TA 2945, Dale

I first met the King of Dale on a cold afternoon. Winter had begun to sink its teeth into the city, spreading itself over the golden coloured buildings that still smelled of fresh plaster and paint.

It had dawned on me that the warmth I craved was most often found in my own place of work and so I rarely left it - a small room in the kitchens that served what others might call the palace and what I would always simply call the royal house. For me it was a house, compared to the riches my mother had spoken of in the East, of sprawling wings for this and that, and entire kitchens for the work she did.

My mother was, as I am today, a confectioner. A maker of sweets, of sugared fruits, of edible art. My work space was tiny compared to the rest of the kitchen, but I treasured it. It was warm, safe, but most of all it was mine.

My bench was small because my profession still raised an eyebrow amongst the inhabitants of Dale. "A confectioner?" they'd ask with narrowed eyes. "Our taxes are being paid for a little old woman to make sweets for the King?"

They were wrong on both accounts. The first being that I was old – though to be fair I was not young maiden either. But I had my mother to thank for my still smooth skin that suggested a woman of her early twenties, rather than my own thirty summers.

The second was that I was hired to serve the King sweets. Perhaps, at the most basic level, that was indeed the description of my position, yet I have never served him myself. And sweets! If I had ever heard such a misunderstanding, then that was it. Sugar warms the blood, it feeds the soul. I can't think of anything better to raise the morale of a battered city led by its weathered King.

Tell me how a rose, made entirely of sugar, yet so dainty and life like, is a simple sweet? Tell me how a square of sugar can inspire the smile of a child the way my miniature sculptures of mermaids and birds can when they are cracked open against young Bain's front teeth? Sugar does what the tongue cannot – it speaks without reserve, it lends its happiness without expectation.

Bain is the King's son. I have come to love him, in my own way. At least in the way that a woman of my station can. He darts in with impish grins, swiping a rose petal here, a candied almond there. You'll ruin your teeth, I've told him time and time again, but he retorts that they'll all fall out anyway.

I have never been able to construct an adequate reply to this, considering that I have only seen one older man with all teeth intact and that is the very man Bain calls father. And now we have come full circle.

The King came in when I was covered in powdered sugar. It bloomed around the room when he opened the door and when he stepped in, I still couldn't see my visitor for the sugar that had settled over my eyelashes.

"Out," I ordered and turned back to my mortar and pestle, pounding on the fine grains to create the same powder that now cloaked the room. The intrusion annoyed me - it was a physical job, grinding the sugar, and my forehead was shining, my black hair sticking to it from where it had come out of the loose knot at the top of my head. I could see the fine white powder on my tanned hands and groaned inwardly at the sight I would have been.

"Out," I repeated with a huff as I ground the grains. "Bain, Tilda or Sigrid," I named all of the troublemakers in order of likelihood considering no one else bothered to come to my tiny room. "I'm too busy."

A deep cough startled me and I flinched in surprise at the unexpected sound before gracelessly rubbing my eyes with my sleeve. My cheeks burned brighter when I took in a pair of legs, a fine pair if a woman cared to notice, with clean leather shoes and the beginnings of a rich brown tunic that caused my heart to thud in my chest when I recognised it.

"Your Majesty," I stammered, dropping the pestle. I bobbed down in an awkward curtsy. Too embarrassed to raise my head, I stared resolutely at the floor.

"My apologies, my lady Anne, I do not mean to intrude on your time," the King said.

I heard the blood rushing in my ears at the sound of his voice, a voice that I had never heard. King Bard the Dragon Slayer was a kind and gentle man (by all accounts) but not once had I spoken words with him. He seemed to me to be a man that carried a great weight – not the crown, but something else that had left him to be grim and mostly silent.

"It is no intrusion," I replied and pushed the bowl of sugar aside. I summoned the last of the courage I had and looked up to meet his warm brown eyes, framed by the blackest of lashes. Mentally cursing my choice of dress that day, I picked at my drab brown sleeve awkwardly.

"I came to… I wanted to ask…" his voice reminded me of the smoothest butter and I smiled in spite of my nerves.

"What can I do for you, my King?"

He ducked his head with a rueful grin, having found his words from my prompt. "I wanted to tell you of a great feast we have planned a week from today. With the wood Elves and the mountain Dwarves in attendance."

I'll admit now that my mouth fell open. Not once in my time in Dale had I catered for such an event, though I was well versed in what was required. "A week, sire?"

"Aye," he replied. "I'm sorry, I should have given you more notice," he added, obviously noticing my hands that were now shaking as my mind began to make plans in my head.

I shook my head, waving my hand in the air. It is nothing, I wanted to say. Or, if I were more daring: it would be nothing for you, your Majesty.

"No need to apologise, sire," I settled on. And indeed there wasn't. Who had heard of a King apologising for such a thing? I certainly hadn't.

The King leaned against the wall beside the door, his sharp eyes meeting mine. I felt weak all of a sudden and swallowed, coughing when the sugar in the air tickled my throat.

My face burned even more when I noticed that his shoulders were shaking. "Are you laughing at me?" I asked him, forgetting propriety in my embarrassment.

He pursed his lips but his mouth soon opened again – he was laughing! I liked the rich, throaty sound that seemed to come from deep in his chest. I let out an ungraceful snort of my own and brought my hands over my eyes, anything to stop them from watching how his broad shoulders rose and fell with each breath of laughter.

"Forgive me," I said. "I'm new to royal service, my manners aren't what they should be."

"We're all new," he replied when his laughter subsided.

Not knowing what to say, I gave a noncommittal "Aye," and shrugged.

The King cleared his throat and stood away from the wall, his hands clasped behind his back. "I wanted to say that I know your work is much undervalued here. But I would greatly appreciate it if you would create something in honour of our guests."

My mind was already whirling with possibilities. It took me some effort to bring my eyes back to his when I was already seeing candied mountains and trees of sugar bearing miniature fruits glistening with syrup.

I nodded with a wide smile that he returned. My heart thudded again and I laced my own fingers together, trying to anchor myself to the room. "It would be a pleasure."

King Bard leant back against the wall. Silence descended over us, but it didn't seem awkward. "Your grace?" I asked him, taking a step around the bench and towards him, wondering if he had more orders to give me.

"It's very warm in here," he said suddenly, meeting my eyes again.

I didn't know what to say to that. It was warm, when compared to the cold corridors outside but Bard's own chambers would be plenty warm as well. "It is," I said finally and pushed a stray hair out of my eyes.

Bard was silent, but his eyes darted around the small room. He took everything in, from the trays of moulds stacked on shelves on the walls to the cabinets under the bench that I kept locked due to the valuable loaves of sugar inside.

I watched him, feeling confused by his extended presence but not bothered in the slightest. He didn't seem to want to leave and if I thought hard enough, maybe I could understand why. My room was quiet at these times of the day, when the main midday meal had been served and its dishes had already been washed in the kitchen outside.

A part of me wondered whether Bard was like Sigrid, who sometimes came in and perched on one of the tall stools, absentmindedly stirring whatever fruits I had bubbling away in large pots in the corner. The oldest daughter of Bard wouldn't often talk when she was in one of her moods, but I was never one for idle chit chat. I realized with an inward roll of my eyes that of course Bard was like Sigrid, given that he was her father.

Squaring my shoulders, I walked back behind the bench and picked up the pestle.

"The sugar needs grinding," I said and held it out, my hands clammy with shyness but my voice didn't waver.

I wasn't surprised when he took it, but his slow and grateful smile nearly floored me. I pushed the bowl over to him and averted my eyes when he pushed up the sleeves of his tunic, revealing strong forearms underneath, but I wasn't a strong woman so my thoughts strayed often to his pleasing show of skin.

He didn't say a word as he patiently ground the fine grains. I followed his lead and retrieved the plump oranges from a crate near the door, delivered yesterday from the orchards. This year had brought many changes to Dale, one being the ease with which varied fruits grew under the careful eyes of the city gardeners. I knew it was because of the fertile soil that often bordered the Sea of Rhûn, but the new inhabitants of the city swore it was luck brought by their good and honourable King.

Bard didn't ask what I was doing, but I noticed his eyes following my movements as I picked up a knife and settled onto a stool. I began with the easiest design – a small flower, before carving vines into the skin at the base of the fruit and adding in leaves and petals until the whole of the skin was covered with swirling lines.

It was work that calmed me, for I could not take my eyes from the knife, nor my hands from the smooth, round skin. I was indebted to the task for it gave me respite from the man still standing on the other side of the bench, so close that I could smell the rain on his clothes and the scent of earth coming from his skin.

When Bard stood an hour later and nodded his head in farewell, I smiled timidly and thanked him for his help. It was only when he shut the door that I wondered just why he had come all the way down to the kitchens himself to deliver the news of the feast, when absolutely anybody else would have been more suited to the task.

Puzzled, I turned my head to the mortar on the bench. The sugar had been ground perfectly.