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Soulmarks were a decidedly mortal phenomenon.
While most races regarded all elves as a cypher, too removed from the trials of mortality to merit much consideration other than absent-minded awe or jealousy, this much at least was something that everyone knew. Elves didn’t have soulmarks.
This assessment was largely accurate. It was not, however, the complete truth.
Soulmarks were purely human, a gift from the Valar to quicken their ability to find their ideal mate. For the long-lived, there was time to consider, to try, to debate—but man’s life flowed like a mountain stream, warming from a trickle to a great, gushing flow before time and the chill of death cooled it into nonexistence. They needed every advantage they could get, and their soulmarks led them unerringly to their intended. They were a joyful thing, for a human.
For an elf, the blessing was decidedly mixed. Only four elves in the history of Middle Earth had ever borne them. Luthien, who loved the man Beren and together stole a Silmaril from the crown of Morgoth, was one. Idril, who married Tuor, hero of the Edain and survivor of the fall of Gondolin, was another. The third, little spoken of out of respect for her father’s dislike of it, was Arwen Undomiel, who bore the symbol of a broken sword across her right palm. And the fourth…
Thranduil, great king of the Woodland Realm, kept his right hand ever covered. It wasn’t even a thought anymore, concealing the mark that lay along his palm—no longer an act that required the slightest hint of consideration. He had always covered it, from the time he was a child old enough to know that the sight of the soulmark brought fire to his father’s eyes and tears to his mother’s.
“An obscenity,” was all Oropher would say of it. “A pity,” his mother had remarked, and took herself away to Valinor long before her husband lost his life at the battle of Dagorlad. Thranduil, long accustomed to the mark by then, led his decimated people home, was crowned king, and took an elven wife with little regard for the soulmark that lay so crisp and black across his hand.
His wife Tinulor regarded it as a curiosity—not disgusted by it like his father had been, but intrigued. “Imagine what sort of human this must be,” she mused late one night, holding his hand in both of hers and tracing the line of his mark with one elegant finger. Thranduil itched to take it back from her, to close his fist and hide it away, but she had married him knowing it was there. It did no good to try and pretend it didn’t exist. “It must belong to a great leader of men, someone capable of incredible feats.”
“Whoever it is, they don’t exist yet.” He was sure of that. The mark was there, but it was lifeless. There was no pull, no sense of intent and purpose to accompany it. From what he’d observed, once both soulmates were alive, they were inexorably drawn to each other. “My mind, body, and heart are wholly yours.”
Tinulor smiled. “As it should be, for now. Once they are alive?” She shrugged and leaned against his shoulder. “Your heart will open to them. The Valar will it. And so shall mine, for I have every intention of educating them well in the care and keeping of Thranduil of the Woodland Realm.”
“You tease me.”
She brushed a gentle kiss to his jaw. “You are so serious, it isn’t hard. But I am your wife, and they are your soulmate, and between us we shall hold you first and keep you safe. About that, I am as serious as you are.”
Thranduil heard her, and knew she meant it. He also knew that whoever his soulmate was, they would never understand how astonishingly loving and generous Tinulor was. He couldn’t understand it himself, only give thanks that he was the recipient of her devotion. He kissed her back, then reached over to extinguish their bedside light. The rest of the night would be given over to senses other than sight, his soulmark as good as nonexistent in the darkness. He could not resent it, but he need not give it another thought when he had so much already. Soon there was a child, and his heart became so full, Thranduil couldn’t imagine how it could expand any further. His soulmate was the farthest thing from his mind.
Nothing, of course, lasted forever. Tinulor died in battle, and Legolas grew older and grew apart from him. Thranduil knew it was his own fault, knew that ice had grown over his heart with the death of his wife. He loved Legolas, but it was a cold love, little expressed. He kept his hand covered, even in the solitude of his own chambers, never looking at it directly whenever he washed it. Better to pretend the mark didn’t exist than to contemplate how he would inevitably fail whoever it belonged to. He could not bring himself to love again. He would not.
His decision seemed a sound one. Times changed, and not for the better. The dwarves fell prey first to greed, then to the dragon Smaug, against whom Thranduil refused to aid them. He had felt the burn of dragon fire in his veins—felt it still, when his concentration slipped and he could not hold back the pain any longer—and he would not risk that fate for more of his dwindling people on anyone’s behalf. The king under the mountain was no more, his followers fled after rebuffing what help Thranduil had tried to give, and the once-great kingdom of Dale fell into darkness and disarray.
It should have been comforting, in a way. What marvel could spring from such decay? Surely if Thranduil’s soulmate existed, he would be born into an elevated position, a man made from birth for exceptional things. It was the only constant he knew of for the human soulmates of elves: they were the best of their kind, the most perfect representations of men that existed. His soulmate, whoever he was, would not be a man of Dale, would not begin so lowly and base. And yet…
If he were born there, would Thranduil even know? Would he be able to help him, as distant as their peoples had grown? It was entirely Thranduil’s doing, too; he had distanced himself from Dale, now Laketown, after the dragon came, and rebuffed their attempts at opening up trade. Perhaps it was time to change his policy, just in case.
The day his mark sprang to life was not an auspicious one. The evil of Dol Goldur was spreading ever farther into the Greenwood, making his land suffer and the beasts of his ream flee before marauding spiders. Legolas had led a group of hunters into the forest to flush out a nest and returned with one, Tauriel, injured almost past what the healers could fix. Thranduil himself had poured his magic into saving her life, and it left him exhausted and ill, the glamour covering his disfigurement wavering in and out of existence. His son looked at him with surprise and ill-concealed curiosity, and even as Thranduil raised his voice to reprimand him, his palm suddenly burned to life, obliterating every other concern with the sudden, pressing need he felt for whomever was on the other end of the connection.
“Out,” Thranduil managed after a moment, and his people dutifully left him be. He collapsed against his throne and stared down at his hand, uncomprehending. No, it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. The man—and it was a man, he felt that now even in the pure innocence that was the babe’s new life—was close. Too close to be anywhere other than Laketown, and that was…how was such a thing possible? How could greatness arise from that pit of avarice, its people eking out a living beneath the dragon’s watchful eye? How could anyone born there live and become more than their surroundings?
It’s conceivable, he heard in his mind, his wife’s voice as clear as the day she had died, that you don’t know everything, my lord. Keep that in mind, as your life lengthens. Try not to take too much for granted. Had she known, when she said that, how much he would need to hear it now?
The burn diminished to an ache, his fingers curling around the shape of a hand that hadn’t grown enough to take his own yet. Of course it hadn’t. Of course he had to wait, wait for the child to grow to a man, wait for him to find his own destiny. Thranduil couldn’t swoop in and take that chance from him, no matter how he longed to find the other end of his soulmark now. He had to wait. He had to see what became of this man, whether he would even desire a match outside of his own kind.
It was…harder than he had expected, fighting the pull. Thranduil let his eyes drift shut, focusing on the link, on the tiny cries he could almost hear his soulmate making right now. He would have to take whatever comfort he could from the little they could share this way, for now. Possibly for the rest of the man’s life.
He didn’t realize he was weeping until hours later.
***
Bard was born without a soulmark.
It was rare, but not so uncommon that it was really remarked on, other than the occasional “what a shame” from his mother. It likely meant that his soulmate had died before he was born, one of so many children to pass away in the bleak cold of winter, when there was little food and warmth to go around. Too many babes died that way, and too many new mothers. It was a sad thing, but not a great barrier for a likely lad. His father, a bargeman, had lost his soulmate at the age of fifteen. He had gone on to marry someone like him, and their marriage, while not a long one thanks to the death of Bard’s mother when he was still young, was at least happy.
He grew up knowing it was possible to find love without a mark, to make a home and have children and live a full life even if that part of human nature remained unsatisfied. And Bard was fine with that. He was even finer with it when he met Ameline, two years older than him and also markless, but so beautiful in her good cheer and calm nature that anyone should have wanted her, marked or not. They courted, they wed, and they had children together—normal, marked children that put pause to the rumor that Bard’s family was cursed to carry no marks. Besides, he could acknowledge to himself, it wasn’t true. Not…entirely true.
Bard’s soulmark was invisible to the naked eye. He himself didn’t see it until he was ten years old, sitting out on the roof the day after his mother died and his father was too deep in mourning to wonder why he was being so quiet. It was the night of a full moon, and as he sat he felt the weight of its light like pressure against his skin. His palm itched, and he turned it toward his face to scratch it, then stopped, awed, at what he saw across his palm. It glowed in the moonlight, bright and brilliant, and his tears melted away as he gazed at it. What was it? What did it mean? And why hadn’t he noticed it before?
Bard might have run inside to ask his father these things if the man had not made it clear that he wanted to be alone. There was no one else for the child to confide in, and even as a youth he knew the folly of relying on people who couldn’t be trusted to keep their mouths shut.
By the time the moon went behind a passing cloud and the mark on his palm faded, Bard had realized two things: first, that his mark had to be unusual, which would make it a thing of value. It was dangerous to own things of value in Laketown, dangerous to tempt the Master to greater heights of greed, and so it would be risky to let anyone know of it. And second, that he did not deserve such a mark.
Bard was a good child, wise and clever even if he did not get the learning the wealthier children did. When his fellows mused to each other about who might be on the other end of their marks, they did so knowing that they were looking for a baker, or a carpenter, or a fisherman. Not…this. Not this massive spread of moonlight that spanned all his fingers as well as his palm, so beautiful it took his breath away, so remote he could barely imagine who—and what—might be on the other side of it.
Bard was the son of a bargeman, who had been the son of a cooper, who had once, perhaps, been the grandson of a king, but those days were long gone, as the Master reminded them every chance he got. Whoever this mark belonged to, it deserved someone great. And he—was ordinary, and likely to remain that way. Even as a child, Bard put practical before hopeful, and this was too big to hope for.
He didn’t pursue it. Didn’t touch it and think about who might be on the other side, although he couldn’t resist looking at it from time to time. He had heard that the emotions of one soulmate sometimes bled through to the other, but he never felt anything from whoever it was, with several notable exceptions.
The first was at the birth of each of his children, when his heart was full to overflowing with love for them. He had felt the briefest of touches then, just a prickle across his palm, but enough of a sense to know that someone was looking in on him. His soulmate was out there, and whoever it was knew that Bard was happy, joyous even, without him. There was no sense of anger or hurt, though, just a deep satisfaction that Bard appreciated.
The second time he felt his soulmate was when Ameline died, so soon after Tilda’s birth that Bard felt the change like whiplash, catapulting him from joy to deep sorrow in a matter of seconds. He passed the baby to the midwife and cradled his wife’s body in his arms, weeping for her loss. His youngest would never even know her…
Iston, le melin. Goheno nin. The words were barely there, faint echoes in his mind, but they drew Bard out of the darkness. He didn’t understand them, but he took their meaning: comfort, commiseration. Affection. It blanketed his mind, gave him the distance necessary to look to his children and care for their needs as their grief slowly began to settle. Somewhere out there, even if he never met him, was someone who cared enough for Bard to help him in his darkest hour. He loved his soulmate for that.
The children grew, and in time the pain lessened. Bard did his work and kept his head down, but the Master was more suspicious than ever, and as soon as dwarves and a lone hobbit came on the scene, he knew he was in trouble. He couldn’t hand them over, though. They deserved to find their fate, even if it was a gruesome one.
When the dragon came to Laketown, Bard remembered his softness and regretted it.
The black arrow was a relic, long-forgotten by everyone in the town except for Bard and his family. It took both him and Bain to set it up, and as the dragon stalked toward them across the pyre of their burning city, Bard knew he only had one chance to save his life, and the lives of his children. The truth of it settled deep in his bones, and he stared into the face of death and found its weakness. He shot true, and the dragon writhed and flailed before finally sinking into the depths of the lake. The water, Bard noted in the odd silence of his mind, would be fouled for months.
Even with the death of the dragon, it would have gone hard for the people of Laketown if the elves hadn’t decided to break their customary silence—and distance—and come down out of the woods, bringing food and clean water. Bard, unofficially elected the spokesman of his people even though he had no interest in the job, came forward to meet the elven representative and thank him for the assistance.
Only this…this was no mere factor. The being riding toward him was so elegant as to seem unearthly, long white-blond hair flowing out behind him, armor brilliant beneath his dark cloak. His face was beautiful, but distant, and as remote as the stars in the sky.
At least, it was until he saw Bard. Then his pale eyes widened, his mouth dropped open, and his right hand clenched around the reins that held back an animal with a set of antlers that Bard recognized, intimately, from the moonlit lines of his palm. Antlers, with a bright star in the center of them. Thranduil, king of the elves of Mirkwood, and Bard’s…
The elf-lord approached, got down from his elk, and pulled the glove from his right hand. A straight black arrow extended from the base of his palm to the tip of his third finger. “Dragonslayer,” he murmured, and Bard knew, knew it in the ache in his hand that yearned to touch and the hole in his heart that sealed as soon as he set eyes on his…his…
“Soulmate,” Bard whispered, and took his hand.