What though the Sea with Waves continual
Do eat the Earth, it is no more at all;
Ne is the Earth the less, or loseth ought:
For whatsoever from one place doth fall,
Is with the Tide unto another brought:
For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.

Edmund Spenser

The Faerie Queene. Book V. Canto II.

Sigrid dug her trowel viciously into the roots of the weed and levered it out of the soil. She threw it behind her onto the compost pile. It was a beautiful day, warm, sunny and still, with birds chirping in the trees and a few bees buzzing gently around her, and the soil in the garden smelled warm and rich as she brushed it off her breeches and gloves. Try as she might, though, none of the peace and beauty around her could distract her from her thoughts. How had she gotten here, on her knees, in the dirt, feeling so alone? She wanted to say she didn't know, that it had happened so gradually that she had hardly noticed, but that would be untrue. She remembered every moment. Every joke, every jibe, every backhanded criticism, every innocent comment that was no less hurtful for being unintentional, was indelibly lodged in her memory.

The first few years of her marriage had been everything she had hoped they would be, the fulfilment of every girlish dream as well as every level-headed adult aspiration. She was devoted to her husband, and he to her. She had been so optimistic in those early days, easily convincing her father that she and Fili were meant to be together, that they were going to face all their challenges together, and that they were going to succeed. She wasn't so convinced of that any more.

It was over five years ago now, that day they had first spoken to Jerrik about whether it would be possible to have a family. Fili had persuaded her not to worry about it. And she hadn't. If it was going to happen, it would happen, and if not, it didn't matter. They had plenty of time.

As the months had turned into years, she had felt less and less sure. Around her, friends and family members seemed to have no trouble with what was apparently so difficult for Fili and herself. Britte and Arrild had married, and baby Ailidh had arrived within a twelvemonth. Sigrid had doted on her, her joy for Britte and Arrild untarnished by any hint of bitterness or jealousy. Two years later they welcomed a boy, Brede, and last spring, their newest babe had arrived, little Gwennie, and Sigrid had sent a gift, a lovely baby blanket that she had embroidered herself, but she not had the heart to go and see her. It hurt too much. Every new baby, in Dale or in the Mountain, felt like a slap in the face, a reminder of her inadequacy, her failure to achieve what seemed so simple for everyone else.

Not that Britte had said or done anything on purpose to hurt her. It was an accumulation of little things, offhand comments and jibes, slights intended and not, that she had endured over the years, the pain of which she was unable to let go. Like Dain's endless digs during the three days he visited for Thorin's 200th birthday, and Marni's gloating birth announcement that she had addressed only to Fili from the Iron Hills last year, and even the whispers and nudges she had started to overhear around the Mountain, that a daughter of men ought to have been letting out her skirt waist by now.

But one of the most painful things said to her had come from Britte, and Britte had had no idea. It had been tiredness, sheer exhaustion, not malice, that had made her say it. Brede had been a difficult baby, a bad sleeper, and Ailidh had been sick all night. Britte had been at the end of her tether.

"You're so lucky."

Sigrid knew she didn't really mean it, that it was just venting. It hurt anyway. To be told she was lucky not to have children, lucky to be infertile, lucky to have this constant ache in her heart, to wake up with it in the morning and to go to bed with it at night and never be free of it, and from someone so dear to her… it was devastating.

It wasn't only Britte, though. Everyone seemed to think they were entitled to comment about their private life. "Just relax," she'd been told. "Have some wine before you go to bed," offered someone else. "You're trying too hard," she heard, as well as "You're not trying hard enough." Or simply, "You must be doing it wrong."

The weight had built up on her shoulders, day by day. She had spoken to Fili about it, about how hard she was finding it, in the beginning; but the anguish that appeared in his eyes whenever she brought up the subject had added its own pain, and eventually she stopped mentioning it. It was easier not to say anything than to feel responsible for that look of anguish.

She had consulted Jerrik again and again, willing to try anything that he thought may help. He had worked diligently to research different herbs, treatments and remedies, and the latest initiative was to make charts of her monthly cycles, and to time their coupling to occur on certain days when it was supposedly most likely to be effective. For the last eight or nine months she had kept meticulous records, and they had initially found it to be fun, to go to bed when the calendar said so, but then after a while, it wasn't. Somewhere along the line they had lost their spontaneity and joy, their connection with each other, and it had become a chore, something to be ticked off a list or plotted on a parchment. She knew it wasn't right, and that it was affecting them both in ways she hated, but she didn't know what else to do.

So she escaped. Her garden, back at her old home in Dale, was a refuge, a place where she didn't have to think about babies or remedies or charts. There were no snide remarks, no insensitive comments, among the flowers and vegetables and herbs. Just weeds that needed digging, and plants that needed tending, and she threw herself into it willingly. But in the end, it was still running away. She had not seen her friends for months. She had not joined Tilda at her work in Dale for weeks. She avoided her father, brother and sister, knowing their schedules and timing her visits to the garden to coincide with their absences. She had simply hidden herself away, day after day, alone, withdrawn from people and activities that used to bring her joy and relaxation but were now a burden, in an attempt to hide away her anxiety and grief and ease the ache in her heart.

And it wasn't really working.

Fili was sitting in the sunshine, on the grass beyond the stables, sharpening his swords. They were already sharp, not having been used in earnest for years, but he sharpened them anyway, listening to the quiet rasping sound of the whetstone as he rubbed it methodically back and forth along the edge of the blade. He enjoyed being outdoors, and messing around with his blades under the sun on a fresh, clear day such as this usually lifted his spirits. Usually.

"Hi Fili." It was Tilda. In the last five years she had become a tall, confident young woman of seventeen, and Fili was still surprised at how fast it seemed to have happened.

"Hi, Tilda. Come and join me." She flopped down onto the grass beside him, and held up a small roll of parchment.

"Where's Sigrid? I've finally got those lists of plants she wanted."

Fili frowned. "She's not here. I thought she was in Dale with you."

Tilda shook her head. "No, I've not seen her for weeks. It's no matter, I know she gets busy from time to time. Would you give these to her for me?" She handed over the roll of parchments.

Fili nodded, still frowning. "Gladly."

"Thanks, Fili. Got to run, I'm meeting Tauriel for a ride." She got up and brushed the grass off her breeches. "Nice swords, but too heavy for me. I like your hunting knives better. When are you going to make one for me?"

Fili shook his head. "I fear we've been a bad influence on you, Lady Tilda. Maybe for your next birthday." She grinned and walked away, and Fili sighed. If only he could make Sigrid as happy that easily. Then he thought again about what Tilda had said, frowned again, and continued sharpening his swords.

Fili found Sigrid later that afternoon in their chamber. He spoke to her over his shoulder as he placed his swords back on his weapons rack.

"I saw Tilda today. She brought these up for you." He turned and handed Sigrid the parchments.

"Oh, good. Thank you." She took them, untied the roll, and looked them over.

"She told me she hasn't seen you for weeks."

Sigrid, suddenly alert at his tone, looked up from the parchments.

"All this time, for weeks, I thought you were in Dale with Tilda." Jealousy had always been his weakness, and he couldn't keep the bitter edge of it out of his voice. "Where have you been, Sigrid?"

It wasn't much, but it was enough. She stared at him, her eyes incredulous and hurt and angry. "Are you accusing me of something? Do you think I'm being unfaithful to you?"

He hesitated, just a fraction of a second. "No, of course not. Don't be ridiculous."

"So now I'm ridiculous," she snapped. "Ridiculous and unfaithful."

"No, Sigrid, that's not what I meant. You're twisting my words." He picked up the stack of charts from the table, shook his head, and threw them back down, sending them flying across the table and onto the floor.

"They were your words." She started picking up her parchments from the floor and snapped at him again. "Look what you've done. Why don't you…" She cut herself off.

He knew he wasn't handling it well. He was angry. Angry at her charts, at her, at himself, and at the bottom of the anger was fear, fear that he'd never be able to give her what those charts represented, and that maybe she wanted it more than she wanted him. He wasn't going to stay and give her the opportunity to say so out loud. He walked away.

"I used to be enough for you," he said bitterly from the doorway. "We used to be enough for you. I guess that's just not the case any more."

He saw her face crumple as he slammed the door, and regretted his outburst immediately, but his pride and anger wouldn't let him turn back, and he hated himself for it.

Sigrid slid to the floor, drew up her knees and buried her head in her arms, the charts crushed in her hands. Fili's veiled accusation had hurt her deeply, and in her pain and anger she'd been unable to prevent herself from wanting to hurt him in return. Well, she'd done that. The one person she needed the most, the one whose love and support she could not do without, had just walked out on her. This misery, on top of the hurt she already carried, was too much, and she broke down and sobbed.