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The storm howled down over the mountains like the wrath of the Valar, shrieking around the gates of Erebor and hurling itself against the walls of Dale. It clawed at rooftops, lashed at windows like a thousand whips and struck a mailed fist on every door. Inside their besieged houses, the Dalefolk hid under fur and blanket and tried to sleep it out.
Thranduil was not asleep. He could have been, if he wished, and indeed probably should have been, but then he also should have been back in his halls under the great branches of the Wood and yet he was not; in the last few months he had learned that 'coulds' and 'shoulds' were not at all the same as 'woulds', and what he would be doing at that particular moment was lying right there in Bard's bed, listening to the rain.
Bard was definitely asleep, and Thranduil could tell this because the de-facto Lord of Dale was only making slightly less of a racket than the storm. Thranduil had never met an Elf who snored, much less shared a bed with one, and had come to the conclusion that it was one of those peculiarities of mortals, at once vexing and fascinating. Less endearingly, Bard had also stolen all of the blankets, leaving him with only a sheet. Even so, he was finding it quite hard to be annoyed.
The rain drummed ceaselessly on the roof and on the dark windows, while down the long streets of the town the wind snapped like the beating of wings, punctuated by the crack of thunder. But there was another sound, between the din of the rain and the howl of the wind. It was small, nearly lost amid the tumult, but it called to him, demanding attention. Somewhere nearby, someone was crying.
He rose carefully (though he suspected that nothing short of an orc invasion would rouse Bard), pulled on a robe and went in search of the source. He followed the sound down the corridors of Bard's hall while thunder boomed overhead, barely muffled by the thick stone walls. The only illumination came from the bright flash of lightning glimpsed through the windows, throwing long distorted shadows across the walls.
Two doors down was Tilda's room, and it was from there that the sound emerged. It tugged at his heart, and a dormant rush of paternal emotion flexed wings that had not been used in centuries.
The door opened silently, and there on the bed was a huddle of bedclothes and nightgown topped with curly hair. He sat down on the bed and reached out a hand to her, and it was only then that she moved. She would not speak, but clung to him and sobbed and sobbed, and he held her until her sobs became dry gasps and then finally she was still.
"I'm sorry," she sniffled into his shoulder, after she had calmed herself. "I didn't mean to wake you up."
"I was not asleep," said Thranduil truthfully. "Whatever is the matter?"
"It's nothing," she insisted, extricating herself from his arms and sitting up, though her red eyes belied her proud words. "I'm just being silly. Could you pass me my handkerchief, please?"
"No 'nothing' can do this," he said, while Tilda blew her nose miserably. "Speak; burdens shared are burdens eased."
Tilda twisted the handkerchief nervously in her fingers. "I don't like storms," she said. "Not anymore. They sound like... like..." The words stumbled before they could leave her mouth, but they were unnecessary, for as she struggled to speak there came out of the wing-beats of the wind a great flash of lightning and the thunder rolled around them, deafening and wild, like the roar of a huge beast, terrible and powerful, and he understood.
"You have faced greater perils than many, little one," he said. "I do not begrudge you your fear."
"But it's silly," she protested. "I'm supposed to be a big grown-up girl now, but grown-ups aren't scared of storms. Sigrid's not scared of storms. Da's not scared of storms. You're not scared of storms!"
"I am not now," he said. "But I was, once."
"You were not," said Tilda, pouting. "I won't believe it. You're not scared of anything so silly."
"You do not have to believe it, but I tell you it is true. The halls of Menegroth where I was born were great and cavernous, greater even than my halls where you have walked. And when the storms blew in from the sea the thunder echoed through their high chambers and was made more loud and terrible by their splendour, and to my young ears it sounded like the roll of war-drums and the tread of an approaching army. I hid beneath my bed and would not sleep until it had passed. Yes, I was frightened of storms."
"Well," said Tilda slowly. "I suppose that's understandable. You probably thought it was Morgoth coming to get you. But you were very small, and you got over it. Right?"
"In a way," he said. "My fear changed. Whether it was diminished, I cannot say, but it changed."
"What happened?" she asked. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," she added. "But I'd like to hear it."
Thranduil thought long about whether to answer, for it was a story told to none, not even Galion who had heard just about every sordid tale of his past there was, plus a few that were purely speculation. But Tilda had opened her heart to him so many times, and spoken more wisdom than the wisest of the Eldar. It seemed only fair that he return the gesture.
"Many years later, I was wed," he said, and was surprised at how easily the words came. "She was of the Teleri."
"I remember them from my book!" exclaimed Tilda. "They built ships, didn't they?"
"Yes, the Teleri were wise in shipcraft and loved dearly the clear waters on which they sailed. She was no different. The Sea sang to her in all its myriad tongues, and though gladly she followed me over the mountains her heart lay ever by the side of the ocean. Wherever we wandered, she said that she heard the voice of Ulmo in the falling rain, for it is said that He is in all water, but though I listened as hard as I might I could not hear Him speak. And so I came to fear the rain, in a way. I feared that she would hear in its music the song of the Sea, and that in answering it she would depart from me and be lost, and I would not even hear the call that summoned her home. It was a subtle fear, but it was fear nonetheless."
"What happened to her, then? I know you don't like to talk about it."
A year ago, he would not have answered, but the events of the last few months had wrought many changes, and what had lain guarded in his heart as in a dungeon was finally brought to light.
"She died," he said, "defending our people and our only child. It was a valiant death, and one that should have been sung into legend, had I not been so blinded by my own sorrow and anger that I would not speak of it at all."
"And that's when you stopped being afraid of storms, yes?"
He shook his head. "For a while, my grief was so great that I forgot my fear. Then, one night in the midst of a mighty gale my young son came to me, and asked if I could not hear the voice in the rain. He had never seen the Sea, and yet he knew its call in his blood. I was afraid again, but now this time I feared it would take all that I had left."
"But you said you're not afraid anymore," she said. "Why not?"
"One day in the late autumn I was riding out with my guards, when a great storm came upon us, more vicious than any I have yet seen. In the deluge we were separated, for we could see nothing, not even our own hands before our eyes, and hear nothing save the sound of the rain. I could not be certain which way I walked, but last I came to a hill, and upon its summit I stood, soaked to the skin. The rain fell in sheets and all around me was grey. Desperately I listened for the cries of my company, and when at last hope failed me I heard a voice from out of the darkness. But it was not the call of the Sea. It was her."
"Was it a spirit?" Tilda gasped. "Was it really her?"
Thranduil shrugged. "I cannot say. Perhaps it was only my own despair given speech, but now, when I listen to the storm, I do not hear the war-drums, or the army, or the voice of the ocean. I hear her, and I am not afraid."
"I feel like I'm going to be afraid forever," said Tilda miserably.
"I have made peace, but it has taken time. It is a hard-won peace, and your war will likewise be difficult, but it can be won. Does that comfort you?"
"Yes, a little," she said sincerely. "It was really brave of you to tell me; thank you. It probably won't help me sleep tonight, but I'll think about it."
"What might help you to sleep?"
She thought for a moment. "Would you read me something?"
He smiled wryly. "You would like a story? I thought you were a big, grown-up girl now."
"You're never too old to be read to," said Tilda firmly. "I used to read to Da, before he got too busy. Besides, I'd like you to read something from my history book. One of the bits in Sindarin. I don't know how to read it yet."
Thranduil sighed. "Very well. I should have Galion teach you," he added as she hopped off the bed to fetch the book from her shelf.
"Oh, that would be splendid," she said. "Do you think he could?"
"He managed to teach me, and I was a very unenthusiastic pupil. He might even enjoy it."
Tilda clambered back onto the bed and held out the book, open at the start of a chapter. "Here," she said. "It's this bit, about the Flight of the Noldor. The picture looks ever so scary."
And she pulled up the blanket and nestled into his side, and he read the chapter to her, first in Sindarin and then translating it. Outside, the storm raged on, but now the wet winds from over the mountains became the biting wind that howled across the Helcaraxë, and the roar and rattle of thunder became the creak and crack of the ice-floes as they ground underfoot, and it was terrifying, but the kind of terror that seems far off and unreal, so that it became almost exciting.
Not that Tilda found out what happened to the host of Fingolfin in the end, for when Thranduil finished the chapter he looked down to find her fast asleep, curled against him like a cat, and he had no choice but to put the book down and remain where he was, lest he wake her by moving.
So it came to pass that Bard found them like that come morning, when the winds had died and all that remained of the cataclysmic night was an overabundance of puddles and the occasional detached weather-vane. And if the Elvenking spent much of the next day rubbing his neck with a pained expression, Bard graciously did not comment.