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Dale was the cleanest ruin Thranduil had ever seen. The rubble had been cleared from the streets in less than a week, the good stone sorted from the useless, and the dust and decay swept out from every broken building and crumbling tower. Now that the rebuilding was well underway, the city that was beginning to reemerge from the gutted carcass of the old Dale already spoke of wonder and beauty. The Lakefolk didn't have much, but what they had was scrubbed and polished to within an inch of its life.
The halls of the Woodland Realm were never clean. The constant tramp of changing patrols worked mud and grime and fouler things into the stone that no scrubbing could ever remove. There was no shame in it, and no one complained; it wasn't as if they regularly entertained guests.
And yet, Thranduil looked around at the dustfree paths and spotless doorsteps and wondered if it was time to have Words.
"Excuse me," said a small voice. "Are you lost?"
There was a little girl standing behind him, and she looked just like the city. Her clothes were mis-matched and mended in many places, her sleeves too short and her skirt too long, but they were tidy and clean, and her hair was neatly pinned up. The last thing the people of this town could cling to was their pride, and it radiated from her like a beacon.
"You're him, aren't you?" she said with a slight gasp, her eyes aglow. "The Elvenking. I saw you ride up on your big deer."
Thranduil did not care overmuch for the children of Men. They reminded him of days so far in the distant past as to be scarcely even memory anymore. There had been no children under the eves of the Greenwood in years beyond count. He thought to send her away, but then he looked at her face properly and hesitated. There was something about her...
"I know you," he said. "What is your name, child?"
"Tilda, daughter of Bard, at your service," she replied promptly. Of course. It was clear now. She wore the same air of lordship as her father, though it sat differently on her small shoulders. Then she said "Ooh, wait," and she grasped her skirts and dipped in an elegant if belated curtsey.
Something about the act tugged his mouth into a smile. "And I am at yours, Tilda, daughter of Bard," he replied, inclining his head just a little. "Your manners serve you well."
"Thank you," she said graciously, then screwed up her face in thought. "You have really nice hair," she declared finally.
Thranduil was taken aback. "I beg your pardon?"
"Sigrid says that a compliment should always be repaid," said Tilda, as if reciting from a script. "You gave me one, so I need to give you one back; that's being polite. I think you have really pretty hair. And it's so long! I hope my hair grows that long."
It had been a very, very long time indeed since anyone had even commented on his hair. It was just a given, as far as Elves were concerned at any rate, and nothing special. Even so, there was something about her sincere manner that was... charming, perhaps. She genuinely thought he had nice hair, and thought he needed to know. Something inside him thawed a little.
"My thanks," he said. "Though I fear you must wait a long time for yours to grow this long."
"That's fine," she said lightly. "Mine grows really fast. Da says I'm going to turn into a great big hairy dog if it doesn't stop."
Thranduil valiantly held back an unflattering comparison between Bard and a great big hairy dog. Instead he said, "Where is your father?"
"He's down at the Great Hall, getting ready for the meeting." Tilda frowned, and for an instant she looked so like Bard it was startling. "He's fretting. He wants everyone to think he's not, but he's fretting a lot over silly things, like clothes. I told him you probably don't mind what colour shirt he wears."
Thranduil thought back to the half-hour conversation with his advisor about which crown to bring to send the appropriate messages, and then to the full hour alone among his extensive robe collection trying to answer the questions he wasn't fully prepared to ask himself, let alone his counsellors, and felt a bit sheepish.
To cover his own foolishless, he asked,"Should you not be with your family?"
"We-ell, I'm supposed to be inside doing my sewing," she said reluctantly. "But I wanted to see the Elves. We met some Elves in Laketown and I wanted to see if you all looked the same."
Something stirred in Thranduil's memory. "You met Elves?" he asked, and feared her answer.
"Uh-huh." There was a strand of hair escaping from one of the girl's braids. She tucked it into the corner of her mouth and chewed on it thoughtfully. "There was a man and a lady. They saved us from the orcs. He was blond like you but she had all red hair, it was really pretty too. Oh, she was so brave and she healed the poor Dwarf who got hurt. I'm gonna be just like her when I grow up, only with smaller ears."
I shall be just like Nana when I am grown, Ada. She's so very brave and strong. Just you wait, Ada. I shall be just like Nana!
Thranduil managed to keep the sudden rush of emotion from reaching his face, though it took a great effort. He was about to turn away and close himself to her when she said, "Why isn't it all done up?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Your hair," the girl clarified. "Why isn't it all done up? All the other Elves have got braids and beads and stuff. Why don't you? It'd look really nice, it's so long and smooth."
For an instant, he almost considered telling her. Perhaps it was her face, open and trusting and caring. Perhaps it was the echo of her father in her voice. It was ridiculous, of course. Had she been an Elf, she wouldn't have even needed to ask. But just for an instant...
Instead, he said, "I never have the time," which was possibly the greatest lie he had ever told.
Tilda nodded solemnly. "I guess," she said. "I bet you've got all sorts of important things to do. Da's got lots of things to do and he's only running a little town. He has to sign a lot of things. I bet you have to sign a lot of things too, right?"
"I suppose so," said Thranduil, who hadn't signed anything in at least a hundred years. Elven paperwork lasted a long time.
The girl considered the sky for a while, chewing on the loose strand of hair. Then she said, "Don't you have someone who could do your hair for you, while you're signing things?"
"No," said Thranduil firmly. "I do not." Not anymore.
"Oh," said Tilda. "That's a pity." She thought to herself a moment. "Want me to do it? I'm pretty good at it."
Thranduil very nearly said, "Of course not! How dare you even think to suggest such a thing! Do you not realise what you ask? Now, be gone with you!"
But he looked down at the girl, and he saw her father in her kind eyes, in the earnest set of her mouth and the frown crinkling the space between her brows, in the way she stood among the ruins like a rose in the midst of thorns, and in his heart he knew the words were false.
"Very well," he said. "Lead on."
They were an incongruous pair winding their way through the city. Tilda pointed out all her favourite places as they went and detailed the plans for the rebuilding like a queen giving a tour of her realm: "That one's going to be a market, all covered up. That one's where I hid from Sigrid yesterday when she wanted me to wash my blankets. I think that tower's going to fall down soon; I hope it doesn't hurt anyone. And that one's going to be a bathhouse. Isn't that grand!"
They came eventually to a house on the edge of the renovated area. Like most of the rebuilt houses the builders had ensured the walls and roof were watertight and moved swiftly on, leaving the windows still covered in cloth and the door just a thick drape hanging over the entrance, which Tilda held aside politely so the Elvenking could enter. He was mildly surprised to find that inside the house was warm, the floor covered in threadbare rugs and thick furs and the hastily repaired stone walls keeping out the worst of the wind's chill. On the wall above the cracked remains of the mantlepiece were two iron brackets, as if an old weapon had sat there in days long past. He wondered if one day a great bow might hang in its place.
"I'm sorry it's not very pretty in here right now. It'll get better soon, once Da gets the markets going again," said Tilda, and placed a wooden chair in front of the empty fireplace. "You can sit down here. I need to get some things." She disappeared off into the next room in a patter of feet. She fitted here, among the tumbledown walls and broken bridges, a ray of sunshine and new life creating hearth and home from death and decay.
Thranduil Oropherion sat down on the rickety chair in the little house in the middle of the ruined city of Dale and felt very much the intruder.
Tilda soon returned, cradling a hairbrush and a wooden box inlaid with copper carvings. "Da gave me this for my birthday," she said, and opened it to show him. It was filled with ribbons of all colours and sizes.
"You intend to put ribbons in my hair?" asked Thranduil with some trepidation.
"You're the most important Elf," said Tilda, putting the box down and taking up the hairbrush. "You should have the most interesting hair."
Well, when put like that, it did make a strange sort of sense.
Tilda set about brushing his hair, starting from the tips and working her way up. She hummed as she worked, a light little ditty probably learnt from the fishermen. When she was halfway up, she said, "Da said you've got a son. What's his name?"
"Legolas." He had to force the name out through his teeth. If the girl noticed, she did not comment.
"That's a nice name," she remarked. "Does he have hair like yours?"
"You could tell me," he said. "You have met him."
"Oh," said Tilda. "Oh! He was the one in Laketown! Well, I thought he had quite nice hair. Not as nice as yours, though," she added generously. "Yours is more silver."
"He takes after his mother." The words left his mouth before he could stop them.
"Ah," said Tilda wisely. "She must be more golden."
"Yes," replied Thranduil slowly. He was shocked to realise how open he was being to this strange Man-child. "She was."
The brush stilled in his hair.
"Oh," said the girl. "I'm sorry." After a moment of quiet, she asked softly, "Did she use to do your hair?"
He could not find the words to reply. His silence was eloquent enough. Tilda put the brush down.
"What colour of ribbons would you like?" she asked. She did not press him for more details of his past. He marvelled at her diplomacy; she would be a fine leader one day.
"Which do you think best?" he asked.
She considered the box. "I like the green and the brown, for the trees in the Wood," she said, holding them up for his approval. "We could put some gold in there as well," she added quietly. "If you want."
She was too wise for a child. Thranduil held the brightly coloured ribbons in his hand for a moment.
"No," he said finally, and felt the weight lift from his heart just a little. "No gold. Let us have the silver instead, for Dale. We are allies now. I would like to show it."
She took the ribbons from him and laid them to one side. "Da likes the silver ones," she offered conversationally as she started to separate out sections of his hair. "He used to let me put them in his hair when I was really little."
To his immense surprise, he actually laughed, amused at the thought of Bard with his scraggly hair tied up with silver bows. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed at something so trivial. It was freeing.
"Aww, don't be unkind," chided Tilda gently. Her little fingers plucked carefully at the silvery strands above his ear, tucking in the first of the ribbons. "He's a bit hopeless but he's still my Da. And maybe Legolas will laugh at you when he sees this."
The smile fell from Thranduil's face as swiftly and suddenly as it had arrived."He will not see it," he said, and the words burnt his throat and yet were better spoken. "He would not return home after the Battle. He has gone away to the North."
Tilda gasped. "Oh no! Why did he do that?"
"It was inevitable. I have been a poor father to him. He resents me; I saw it in his eyes. Now he has finally left me."
Tilda made a disapproving clucking sound in her throat. "Did he say that he hates you?"
"Not in so many words. But he said he cannot remain in Mirkwood with me. It seems plain." And it did. What other reason might there be to leave?
"Oh, no. No, no, no." Tilda patted his shoulder with her free hand. "That's not the same at all."
"They seem alike to me."
Tilda was silent for a while, her fingers still working. Finally she sighed. "Look, I love Sigrid, and Bain, and Da, really a lot. But sometimes Bain steals my food or Sigrid wants me to tidy up or Da says I'm not to go out on my own and I hate it and I just want to be away from them for a while. I don't hate them, but I know that if I stay near them when I hate what they're doing then I'll start to hate them too. So I run away and hide somewhere until I remember that I love them again.
"I don't think Legolas left because he hates you. I think he left because he doesn't want to hate you, and he's afraid that if he stays he would start to." She held a half-finished braid out to one side. "Could you hold this, please? I need to do the others."
Thranduil took the thin plait from her, struck momentarily dumb by this flash of insight. How had he come to a point in his life where he sought counsel from a little girl and received wisdom offered as freely as air? "What should I do, then?"
"Do what Da and Sigrid and Bain do when I run away. Wait for him to come back. I think he loves you a lot. But he needs some time to remember it."
"How can you know this?" he asked softly. "You are but a child."
"I don't think age matters that much. We all feel sad sometimes. And I listen. Laketown was really small. When people had problems, everyone heard about them. I learnt a lot that way."
"So, I wait until my son returns to me. What should I do in the meanwhile? I can hardly sit in my halls and fester."
"Well, I'm not an expert," Tilda said, despite all evidence otherwise. "But I think you need to go out more. Da used to say that beds are nice, but if you stay in them too long you forget that there's a whole world outside that you'll miss if you don't get up." She took the braid from his hand to bind it with the one in hers. "'Course, he only said that when Bain was being lazy and wouldn't get out of bed in the morning. But it's true. Da says you've been sitting underground in the Wood for years. That's your bed, and it's probably really nice and warm and you know it really well. But you seem lonely, like you've forgotten what other people are like, because you've spent too long there. They're all out in the big wide world. You just need to get out of bed and find them."
"Are you telling me that I should... make friends? With whom?"
"Well, you could be friends with Da, for a start. He says you're pig-headed and arrogant and wouldn't know how to light a fire in a dragon, but I think he likes you really. He just has to say that so people think he's a big tough sort of king."
The girl lapsed into silence for a while as she fiddled about around the back of his head, leaving the Elvenking uncomfortably alone with her last words. It didn't do to speculate, and yet...
Friends. Perhaps he could manage that.
"Done!" announced Tilda after some time. "Stay there, I'll get a mirror." She scurried off once more and returned with a tarnished hand-mirror, which she presented to him with great ceremony.
There were three braids in all; two beginning over his ears and one at the top of his head. The two at the sides bore the green and brown ribbons woven into the plaits, but silver gleamed in the centre braid, bright even amidst the shine of his hair. The three braids came together at the base of his skull, where Tilda had plaited them together in turn to form one that ran down his spine to finish halfway down his back, tied with a bow of all three different ribbons. It was altogether quite ridiculous and he felt a great kinship with the stubby-legged show ponies he had once witnessed at a fair. And yet, he knew he would wear any number of rosettes and bows in exchange for the counsel he'd just received.
It was at this most unfortunate jucture, as he was still holding the mirror and trying to find the most diplomatic words to describe the sight in it, that a familar voice sounded from without. The drape over the doorway was flung aside and a harried-looking man entered.
"It's no good, Tilda," he was saying. "This shirt makes me look like a plum. I shall have to change before I meet-"
He looked up. Their eyes met. There was a very long and awkward pause.
Thranduil had at least had the presence of mind to rise from the chair, so he felt slightly less absurd than he might otherwise have done, but it was still a Bad Moment. Meanwhile, Bard had gone a very peculiar colour. It didn't go with his shirt, which was definitely not plum. Thranduil only refrained from commenting to that effect out of surprise.
"See?" said Tilda into the awful silence. "I told you he was fretting."
There was only one thing for it; as though nothing had happened, and he hadn't just been caught having his hair braided by a little girl, he said, "Well met, Bard Dragonslayer. I trust the season finds you well."
Bard looked from his daughter to the Elvenking and back again, his eyes wide. "Wh-what exactly have you been doing here?" he managed.
"Seeking counsel," said Thranduil smoothly. "I thank you, Tilda Bard's daughter. I hope your wise words do not go unappreciated by your people." He bowed his head to her and pressed one hand to his heart. Then he straightened, and turned to Bard. "Come, you and I have a meeting to attend. I would hold it here but for the chill in the air and, as I believe you have said, I couldn't light a fire in a dragon. After you." And he gestured to the door.
Bard spluttered briefly then rallied most impressively. He pointed at Tilda, mouthed "I will speak to you later!" and then turned and strode towards the door.
He passed by Thranduil who, unable to contain himself any longer, said archly, "And your shirt is quite clearly cranberry."
Bard stopped and stared. "And you appear to be wearing my daughter's ribbons in your hair," he commented.
"Perhaps that makes us even," suggested Thranduil, with just the slightest hint of a smirk.
Bard glanced once more between him and the girl, then shook his head in confusion and fled the scene with a noise of exasperation.
As he turned to leave, Thranduil looked back at Tilda, with her hairbrush and her box of ribbons and all the wisdom of ages in her little hands. She smiled at him, and winked.
To his own lasting astonishment, he winked back.
Much, much later that day, Bard said, "You know, I rather think it suits you. Perhaps you should wear it like that more often."
Thranduil just passed him the bottle of wine and said, "Perhaps you should ask your daughter for lessons."