision blurs. The pain heightens when her chest constricts from the beginning of a sob.
“I’m…alive?”
Terion’s smile twists with emotion. He brushes back loose strands of hair on her forehead.
“Yes. You are alive.”
All the tears Sigrid refused to shed in the last recurrence—in this life, this seventh life—sear her eyes and cheeks and nose as they spill out from a still-beating heart. She would scream if she could, but the wounds that rake through her prevent anything more than soft, keening whines. Each one claws at the cut that has always killed her. Each one is worth it.
Terion moves his hand down to take her uninjured one.
“A-and Fíli?”
“Dwarves are sturdy. He has broken some things, but he is recovering.”
“Kíli? Thorin?”
“Both are well. Indeed, it was the dwarf named Dwalin who broke the ice upon the river with his axe, and Thorin who lifted you from the water. I am told that the dwarf king attempted to punch through the ice to get to you before his companion offered a better solution.”
Sigrid’s single laugh stumbles in with her quiet crying.
He helped save me, after I saved him.
“And Bilbo? Tauriel? Legolas?”
“Alive. Worried. The little hobbit’s coat staunched your blood from flowing out and killing you before they could even make it from the tower. They will want to see you. But first, I must inform your father that you have awakened. He is overseeing the Lakemen and entrusted me to take watch. It will be but a moment.”
“It—it’s alright,” Sigrid manages to say. “I won’t go anywhere.”
Terion gently lays her hand over her stomach. Then he stands and forces himself to walk out of the tent in search of Da.
Sigrid continues to weep, quietly and stiltedly, as her mind struggles to grasp what has become of her. She is alive, with thoughts like fog that refuse to shape into anything solid. She is alive, and everything she has done will remain woven. She is alive, for only the living must suffer the terrible pain of surviving, and pain eats away at skin and muscle and bone. Sigrid’s heart pains her the most, yet its ache is singularly different from all else.
She closes her eyes again to rest. What tears she hasn’t already shed errantly leak out.
Have I wept enough to flood the lake? To fill it myself if all the water dried up? Tell me, Vala, what is the worth of my tears to you?
The tent flap loudly draws open, stirring Sigrid out of the slumber she had fallen back into. She expects to see Da and Terion, perhaps Bain and Tilda, and grow strong again in their loving presence, for she wants nothing more than her father to hold her and tell her that it will be alright.
But it is none of them.
Instead, it is Thorin Oakenshield.
He is disheveled and haggard; bruises purple beneath eyes that shine with frantic disbelief. The grime of battle clings to him still.
Has he come to rebuke Sigrid for what she did? Azog was always meant to be his enemy to kill, so much that it must have been written in stone for the dwarf king. But stone gave way to an arrow upon the wind, and now perhaps he is wrongfooted in the same strange world Sigrid continues to live in. Who else is there to blame except her?
Thorin steps closer, hands curling into fists. Sigrid watches him through half-lidded eyes.
“You…”
The word is low and staggered. However, whatever else he intends to say never reveals itself to Sigrid, for the tent opens again, and in strides Da.
His gaze, initially landing on Sigrid, splits from her a moment later and drops to the dwarf king.
It is frightening to see the light and love that her father always holds shed so instantly and intensely from him, and for thunderous hatred to overtake a man who never once let it abide. He has been enraged, yes, but never for long—not even when Sigrid was held captive in the mountain—and never to the point where it twists into loathing that thickens the very air like lightning about to strike on the lake.
Da snarls at Thorin’s presence. In one swoop, he takes the dwarf by the coat and throws him out of the tent. He follows, stamping and dangerous. Sigrid cries out in surprise, and so do others who stand outside.
“How dare you?!” Da’s voice is nigh unrecognizable with fury. “How dare you think yourself deserving to look upon my daughter! To approach her alone, as if you did not sentence her to death!”
She hears the sound of a boot connecting to a body. Thorin wheezes a pained grunt.
“You do not even deserve to walk on your feet, dog that you are!” Another kick. Shouts of protest go up, undoubtedly from the dwarves, and yet there is no sound of intervention.
Sigrid struggles to sit upright, breathing shallowly through the throbbing, lancing pain that stirs unforgivingly at her movement. Black spots dance in her vision the moment she dares to stand, and for an instant she doesn’t believe she’ll manage a single step, but she is drawn forth when Da’s shouting continues.
“I should demand your head for what you brought to my people! My family! It would be my right!”
The winter light stings Sigrid’s eyes. Dale’s crumbling walls surround a grouping of tents, all of them set up in a circular fashion. In the central space, Da towers over Thorin, who sports a bloody lip from his place on the ground, propped up on his elbows. He glares up at her father, though whatever fierceness his look might have had is diminished by shame and surrender. He does not fight Da because to some degree, he believes the vitriol spat at him.
Along the edges of the ring, Lakemen and the Company have gathered. A smattering of elves are among them, also watching. The moment Sigrid emerges, their attention tangibly falls on her.
They hush. Thorin, too, looks past Da to her, and he becomes graver and guiltier.
Da senses the change and sharply turns around. His rage wicks off him as quickly as it came. Sigrid mislikes the great worry and remorse that dwells in its place. She is the one who has changed into an unrecognizable person, not him.
He hurries to support her, and she readily leans into his strong embrace.
“Forgive me,” Da whispers. “Forgive me, kinpin. You should not have felt the need to rise when you must rest.”
Sigrid hums; it echoes in the injury on her neck. Then she regards Thorin, who has not moved nor spoken.
To him, she says, “If any honor remains in you, then you will uphold the contract.”
“Contract? What contract?”
Da’s questioning gives Balin a start. The old dwarf hastily emerges from the Company’s ranks. Fíli is not with them, and his absence is a leaden reminder that although he lives, her victory is not unmarred. When she is better, she will go to him so they may talk of spring.
“The Lady Sigrid drafted a contract stipulating the care of the Lakemen should the worst occur…which, pardon my bluntness, has occurred.” Balin procures the folded parchment from within his coat and gives it to Da. “Thorin agreed and signed, and it was validated by my signage as well.”
She doesn’t look at her own unsightly handwriting while Da reads the contents, so she memorizes the cracks in the cobblestone.
His disbelief is palpable. “You wrote this?” he quietly asks when he finishes.
Sigrid half-lies, “It was a silly idea, but I thought it would provide us safety if we needed it. And with winter upon us and only ruins to shelter in, we do need it.”
“…Aye.” Da kisses the top of her head, murmuring, “My brave, clever girl. How am I so fortunate?”
A hot, ashamed coal lumps in her throat.
Balin emphatically states to them, “The contract remains valid.”
Swallowing back her useless grief, she says, “Then there must be no more strife. The dragon is dead; the mountain is reclaimed; the battle is over. Let us together survive the winter.”
Thorin rises from the ground. No longer is he so desperate, though it lingers in his splintered sapphire gaze. He bows to Sigrid, and there is something important in this gesture, for a king should not bow to a poor bargeman’s daughter, but the weight of the matter slips from her exhausted mind.
“It shall be done.”
Even if Da doesn’t believe him, Sigrid does. The dwarf king’s penitence is deeper than the lake and towering as the Lonely Mountain. He cannot afford to fail them—not after all the destruction, and not after the madness that left a slew of broken promises and friendships in his wake, which rotted the proud name of Thorin Oakenshield.
Sigrid almost pities the path ahead of him now that he lives. But. He lives. Let him struggle, for he lives.
A sickly sensation accompanies sudden splotches of color.
“I feel faint.”
The spectacle unceremoniously ends. Da takes her back inside the tent, where she sweats and aches for several minutes while he puts a cool, damp cloth to her forehead. Just as sleep drags her away, she hears the distant voices of her brother and sister, followed by Da’s gentle shushing.
Tilda’s small hand slips into hers; it is an anchor against the vast waters.
-
Terion apologizes for not being present when Thorin came unbidden into Sigrid’s tent, who must have secretly watched for his departure and determined that she had awoken. After he told Da the news, he went to retrieve Bain and Tilda from where they sheltered and returned too late to be of use.
Sigrid says that there is nothing to forgive. The confrontation was inevitable, and it didn’t end in anyone getting cursed or stabbed, which she is glad for.
Sigrid had first stirred from her unconsciousness a day after the battle, and she slept into the next night. When she resurfaced, the same elven healer who once tended her burned, ruined face sees to her again. She learns that the healer is Cedhrien, honored royal physician of King Thranduil’s court. Her king commanded her to ensure Sigrid’s health. She remembers why she liked Cedhrien in the first place, for she never mentions the light that Terion has confirmed still shines from her. Cedhrien instructs Sigrid to eat and rest in spite of her desire to help Da and the Lakemen. She is also very concerned about timely bowel movements, which Sigrid often disappoints her in since she lacks an appetite and can’t move much.
She spends a week recovering in the tent, though it lasts three days too long. The tedium is alleviated by her family and friends helping to pass the time. Tilda is her near-constant companion, only flitting out when she has to and returning with stories about what people are saying and what she’s seen. Bain and Da visit as often as they can when they have moments to spare between the duties of aiding their people. Da tells her of the progress and obstacles only because she forces him to, which Bain supplements with his honest—and amusing—opinions. Terion frequently comes to see Sigrid when he is able, as he too has been enlisted in the recovery and clean-up. He also provides information about how the Lakemen fare thanks to their own endurance and the aid of the elves and dwarves. When he isn’t giving her insight into the world outside of the tent, he shares more stories about his home and the forest that distract Sigrid and delight Tilda.
Little Bilbo Baggins drops in twice. During his first visit, they don’t speak of the confrontation between Da and Thorin, of which she is thankful for. Instead, he shares how the wizard Gandalf has cleansed the mountain treasure of its accursedness and all the work the Company, the Iron Hills dwarves, and some willing Lakemen have done to ensure that Erebor is available for any who wish to winter in its halls.
When Sigrid inquires upon Fíli’s health, Bilbo struggles to hide his sorrow. He answers that Fíli may not ever truly heal from his injuries. The damage he sustained from the fall all but shattered his hip and leg. Óin puts him to sleep with tea for most of the day because the pain is too strenuous on his body. And when he is awake, he cares little to talk. But Kíli and Thorin and the rest of them can be patient. It only matters that he is alive because of her.
Sigrid still cries at her failure to spare him entirely from a fate where he suffers.
(She dreams of him falling, of her falling, of everyone dying. She is dead, and this is but her imagination consoling her in the sliver between her final breath and the darkless dark of calm waters.)
Distressed, Bilbo apologizes—then apologizes again about not having an appropriate handkerchief to give to her. This leads into a story about how in his rush from his hobbit home, he forgot a handkerchief and has been using a piece of Bofur’s tatty shirt as one ever since. She forces her tears to abate for his sake. The story is also entertaining, and by the time he departs, it appears as though she never cried at all.
But the guilt persists, grinding down on her chest whenever she is alone in the wretched tent.
The second day Bilbo visits, and the day before she is released from her confines, he brings Kíli and Tauriel.
Kíli hides his quiet sob behind a laugh when Tilda throws her arms around him. She had missed him dearly, and her child’s heart is forgiving.
And because Tilda’s heart is also stuffed with whimsical dreams of love, she wastes no time asking Kíli, “Have you and Tauriel married yet?”
Bilbo chuckles at their blushing cheeks, and Sigrid smiles because any sort of laughter pains and tires her.
Kíli replies, “Not yet, my lady. Though…”
He turns to Sigrid with a look on his face that forebodes nothing but trouble.
“…We may have a favor to ask of you, Lady of Dale.”
This favor leaves Tilda begging for Sigrid to accept.
“You do not need to plead on their behalf, kinpin,” Sigrid says. Kíli and Tauriel have died and died; she will do what she can to ensure that they may live joyously with each other—and that their love goes uncontested whenever they must reveal the cultural sin they’ve committed. “I’ll gladly do it.”
Amidst Tilda’s clapping, Bilbo says, “This is going to upset a number of people.” But there’s a mischievous, approving glint in his eyes, telling that he will not be among this number.
Kíli stubbornly sets his jaw and smirks. “Let them be upset. It will change nothing.”
-
The Lakemen rejoice when Sigrid finally walks among them, not quite healed but hale enough to assist Da and everyone else. She feels unworthy of their love, so she sets to work. It will never make up for all those who died under her command, who died in Lake-town, but she tries to do what she can for the living.
She waits for death to clamp back down on her sewed-up neck. The windvane is removed without issue, however, and the dwarves trek to Sigrid rather than let her go to them—Tilda and Bain are happiest when Bofur and Kíli come—so she avoids a potentially falling pillar. But winter has only just begun; there are endless chances for her to die before spring thaws the ground.
Until that time comes, she will toil.
On the day Thranduil and the last of his army depart (including Cedhrien, who leaves instructions for Sigrid’s care to Terion), a question strikes her while she and Da watch the army snake through the streets.
“…Whatever did you do with the Arkenstone?”
A small, sly smile crinkles the corners of his mouth.
“Ah. A short while after the battle, I went out before dawn, rowed to where the lake’s water is deep, and dropped it there. Let that thing turn to silt alongside the dragon. The future will be better for it.”
She hums to concur.
Knowing the Arkenstone’s fate then causes a sudden spark of courage. “I think I will brave the mountain to see Fíli. Kíli tells me that he stays awake longer now.”
“Only if Terion accompanies you on horseback. I would not like it if you journeyed there alone in your condition.”
For someone who was once so wary of her elf friend, Da accepted Terion’s place once he earned trust and favor with his deeds before, during, and after the battle. The fact that he remains in Dale while the rest of his people leave also speaks to his loyalty…to his choice.
(She wishes that Terion never had to choose at all.)
Together, they ride to Erebor. Reconstruction efforts are well underway. The dwarves are startlingly efficient at clearing old and new debris, and soon the mountain will be open to the Lakemen. Whether Sigrid and her family will reside here for winter is undetermined; Da would prefer that they stay in Dale since he leads its rebuilding, and none of his children want to be separated from him. She suspects that if they accept the shelter, it will only be until a home of their own has been acceptably repaired.
Sigrid can’t stop herself from tallying up every single way she might die in the mountain. There are many possibilities, from pickaxe to pointy rubble, and her morbid thoughts aren’t helped by the unsubtle stares she receives from the working dwarves.
She so often forgets that she killed an orc they reviled and thus saved their king and princes. But she didn’t save them because they were the heirs of Durin; she saved them because they needed to live. She saved them out of love.
So, Sigrid hurries to greet the first Company members she sees, which happen to be Glóin and Bofur. They are pleased to see her, but their happy expressions wane when she states the reason for her visit.
“The lad’s been…in poor spirits, Lady Sigrid,” Bofur explains, careful to keep his voice low. “He doesn’t want visitors.”
Glóin folds his arms and gruffly says, “Utter toss, that’s what it is. He’s of the mind that it’s somehow shameful to be seen with his injuries. As if we’d ever believe him to be broken. Bah!”
Guilt and dread drip into Sigrid’s stomach.
“May…may one of you at least tell him that I am here? That I hope to visit him.”
“You should not need permission,” Terion says in a mildly strained tone. “He is indebted to you.”
“I will not intrude if he doesn’t want it.”
Bofur bobs his head. “Aye, my lady, I’ll see to it.”
He rushes off, and Glóin occupies their attention. He details all that they had done to get the nearest sections of Erebor into good condition and all that they will do once spring arrives and more dwarves from the Blue Mountains arrive to resettle. Sigrid has heard his enthusiastic plans before in another life, but she doesn’t mind hearing them again. He also talks about his son, who is very eager to finally put truth to the tales of Erebor and its beauty. Now, she hasn’t heard Glóin ever mention his son, and she learns that his name is Gimli, who was wroth when Glóin told him that he was too young to join the Company on its quest.
“I look forward to meeting him,” Sigrid says even though she may already be dead by the time he reunites with his father.
“Och, and I’m certain he looks forward to meeting the lady who slew the Defiler with a single arrow!”
“It was two arrows,” Sigrid halfheartedly corrects, but she won’t be listened to. Glóin and most humans, dwarves, and elves have it in their heads that she ended Azog in one shot.
“Of course, of course!”
No, Glóin will never make the correction to his son.
Bofur returns with Kíli. The younger prince is grim with some anger, but mostly sadness. His expression reflects Fíli’s answer.
She feels like crying.
“Forgive him,” he murmurs to Sigrid. “It is not your fault. He doesn’t even want me at his side most days.”
This breaks her heart more.
Sigrid has become a master at stifling her tears, so she nods and evenly replies, “I understand. Tell him that I shall try again another day.”
“I will. But please—do not think that you are unwelcome. Stay a little while, come say hello to the other lads. They’d be very happy to see you.”
She resists the urge to flee and spends some time with Bilbo, Ori, Nori, Bifur, and Bombur. The rest are busy with tasks, and Nori assures they’ll be mighty jealous that they missed her. Ori’s soft-spoken kindness soothes the surface of Sigrid’s despair. Bifur gives her a little wooden rabbit that he carved for Tilda, then sets to work on carving a thrush for Sigrid right in front of her. Bombur speaks the most words she’s ever heard him utter as he talks about the kitchen he now oversees. Bilbo makes sure she drinks the tea he’s poured for her and shoots brief glares at Kíli whenever he hints at their upcoming plans. Terion, who was also quickly drawn into these plans once Sigrid said it would be done, steers the conversation away before the other dwarves get wise. Bofur surely senses that something is amiss, but he’s Bofur—he stashes his observations under that neglected hat and otherwise keeps quiet.
They don’t intrude for long, and once an acceptable amount of time passes, Sigrid and Terion take their leave. Part of her worries about running into Thorin on their way out of Erebor; the other part of her wants it to happen anyway. She hasn’t even glimpsed the King Under the Mountain since he swore to uphold the contract. What is he doing now that no tomb holds him?
“I’ve finally got a place scouted out,” Kíli whispers eagerly right before they mount their horses, “on the western slope of the mountain, where the sunset turns everything aglow. Bilbo will lead you and the other guests there three days from now.”
“Talk any louder, and the whole mountain will also be guests,” Terion chides.
Kíli just shrugs. “This is as quiet as I can be.”
Terion makes a face that he’s made before when he’s particularly confused as to why Tauriel, his wise and courageous captain, chose Kíli. It always bring a smile to Sigrid’s lips, but she smiles so little these days that it feels stiff and unnatural whenever it arises.
She doesn’t mean to be melancholy. She should be abundant with happiness about how she, the heirs of Durin, and so many more draw winter air into their lungs…yet her ability to conjure joy lasts for but a few moments. It is because this continued life doesn’t seem real. She holds her breath before she falsely assumes that she has broken through the surface.
If I live to spring, then I shall let happiness flood through me. If I live to spring, then I will know that I may be well, and merry, and warm.
-
As promised, Bilbo brings Sigrid, Terion, Tilda, and Bain to a snow-encrusted slope with dead, stubbly grass and bronze lichen on the rocks. The sun has begun to settle its burnished light above them, reminding Sigrid of the hunt for the hidden door. She can’t speak of that night to Bilbo because her presence with the Company was not in this life, and it leaves her insides chafed and leaden.
Bain only discovered their misadventure because Tilda sang to him, “I know something you don’t!” He then proceeded to tickle her to a madly giggling confession. He is a welcome guest, however, and is just as excited to be part of the small, private retinue. They agreed to not share the secret with Da since he might forbid his children from being involved in a conflict between the elves and dwarves. No, it was better to seek his forgiveness when their clandestine undertaking was inevitably revealed.
They are not the first to arrive. The wizard Gandalf sits on one of the rocks. Smoke from his puffing pipe whisks away on the stout breeze. When he regards Sigrid, he simply raises his brows in acknowledgement, then turns his attention to Bilbo as they cheerfully welcome each other. The wizard’s attendance has her recalling his words: You have been blessed by the Valar, trailed by Thranduil’s Cursed is another appropriate term.
Whatever the light upon her brow means, its importance is why she stands here awaiting Kíli and Tauriel.
Soon, the two crest the rocks together, their hands intertwined. Kíli dons his normal Lake-town coat and clothes, but he is freshly washed and brimming with excitement. Tauriel, too, wears no intricate gown nor shells in her hair—simply the same Woodland uniform that she had on when she stepped foot inside Sigrid’s home.
But their attire matters not; they have come to be wed, and so long as their hearts are willing, then they are beautiful in the golden sunset.
First, Kíli and Tauriel perform an elven ceremony of song. She sings in Sindarin. He sings in Khuzdul. Sigrid understands neither language, yet love weaves together each syllable, each lilt, each rise and fall in the unified melody. They look nowhere else but at their beloved, and their fair voices lift up to the sky. When they finish, they settle on their knees and commence the dwarven ceremony of braiding strands of each other’s hair, which they finish with a clasp. Tauriel wears one of metal, and Kíli wears one of wood. They will both have to hide the braid and the clasp, though that won’t diminish its presence.
The ceremonies themselves mean nothing without someone of great enough authority to declare them married. Sigrid is the presider not just because she is the unofficial Lady of Dale, second only to her father’s equally unofficial title as Lord of Dale, but because she carries respect for both elves and dwarves.
To the dwarves, she killed Azog and protected the heirs of Durin from his vengeance, foremostly the crown prince.
To the elves, she bears the light of the Valar that invokes their deference.
So, neither race may quarrel fiercely with her when they demand answers about the forbidden marriage between an Ereborian prince and a banished Silvan elf.
While Kíli and Tauriel still kneel, Sigrid goes before them and lays each hand on the tops of their heads. She abides by Lakemen custom, which lacks the elegance of elven and dwarven exchanges; indeed, anyone can marry two people so long as their names are stated in the records, which means that she could have been sweet, gentle Sigrid who never understood death or war and still married them under Lakemen law. It is a nice, faraway thought.
“May your love be as deep as the lake and as eternal as the stars. May you cherish the life you walk together, and may your hearts forever dwell in the joy of being shared, of being known. Rise as married souls.”
The instant after Sigrid removes her hands, Tauriel and Kíli fall into an embracing kiss, and he doesn’t protest in the slightest when she lunges up to her feet and leaves his legs dangling.
The guests cheer. Sigrid herself grins and claps, ignoring the dull ache in her bandaged, healing fingers. Tilda, who couldn’t find flower petals in the wintertime to throw into the air, uses oats instead. She tosses them up and around everyone in great big handfuls. Thrushes dive to snatch them up, which causes more laughter.
When Tauriel finally sets her blushing husband down, the hug that she and Sigrid share set off a round of congratulations.
Her gifts to them are nothing special; she and Terion searched for spiral shells along the lake to make hairpieces. If Tauriel and Kíli are to live so close to the lake, then they need at least a piece of it to keep on them.
The little party cannot linger on the slope for much longer. Gold steadily bows to blue shadow, and with it comes a teeth-chattering chill. Wherever Kíli and Tauriel intend to sneak away to for their first night is unknown, though Sigrid doesn’t particularly care about the details. Nobody will notice the banished elf being gone from Dale for one night, and Bilbo will likely make up some excuse for Kíli if anybody asks. As one final celebratory act, they pass around a bottle of spiced mead that Terion charmed his way into getting from the town’s communal larder, and Sigrid allows Tilda to partake in the tiniest sip. Her scrunched face and repulsed noises garner a good laugh.
Terion steps away to gather Tilda on his back for the trek home, and Gandalf takes the opportunity to approach Sigrid. Her most distinct memories of him were addled with pain and grief and fear, so perhaps he looked as kind as drizzling summer rain like he does now.
“The worlds of elves and dwarves will feel the effects of this small ceremony for ages to come,” he says to her. The wide brim of his gray hat tips down with his leveling gaze. “And none of it could have happened were it not for you.”
Because I saved them? she almost asks. Because I tired of despairing over their deaths and determined that they would live? Is this what you speak of?
“They would have done as their hearts desired, with or without me,” Sigrid replies.
“Perhaps, but the fight they would have endured from their choice shall not come to pass, not nearly as terrible.”
“Then I’m glad.”
Gandalf idly adjusts the rough-hewn gem affixed to his staff, yet his tone is far from idle when he murmurs, “Long has your journey been to ensure the happiness of those you care for, and longer it may be…for no road truly ever ends, weary lake-daughter.”
He regards her again, and beneath the blessed light, there is the face of a tired girl who struggles to understand why she continues to live.
“I shall not say that you mustn’t despair. But one day, a day that nobody can foresee, the mist will clear, and you will find that you have always been treading with hope and happiness. For you see, although you believed them to be absent, they never did leave the heart of where they grew strongest.”
-
Sigrid attempts to visit Fíli two more times in the following month, and he declines two more times. Tilda is with her on the second try, and though her sister doesn’t cry at being turned away, a sad mood takes her for the rest of the day. Only a slice of Sigrid’s bristleberry pie puts the color back in her cheeks.
On the third time Sigrid tries, she and Terion don’t announce themselves and walk straight to the personal quarters, which are on a higher level and force her to brave lightheadedness and the tumbling sensation in her stomach. She’s intent on searching each room to find which one Fíli has decided to languish in, except Dwalin personally stops them and says that he cannot permit anyone to enter the prince’s room without invitation.
Terion calls it madness. Sigrid pleads for him to reconsider.
Dwalin is the staunchest dwarf among the Company for a reason, however, and he refuses despite his poorly veiled remorse.
Briefly, she thinks about crying. How could he stop her then? But she dashes it a moment later; Dwalin shouldn’t bear the dishonor when it is not his decision. So, she saves her useless tears until it is late at night and the guilt over causing Fíli this shame and torment chokes her in the dark.
Fíli certainly wouldn’t want Kíli sharing details about his troubled recovery, but nevertheless he does because Fíli frustrates him in a way he has never done before. Always, Kíli has been the younger brother who followed Fíli’s lead. Always has their bond kept them close. But now that Fíli can no longer walk, let alone fulfill his duties as heir, everyone looks to Kíli—the second son who never thought he’d be anything more than captain of the royal guard—as a leader. His struggles are made worse since Fíli has retreated from his beloved brother, which leaves Kíli feeling alone and angry. It is because of this frayed bond that Kíli didn’t tell Fíli that he married Tauriel, for when Kíli confessed that he loved the elf, Fíli uncaringly replied that they could never be wed, and he needed to focus on becoming someone who could lead the kingdom since the crown prince was an unfit cripple.
Kíli’s decision to marry Tauriel in secret will have great ramifications between the two races, yet Sigrid fears it may cause worser trouble between the brothers.
She shouldn’t be listening to their family mess, but it’s not as if Kíli is particularly reserved about it when he chats with her and Terion. He frequents their life partially as a ruse to see Tauriel in secret, but he also enjoys their company and the company of her family. None of them pressure him to take up oars until Fíli can resume his duties, and he doesn’t have to hide his soupiness for Tauriel among them.
(Honestly, it’s a wonder that Kíli has kept his elven wife a secret. Sigrid would never tell him, but a small part of her thought he wouldn’t last two weeks before Thorin found out.)
Kíli soothes his particularly lamenting spirit over a cup of tea in the ramshackle kitchen of their claimed Dale home. In a few days, Sigrid’s family (which includes Terion and Tauriel now) will temporarily move to Erebor while workers finish the major repairs. Tilda doesn’t want to relocate because there are no windows, and how shall she talk to the thrushes then? But it’s not as if they’ll stay within the mountain all day. Da will want them off to Dale as soon as the sun rises and only back when night forces them into the halls of stone. When their home is ready, they will not tarry for a moment longer than necessary.
Tauriel reiterates, “You must give him time.”
“I have, haven’t I?” Tea sloshes at Kíli’s outburst. He goes to wipe the spillage with his coat sleeve, but Sigrid stops him with a tsk and reaches for a cloth to soak it up. Meeker, he continues, “But he doesn’t want me anywhere near him, or anyone. Ori and Bilbo are the ones he tolerates most, yet he’ll chase them away when he’s feeling especially foul. Ori and Bilbo! When I tell him that he can act nasty to me and Thorin all he wants but he mustn’t do it to them, he’ll stop talking to me altogether for days.”
She’s heard all of this before, so she asks, “How does treatment fare? You said that Óin approved walking exercises last week.”
“He’s lost the will to fight. I know his recovery is difficult—Óin and everyone have said that it’ll take months for his body to regain strength, and he won’t ever move the same—yet when he falters after only taking a step or two, he believes that he shall forever be unable to walk and should stop trying to spare everyone the embarrassment of hoping for him.”
Anger briefly flickers in Sigrid.
“There is nothing you can say to him that will change the current course of his mind,” says Terion. “I have seen how severe injuries can cause futility in warriors, and a warrior Fíli has always been. How would you react if you lost your arm and could no longer wield a bow? A sword? And you had to reconcile that you would never again be the person life had built you up to be?” Kíli glumly frowns. “Refuse to leave his side, but do try to stay your tongue, difficult as that might be. His thoughts are loud enough; he does not need your voice to add to the disorder.”
Kíli sighs, “Yes, yes. I shall try, Terion.”
Before he departs to the Lonely Mountain, Sigrid sends him with a small fish pie in a basket. “For Fíli,” she states as she makes sure that the linen is stuffed tightly against the pie to keep its warmth. “Guilt him into eating it, if you must.”
“Should he refuse it, will you cry?”
“Most assuredly.”
He smirks. “Good to know.” Then his smile softens with pain, and he says, “Thank you for caring about him, my lady. He will appreciate it one day.”
She has cared for Fíli since before her first death, simple and small as it was until each recurrence transformed it into a frantic, flying beast. For all he aggrieves her with his miserable isolation, she could never quell it now.
-
Winter storms slow the completion of the house and force Sigrid and her family to sequester in the mountain on days when the road to Dale is impassable. The stone unyieldingly protects the Lakemen from the same bitter cold that would have eaten through their bones, and the massive, working furnaces warm the halls. She knows how horrible it is to survive the storms in Dale, so she is thankful that nobody in this life has to wonder if they’ll freeze during the night. Whenever Da tries to grumble about the delays, she promptly quiets him with that reminder.
Throughout these periods, there is not much else to do other than review contracts and sew by the fire. Tilda goes off to play with friends her own age, and Bain trains with Terion, Tauriel, and the enlisted Dale guardsmen. Da regains his strength and health by taking well-earned naps that also keep him from growing too irritated at being stranded in Erebor. Sigrid tends to wander off to seek Ori’s company. Sometimes Bilbo is with him, sometimes Balin, sometimes Dori and Nori. All of them are happy to see her. Ori takes his work seriously, yet he always spares time for Sigrid. They don’t have to fill the space with conversation, though she enjoys their exchanges because Ori is sincerely interested in everything, from the contents of preserved scrolls to the consistency of the lake’s sand.
(Every time she walks to and from his office, she thinks about how she might look if something were to strike her dead.)
She requests to visit Fíli. She is denied. She sends a potato and onion pie anyway. It has become a spiteful game in her eyes: the more he refuses, the more she makes him remember her through food. Kíli confirms that he eats it, however—and assures that he himself only partakes in her delivered meals because Fíli demands that it be shared.
(As Bofur talks to her one morning, she imagines dying in front of him.)
Sigrid glimpses Thorin from afar on three occasions; they never interact. Balin and Glóin are the ones who conduct business with Da and the town on his behalf. Kíli says that Thorin works long into the night because he sleeps poorly.
(On their final day in the mountain, Sigrid still doesn’t quite believe she’ll step foot outside of it, for her blood will spread across the stone.)
Their Dale home is larger than their Lake-town one had been, though it is no lord’s manor. The true estate of their lordly ancestors is nothing more than a blackened heap of rubble from Smaug’s attack almost a century ago. But their home has space for Terion, Tauriel, and two other guests; a fine kitchen; a study; a dining room; plumbing for the toilets and sinks; and a private backyard.
(Sigrid envisions how everything in this home could split her neck open.)
Work continues. Fíli receives food but will not receive her. Winter wanes. She wakes up each day and is at peace if she should die.
Bilbo leaves for the Shire accompanied by Gandalf, and Sigrid sends him off with shells from the lake and a handkerchief embroidered with fish and thrushes as a keepsake so he will remember their friendship. He takes no overwhelming grief with him this time, and he tearfully promises her that he will return to Dale and Erebor again.
She had always known that Bilbo would return home in the weeks before spring, but it doesn’t ease the sting of his departure. This, combined with the surety that she will die at any moment, burdens her with strange grayness. Often, she walks and talks removed from herself. The detached sensation lessens when she is near her loved ones, but it won’t be banished.
Spring dances into Dale with bright sunlight and relentless gales. Its touch melts the lake and lengthens the days. Flowers claw through the snow and rocks, and Tilda plucks them for her and Sigrid to wear in their braids. The sickness of the dragon’s desolation is broken; dormant grass is born from the ground in patches. More construction ensues. Children play in the restored streets. Warm-weather birds fly back to the North, bringing song on the breeze. Lakemen speak of fishing and farming and trading, but they also speak of pursuing passions and dreams and peace now that it is possible.
With spring comes hope for many things, a hope made real after so much destruction.
Sigrid can’t feel any of it.
Spring comes with the promise that death is behind her, the loom broken, the stitch finished. It is everything she longed for—and she can’t feel any of it. Not the warmth on her skin or the green in the air.
Why? Why can’t spring be as it once was? What has been so ruined inside her that the season of life denies its gift?
Sinking into this crushing grief, Sigrid curses the Valar and weeps into cold, calloused palms that burn from the salt of her tears.
Yet afterward, she finds her sorrow strangely carved out of her. And as the days pass, something else begins to occupy the cavity it left behind.
Anger.
It is a cold, coiled anger; a water snake in the reeds. Sigrid prefers it to sadness, for if she cannot feel spring, then she can at least feel this.
Shortly after Kíli leaves them with another bleak update on Fíli’s denial to leave his room, let alone the mountain, the water snake strikes without warning.
Once she and Terion are by themselves, she spits, “I have had enough of this. I didn’t suffer his death over and over just so he could waste away in this life!”
Terion tilts his head to the side. “What shall you do, then?”
(The lake calls to Sigrid.)
“Check if the hidden door was ever closed, first. Nobody may stop us if they never see that we’ve entered Erebor.”