Roswehn of Dale

Storm

Bard looked thoughtfully at the approaching storm. He could not stand summer storms, they were more violent than autumn ones and ruined the crops. Rain was a good thing for the fields, but looking at those dark clouds on the horizon, he imagined that it would also be followed by hail and no, for the crops hail wasn't good at all.

"Dad! Daaaad!" he heard someone scream. He knew immediately that it was Sigrid. Only she could yell like that. Despite being elevated to the rank of princess of the kingdom, and future queen as a firstborn, she could not learn good manners. Her sister Tilda, though still a child, was unexpectedly more polite.

Sigrid ran to her father, who looked at her severely. "You do not have to scream like that, what's wrong with you?" rebuked Bard.

His daughter was holding an object. "Dad...I have to show you something ..." she said, breathing fast. "You must see this." She showed him a small book. It had a leather cover and seemed used several times. Bard opened it. It was a diary: its pages were written by hand, in an elegant and precise calligraphy. "Whose is this, Sigrid?" he asked.

"It's Regan's." the girl answered. She seemed agitated. "Two days ago it was her birthday, I stayed at her parents' house, I thought they felt sad because she is far away and they could not celebrate all together." Sigrid explained. "Yohlande gave me this, it's hers, I told her that I miss her daughter a lot, so she gave it to me."

Bard read some of the pages. Many words had been erased and rewritten. They were simple sentences, random thoughts on her daily life at Dale. "Her mother should not have given it to you, these are private things, they should be only for her eyes, and Regan would not be happy if she knew you are reading it." He objected.

"Her mother said she left it on purpose in her room, maybe she wanted it to be found." Sigrid answered. She looked at his worried father. "Anyway, I brought it to you because you have to read here." The girl turned the pages quickly, until she came to a figure. Bard immediately recognized the subject: an elven king, seated on a wooden throne and wrapped in a long cloak. "It's Thranduil ..." Bard murmured. Regan had represented the King as she had seen him the winter of the previous year, in the tent, the night before the great battle in Erebor. "She's pretty good at drawing." He remarked.

"No, read what is written below ..." insisted Sigrid. Bard glanced at the sentences that followed the illustration.

I have dreamed of him tonight, of my King. I imagined his warm embrace, his hands on me like ...

Bard closed the book abruptly. "Sigrid!" he looked at his daughter, "did you go on reading?"
The girl blushed slightly and nodded. "You should not have ... and neither do I. I will bring this to her mother, we don't have the right to open this book." he said darkly.

"No, but Dad ... go ahead." Sigrid said.

"Where's Bain?" asked Bard. "Run to call him and go in the Palace with Tilda. A storm is coming."

The daughter did not answer, but after having given Bard a look full of apprehension, she turned her back and walked quickly at home, covering herself with a scarf.

Bard also ran to one of the barns of the kingdom to take shelter. When he came to the porch, he opened Regan's diary again.

I did a little research on the name "Thranduil": it seems that in elvish it means "vigorous spring" ... well I find it a perfect name for him. His beauty is in fact comparable to the beauty of spring. And, judging by his physicality, I do not see why his love should be less than vigorous.

Bard smiled. "Ah, Regs ..." he murmured. He called her affectionately Regs sometimes. "What a silly girl you are."
That young dreamer, therefore, had fallen for Thranduil. That's why she was so anxious to go to Mirkwood. Certainly not for having discussions on trades and proposals for new agreements. He wondered what she was doing at that time.

He turned the pages and saw that the calligraphy changed, sentence after sentence. It became more confusing, less clear. And even the content of her thoughts changed.

...Kill them you have to kill them all start with his children you have to hit them in their sleep cut their dirty throats and finally the boatman do not spare anybody...

Bard felt like a blow to the heart. He reread that thought over and over again, with the blood freezing in his veins, and certainly not for the cold brought by the storm. What did that stuff mean? What was it? Maybe Regan had been sick . Perhaps, he tried to think, the girl had been the victim of a fever and had written down disconnected phrases dictated by delirium. Maybe it was a joke ... yeah, but what kind of joke? She had described the massacre of his family. And, last but not least, his murder.

Bard decided not to talk about it to Sigrid. And not even to Yohlande and Hannes. He decided to forget ... for the moment. He would return the diary to Regan's mother the next day. He wondered if Yohlande had read through it before putting it in his daughter's hands. No, probably not.

A bolt and a sudden thunder.
Bard ran home.