Fic : The Fell Winter

[igraine1419]

Author: Igraine
Title: The Fell Winter
Challenge: Genre Challenged
Rating: G
Pairing/Characters: Primula, Drogo, Gorbadoc.
Word Count: 5131
Summary: What really happened to Primula and Drogo?
A/N: My genre was 'Fairytale' and my prompts were 'golden', 'jewel', 'legacy', 'ogre' and 'forfeit'.



Once upon a time there lived a Good Master. He was a contented man, for his Hall had many rooms and they were always full of company. Meat was forever turning on the spit and good dark wine filled the shining crystal goblets. Musicians played their fiddles and their pipes in the antechambers and poets scribbled in corners and always there were children racing the shadows at the turn of passages. Being a sociable hobbit and a lover of the riches and comforts of life, he was well satisfied. The years passed quickly. A bride had been claimed and wed and a babe born and laid soft in his arms - a son and heir - swiftly blessed and named Rorimac - the first of many.

For years the sun shone on the Brandywine River and the reflected light of the dancing ripples glittered on the many windows facing west. Fruit ripened on the vines in the sheltered kitchen garden and the beasts that roamed the surrounding fields had no shortage of lush sweet grass. The Old Forest stood silent and tame to the East, imprisoned behind the High Hay, keeping its secrets close. Winters were short and mild, frost soon giving way to the mild breath of spring. It seemed the Master had brought ease to the land and his generous spirit endowed all that lived within his reach.

But this peace was not to last. For one dark day in the month of Foreyule, the sky grew heavy, smothered with cloud and a chill, sharp wind blew in from the Old Forest, moving the trees to raise their branches to the sky in alarm, their ancient limbs creaking with the sudden shock of life. The windows rattled in their frames, doors creaked on their hinges and the roaming wind entered the Hall through keyholes and ran shrieking down the passages, putting out the lamps and fires wherever it wandered, spitting crystals of ice.

In the garden roses froze, stunned, on drooping stems and the grass turned overnight to blades of ice, sharp underfoot.

The Master sat huddled by his fireside, wearing fur on fur, his breath blooming in the chill room, his feet sunk in a warm bath. He was not happy and his mouth was full of complaints. The roads were treacherous, the snows falling thick and fast - it seemed likely the Foreyule festivities must be cancelled. Every night another inch fell and then another. Soon there would be a shortage of food and that made him shorter tempered still. For the first time he found the children’s play tiresome and ordered them outside to build forts in the snow.
The babes wailed in the nursery, all of them troubled with head colds and bundled up in blankets. Their cries carried to the Master in his parlour where he shivered and sipped his mulled wine, cradled between his hands in miseries. This weather was not natural to a hobbit; it stripped life away to its bare bones, banishing all comfort.

For weeks the well had been frozen every morning and every morning it took more and more hands to crack the ice as it hardened deeper and deeper, turning from blue to a seawater green. The plates were removed and broken up in the stableyard for the children to crunch with their cold toes. And the curse was spreading, for the dancing water of the Brandywine River had stilled and was anchored down by a paralysing layer of ice and frost, reflecting only dark clouds now and the wild blizzards that fell ceaselessly.

The Hall felt emptier than it had ever been. The great feasting tables in the banqueting halls were frequented only by the Master and his family and no entertainment was to be found. The harpists fingers were numb and could no longer move over the strings, the flutist could not bear to press the chill metal to his lips, fearing they might never again be parted. The poets were thrown into extravagancies of gloom and could find no inspiration. A lethargy fell over the Hall no blaze could dispel.

And one night, as the Master sat in his chair watching the last of the fire dying away in fits and spurts, he heard a cry. At first he supposed it was the wailing of his infant Amaranth, but the timbre was wrong and the wind carried it over his head as if it wasn’t contained within the walls of his home at all, but sounded from without. It was shrill and hungry and bare.

Two minutes after, footsteps were heard outside his door and an urgent knocking.

“Come in!” he barked, his voice gruff, unused.

The hobbit bustled in, breathless, his cheeks red raw. He stood panting for a moment, clutching his left side.

The Master frowned. “Well, what is it now?”

“It’s wolves, sir, white wolves!”

“White wolves?” The Master shook his head. “They’ll be hounds covered in snow.”

“No sir, we’ve had a messenger from Bree come over special, to tell us the White Wolves are on their way, they’ve come down the rivers from the North and they’re moving fast!”

The Master stood, holding his fur cloak tightly about his throat, his face paler than the glimmering snow that iced his windowpanes. “Then we must stop them before they reach the Brandywine!”

“I fear ‘tis already too late!”

“Light the torches! They cannot reach the Shire. They must be stopped!”

Grabbing flaming torches, the Master and his servants ran out into the deep winter’s night, sinking almost to their knees in the drifts as they waded down to the water. Shapes moved fast, light ghosts bounding from the Old Forest and down, racing swift towards the frozen water. Their breath smoking, their red eyes blazing, like Hounds torn from the belly of the Earth.

“What can we do?” they servants wailed, standing at the edge of the riverbank, the cries of the wolves freezing their blood as they waited. “They’re down the Withy already!”

Through the fear, an old memory washed into the Master’s mind. “The Horn! We must sound the Horn!”

A messenger was sent at once to sound the alarm. Running up the hill to the tower, he climbed the winding stair to that vantage place where the horn was kept in its shrine. The sound carried high and sharp and astonishing in the clear night, waking hobbits from their sleep and rousing them to action. Some younger folk did not recognise the sound and continued in their welcome sleep, until they were prodded and dragged from their beds by force, their Gaffers instructing them to clean out their ears, for surely that was the call to arms!
Grabbing spades and forks and brands of flaming branches they made their way through the snow to the place where the wolves howled, their sharp claws clicking on the ice, skidding away from the fright of flame. The Master gave the battle cry and down they went, driving them back to the river, cracking the surface with their shovels, splintering, until the ice began to moan beneath the panic of the wolves. Never before had so many hobbits stood gathered in that place, their faces in the firelight, masks of determination and fear.

The river was moving once again, shaking the ice from its back and the wolves could not keep their balance, but tumbled into the water and swam, gasping, towards the riverbank. Those that made it across were driven back. White shapes padding low, their heads lolling, circling, in a kind of madness until all were driven back and fell beneath the water.

The Master returned to his Hall with much cheering and rowdy celebration, opening his doors to all those who had trudged miles through the deep snow. Logs were thrown onto the hearths and the poets took up their pens. The musicians composed songs in praise of the Master’s courage and quick thinking. The finest beasts were slaughtered and a roast carved in the lofty banqueting hall. The Master’s former cheer was restored.

When he took at last to his bed that night, the Master was sunk so deep in wine he failed to hear the lone howl sounding from the depths of the Old Forest and the rustled murmur of the tethered trees.

Now many years passed and the Master was blessed with four more children. The youngest of the seven was a fair maid named Primula, in honour of that small and delicate flower which heralded the fullness of spring and an end to winter. A delicate child, she had skin as smooth and white as snow and blue eyes sharp as splinters. Her passion was for the library and rarely was she seen without a book cradled in her hands. If ever she was sought, she could always be found in some dark recess under the shelves, her knees tucked tight against her chest, a book propped on top, her eyes searching and gleaning.

Although beautiful, she cared little for fashions and dressed in a plain green velvet gown, trimmed with faded gold and ragged around the sleeves. Her long golden hair fell in tangles, her fingers winding it like flax as she read, alive to nothing but the words on the page. She read all the books of fiction and then moved on to histories and legends, all the wonders of Middle Earth spread out beneath her fingers. It was there that she found, within the pages of an ancient black volume, the bindings tattered and torn, an inky dark picture of the Old Forest. Shivering, she read on. The book told of trees with minds and wills of their own, of bands of trolls and passing companies of elves. It also contained within its spilling pages, the story of a greedy ogre who took a wealth of jewels from the North country and hid it in a grotto deep within the heart of the forest. She read this tale over and over until she could think of nothing else and when she lay in bed at night her mind wandered the hidden paths of the forest, searching.

When there were guests at Brandy Hall she was expected to attend dinner, yet rarely appeared and if she did so, she would sit in a quiet space and consider what she had learned of the world’s wonders beyond feast and fire.

Her father considered it a waste of a fine figure and pushed food on her but rarely could it attract her attention, instead her mind dwelt on greater things and she put the food into her mouth absently, her eyes straying to the East. “When will Prim ever marry?” The Master sighed. “She is beautiful, but so difficult.”

“Then we must find a simple husband,” the wife smiled, setting down her glass.

As soon was Primula caught scent of the whispers of a plot against her freedom, she took to walking about the borders of their land, climbing the hill to the Horn Tower and mounting the stairs in that desolate place to look out to the forbidden East and wonder at the realms and races that dwelt there. She wondered if she could run away. Perhaps to the very borders of the East Farthing and beyond, along the road to Bree or else travel North to that fearsome realm of the White Wolves. She shivered, remembering the songs the bards sang beside the fire, of her father’s courage and the wailing of the beasts as they drowned.

As she lay sleepless in her bedchamber she thought more and more of escape. An arrangement was being whispered of in the passages, a fine upstanding hobbit from the Shire, a little place where nothing of any account has ever occurred, and Primula grew stubborn in her heart and a defiance grew and spread, tangling around her heart like a thorny vine. She would not be buried in that place! Not until she had seen some of the wonders of which the books had spoken.

The following morning, she dressed in thick woollen walking clothes and covered her head with a wide black hood, hastening down the passage and through the halls. The small black book was hidden inside the inner pocket of her cloak, its text obscure to all those but the most determined. Within the world were treasures, some easier to find than others, all laced with risk and burdened with the possibility of lies. One such treasure lay within the reach of her own hand.

The Old Forest lay on the borders of her Father’s land. A haunted place, it ranged just at the corners of her sight, like a ghost in the corner of the room. All her life she had marked its presence and wondered whether one day she might find a way through the High Hay and into the deep secrets beyond.

Primula looked up at the circling hedge, three feet above her head and grown deeper and thornier year on year. Determined, she strode on, pressing her hands against the wall, seeking entrance. Finding it unyielding, in anger she shoved the wall with her shoulder and almost tumbled over her own feet as she found herself on the other side. It was as if the wall resisted and gave out a sigh, depositing her safely on the eastern side.

The shadow of the trees fell upon her, cool and deep, touching her with invisible fingers. Looking up into the laced canopy overhead, tangled with the ragged nests of rooks, she strode onwards, her heart racing with excitement, leaving a trail of pebbles behind her, as all canny folk should, her path marked on a map in her mind. Already the trees were beginning to turn towards her, making advances, but she paid them no heed, instead she closed her eyes and followed the persuasion of her feet, which knew exactly what they were doing, treading lightly along the paths of foxes. Her cloak trailing behind her gathered leaves like a rustling train. I am a bride, she thought, meeting my own destiny.

In the very heart of the Old Forest, beyond the Willow trees, there is a cave which no hobbit has ever dared to enter, nor any other creature of good sense. There is a desolation about this lonely dripping place, that sends the rabbits fleeing fast on their bounding feet. The only evidence of occupation are sad pale bones cast about the entrance stone and a pool of muddy green water where no footprints have made their mark.

Here she stopped and drew breath. Suddenly quelled by the stink and the sadness, losing courage briefly, one hand against the stone door, open a crack, like a sleepless eye.

Be bold, her heart warned. But not too bold.

I will do this, she said, I will become a hobbit of great renown, praised for my bravery and my cunning. A treasure hunter! She imagined the jewels slipping in her hands, bold and bright, keys to the world. She need never be anyone’s wife.

Silently, she slipped through the door, trying not to breathe.

“Come in. I can smell you”.

The voice was so rough and loud, it made the walls tremble. In horror she stopped still, her back pressed against the slimy stone walls of the cave.

“You smell different from the others though, come nearer...I can’t see well...”

She stepped further in, her body trembling like a leaf as his voice vibrated through her bones and the stench of his breath filled her nostrils.

“Wait - let me light a lamp - so I know what I’m dealing with.”

A weak light spluttered in a bowl of fat which sat on a low stone, serving as a table, and in that sickly glow, Primula made out the massive form of an Ogre sitting on his haunches, his breeches ragged about his hugely muscled knees. His torso was naked but for a waistcoat of coarsely stitched leather panels and his head was a mass of black curls. His brutish face peered out of the gloom, contorted into a thousand creases, as if this act of concentration took all of his strength.

“You’re not well,” Primula said at once.

The Ogre wiped his nose on the back of his hand.

Primula moved one step closer. “Are you?”

“I could still break you with one touch of my fingers, little maid.”

“I know that,” Primula replied.

The Ogre rose from his crouch and took up the feeble light to consider her more closely. “Hmmm... you look weak enough...”

“I’m stronger than you,” she said, her hands pressed against the cold stone. “You’re tired and hungry.”

“Perhaps you will supply that need?”

Primula shook her head. “You won’t hurt me.”

“You’re more useful to me alive?” the Ogre replied, cocking his head and lifting one thick finger to raise her chin.

Primula gritted her teeth and stared him in the face. When his muscles relaxed, the ugliness faded a little and he looked little more than an overgrown Man like those in the history books in the library, warlike men burdened with their own power. He seemed like a baffled, bruised child, his dark, shadowed eyes full of pain, and her heart was filled with compassion. There was a dagger in her skirt but she knew now she would not use it, nor ever could. Her legs trembled so she feared she would faint to the ground.

“Come and sit by me,” the Ogre said, leading her to the where two stone benches stood side by side, softened with moss and leaves. “Now you are here you cannot leave, you know you are bound to me forever.”

Sinking down, she considered his words. “I am bound to no one and never mean to be.”

“But you have come for my treasure, you desire it in your heart and that comes with a forfeit.”

“I desire only my own freedom.”

The ogre shook his head. “You have laid claim and can’t let it go.”

“So - where is the treasure? Must I fight you for it? For now I’m here I find I have no heart to fight.”

The ogre sighed heavily, rubbing his great fists over his face. “I have lost the treasure.”

“Lost?”

“You want to tear the story from my throat! Fierce little thing you are!”

“Those jewels were never yours.”

“Ah, so you have been reading story books, have you? Those jewels were rightfully won. Any ogre who can wrestle a jem from a wolf’s throat deserves to keep them in his own fist, don’t you think?”

“The wolves in the North - The White Wolves - keep their king in riches so splendid they would fill a hundred caves. He is crowned in Mithril, the coldest, hardest of metals,” Primula recited.

“Indeed,” the Ogre replied. “My family won those jewels many ages ago before we were banished to these parts and guarded them fiercely.”

“The wolves came to take them back?”

The ogre pressed his hand against his heart as if it pained him. “Fell beasts!” he cursed. “Taking my beloveds. I have nothing left. I only have you, you must stay by me now, little one.”

“Did they overpower you?”

“They pinned me with their claws, threatened to tear out my throat. I couldn’t break enough of them, they were upon me too quick, swallowing the jewels one by one. I wonder what became of them. I have never been out again, but sat here alone all these long years.”
Primula drew her cloak closer. “I cannot stay.”

The ogre smiled, rubbing a hand over his dark stubbled chin, as if considering a delectable meal.

Primula thought for a moment. “Can I not buy my freedom?”

“How? What do you have that I could want?”

“What if I could find your jewels. What then?”

He laughed, a low rumbling noise. “You could never find them. They are lost!”

“Not lost, misplaced. I found you - I can find those. Then you might end your life in contentment.”

“Should I trust you? You have a cunning way with you, and a lass at that! A rum one indeed! Though fair enough, it has to be said, though if I pressed you I think you might snap like a twig, you are so thin!”

“Let me try.”

The ogre considered, scratching his calf with a stick. At last he looked up. “Suppose I give you twelve years. Is that long enough? Or should I make it less? No twelve is short enough to me, I’ve been here three hundred already, what’s twelve to me? Let it be twelve. But if you don’t return the jewels to me on the first day of the twelfth year, I will come for your first babe and take it for myself.”

The ogre smiled cunningly.

Primula rose from her seat and began walking slowly backwards towards the door. “I will find them,” she determined. “I will!”

With luck racing beside her she broke free into the forest and ran and ran and didn’t stop running until she reached the borders of the forest, the trees shrieking behind her, curling out their tripping roots, urging her back.

Once home, she thought long and hard of her bargain with the Ogre. It seemed an empty threat to her, who longed only for freedom and adventure. She had no desire to settle down with a husband and babe. So she sat quiet and content, plotting her victory.

Early one autumn morning, before the Hall had woken, she went down to the banks of the Brandywine and stepped out into the chill water, her dress sodden and swirling heavy around her thighs. Somewhere at the bottom of the riverbed, the jewels lay buried. Out in the depths, where her feet could not tread lay the keys to her freedom. Thinking of the stripped white bones of wolves, she shivered as she trod water, her arms flailing.

There were shouts from the banks. People were coming. It was too late. Primula dived down once, saw only dark weeds and darting fish and rose spluttering, only to be hefted up into a pair of strong arms, like tree trunks, she thought vaguely, her vision blurring. But a kind face, she reasoned, with pleasant countenance. His eyes are warm. Then her mind turned to sleep.

She slept for months, in a state of numb exhaustion, the boredom tempered only by the visits of her rescuer who seemed to take delight in reading to her from her favourite books. Thankfully the treasure book had been long since hidden, and these old stories were tales of harmless adventure and romance. He enjoyed reading the romantic parts, his cheeks blushed so.

“I would do that for you, Prim.” He would say, nodding.

Primula sat up and yawned. “I’m so tired of this place,” she said vaguely. “Let’s go away.”
“Oh Prim!” he cried, embracing her tightly. “At last!”

And so the date was set and the bold rescuer married the fairest of the Master’s daughters and for a while she forgot her cunning and her books and her bargain and was carried away on a tide of feasts and parties, walking through each new chapter in a kind of stunned daze until one morning she woke in her new bed in a green and silent corner of the Shire, close by woods and a cheerful stream and wondered where she was and who lay beside her.

Sleeping on his back, his arms spread over his round belly, his dark hair mussed all over the pillow, he looked like a stranger. Primula sat up in bed and felt an unusual curl inside her stomach, as if a small fish had rippled its tail and considered what this meant. Drawing up her knees, she counted the days and months away on her fingers.

The time passed quickly and her baby was born in the night following a day of rain. Primula ran her fingers over the perfection of his skin and marvelled. Something changed. Her mind closed to all else but him and no matter how hard her husband tried, he could not break through the web of privacy. It was all the babe and nothing else now. He knew there would be no other and he was only grateful for this much. It was all his pride and joy - all he ever wanted - a simple riverbank life with a wife and child to provide for. He loved the quiet pastimes of woodcarving and fishing and still loved to read to his wife whenever she would allow it, even continuing on when she had fallen asleep, the babe blissful in her arms. Turning down the lamp, he smiled and covered them with a blanket.

The child grew and always his mother was at his side, reading to him and showing him what she knew of the world and its tricks. He was always a bright child and willing to learn and it delighted her to pass on what she could of the wonders she had never seen.

Soon the boy was half grown and already his eleventh birthday had passed, celebrated in quiet style with a riverside picnic amongst friends, his father presenting him with a small carved pipe to celebrate his fast approaching maturity.

And then one day there came a summons from Brandy Hall. The Master had organised a feast to celebrate the child’s birthday and Primula and her family must come as soon as ever they could. Primula sighed and her good husband sighed and took her hand and they resolved to make the best of it.

The party lasted for a week. Primula settled back into her old ways, hiding in the library, discovering her old treasures, including a small, creased volume, pushed to the back of a shelf of scientific studies. Tugging it out, she touched it with a shiver, remembering the Ogre’s words and her promise. Pushing it back into its hiding place, she tried to cast it from her mind. It was all a long time ago, surely those words were now lost and the Ogre long since forgotten his forfeit?

Twelve years ago today... she thought, remembering the leaves had only just started to turn. Looking out of the window she watched her son playing with his cousins amongst the trees, swinging from branches and kicking his legs and her heart clenched with grief that she might ever be parted from him.

That night she lay restless in her childhood room, listening to her husband’s rich snores and the wailing of the wind that seemed to carry with it an aching howl. It was a terrible sound. A grief stricken cry. The cry of something desperate and heartbroken. Huddling down under the sheets, Primula thought of the river running dark and cold at this turning of the year. She remembered how she had lain ill for weeks on end having swallowed the water and caught a chill on her chest. She thought of the bones and the weeds and the fish and she shuddered. Then she thought of her child. Her beautiful boy, his cheeks like apples, swinging from the tree, kicking his legs and laughing and she knew what she must do.

Taking her cloak from the peg, she shrouded herself and taking one last look back at her sleeping husband, stole out into the deserted passage. Fortunately for her everyone had drunk too much wine and were sleeping heavily that night, so she encountered no one on her way through the Hall, even as she crossed the banqueting hall, the musicians and the the poets slept on, unheeding.

Running down to the river, the wind tore at her hair, whipping it about her face. The water looked black as pitch. Dreading the feel of the sucking mud against her feet, she looked about for some protection. Glimpsing a dark hulk out of the corner of her eye, she hurried over to where an upturned boat lay, resting after a day ferrying pleasure seeking partygoers about. Heaving it over, she pushed it into the water and clambered inside, scrabbling for the oars. Once out, she circled in an eddy, stabbing an oar into the water to ascertain how far down the riverbed lay and whether it might be reached. Once the oar hit something hard, she knew the bones might lie beneath. It was only a chance of course, perhaps they were buried deep by now, or else washed away out to sea, or ground to nothing, as shells are rubbed away to sand.

Leaning over she gripped the side of the boat to steady herself, poking and investigating, her long loose hair falling into her eyes, the boat lurching dangerously.

A cry sounded from the forest and she hastened in her search, growing desperate now.
There was another shout. Someone was calling her name. She didn’t answer, she couldn’t be distracted now. She must find the bones, the jewels would lie within. She could see them there in her dreams, glistening within a cage of white ribs.

“Prim! What are you doing?”

The boat rocked. Someone was gasping, spluttering, climbing in. Primula yelped and brandished an oar, ready to protect herself.

“Prim - it’s me. It’s me...”

Primula laid down the oar and stared wildly at her dripping husband.

“Why are you doing this?”

Primula couldn’t reply, she could never admit to the bargain she had made. He would want to charge into the Forest and face her foe, foolish hobbit. “Go back!”

“Go back!” she cried, wildly.

“I won’t do that, Prim!” He stood, the boat swaying sickeningly.

Primula shook her oar in frustration. “Go back!”

He reached out his hand and grabbed the oar. “Put it down before you hurt ....” He couldn’t finish, this action had made him unsteady on his feet and stumbling a little to one side, the boat tilted and tipped him out into the water with a tremendous splash. Unable to swim, despite living the life of a river hobbit, his love of life and good food accounted for his panic and his last gasp, struggling even as he fell to the riverbed.

Horrified, Primula threw down her oar and without a second thought, dived down into the water. Thrashing about, her limbs pushed against the weight of water, unable to propel her any other way but down, her heavy cloak dragging itself to the bottom.

Searching blindly for her husband, she found him at last, weightless and drifting, and with tenderness she took him in her arms, her hair spinning a golden web, blind at last to any glimmers of brightness gleaming amongst the tangle of ancient bones.

The End