Sadness ahoy.
Disclaimer: i don't own the Hobbit. Still.
The red head elf is curled in on herself, silent, and still.
He almost doesn't want to disturb her. But his sense of honour is nudging him, forcing him to interrupt her solitude.
"Tauriel?" He utters. She looks up, red rimmed eyes blank.
"Thorin Oakenshield." She rasps. He can hear the pain in her voice, knows it intimately. It matches his own.
"I want to thank you." He says. "For saving him."
"It was my pleasure." She doesn't sound pleased, and he doesn't sound thankful.
Because in the end, saving him wasn't enough. An orc, lowest filth of the earth, gutted him where he stood, and watched him bleed out with a smile on its grotesque face.
And they know that they can never reverse that, even though they both loved him.
They are both covered in black blood, weary from battle, and bone tired, emotionally exhausted and wishing for numbness.
And despite this, Thorin is grateful for Tauriel's efforts, both to save his nephew where possible, and for her aid in the battle that followed the dragon's demise. So he came to tell her, and to console her where at all possible.
He plonks himself down beside her, and tells her the story of how Kili learned to shoot, doggedly practising, determined to be the best.
She smiles, and tells him how she learnt, pulling Legolas's braids until he agreed to teach her. They share a weak smile at the stories, and for the next few hours, he tells her stories about Kili, and Tauriel in turn tells her own parallel story, often about the same topic.
They would have been a good match, he thinks to himself, and heaves himself up, bidding her farewell.
"We were going to have his pyre tomorrow, at sunset. It was his favourite time of day. You're welcome to attend." He tells her, watching a tear slip down her face. She nods, wordless, and he leaves.
He can still hear her sobs as he walks away.