The tales of the War of the Ring and Sauron's fall will doubtless be told for all time, repeated by the great chroniclers of Men until even their dominion passes. For this was their triumph; the moment when all rested upon their shoulders and their character was proven. This is where their history truly began.
But the thing about history is, there's only room for so much. Some of it slips between the cracks. The Eldar have forgotten more than Men will ever learn.
I will not allow them that luxury.
The Heart of the North
The autumn sun rose over the plains of Dale, creeping strands of light dispelling the pockets of frost dotted across the landscape, winter visitors come too early. A cold gust from the west, breath from the dawn, blew away the mist that had gathered in the night like a scholar dusting down a long-neglected tome. As the world woke, the still of chirping birds and rustling stiff grasses was broken by the sound of horns blowing a deep and booming lament from both sides of the plain; the solemn trumpets of the Free City of Dale, and the mighty war-horns of the Dwarven Kingdom of Erebor. A lament for Thorin Oakenshield, King Under The Mountain.
It was October 10th; sixty years to the day since the last King of Durin's line had given his life in the battle which had become known as Five Armies, living just long enough to see his allies victorious. Ever since, that day had been one of joy and sadness for both the Men of Dale and the Dwarves of Erebor. For both, it was the anniversary of a home regained, and a generation almost wiped out. Thorin's lament continued, echoing and mournful, until the sun had risen entirely over the horizon, leaving nothing but the whistling of the newly-risen wind.
Even from her lofty vantage point at the very edge of Mirkwood's forests, Tauriel could hear the horns as clear as day. She sat still upon her horse until the music had ended, her head bowed in reflection. It took her immediately back there, to her first real battle, her first experience of death. True death, close and personal. Sixty years was nothing for an Elf. For Tauriel, it was yesterday.
"On," she whispered to her horse as the echoes of the horns faded away. She began the descent of the steep hillside which separated the edge of the forest from the plains, tugging this way and that at her reins as Aelfar nervously trotted down the escarpment, whinnying as pebbles loosened beneath his hooves. "Come on, boy," she reassured him. "Nearly there." After a few minutes the ground levelled out, and Tauriel scratched his ears for his troubles. With a pull of the reins he rose to a canter, his hooves clip-clopping noisily along the white stone road which ran between the two cities and Esgaroth.
Its existence would have been unthinkable sixty years ago, when Dale was long-abandoned, Esgaroth a poor and overcrowded shanty town, and Erebor ruled by the dragon Smaug. Those who survived Five Armies would unanimously agree, when asked, that the sacrifice had been worth it. As Tauriel approached the gate-house of the Dwarven kingdom, bells began to chime from both cities; bright and merry from Dale, and deep and throaty from Erebor. On Thorin's Day, after the mourning of the dead, a long and riotous celebration of victory and gratitude would begin; much like the sixty years since the battle.
"Hail, Dwarf-friend!" the lookout on the gatehouse called out. Tauriel raised a hand in greeting. Her green cloak and hood, and Aelfar's grey-spotted coat, had become well-recognised by the Dwarves over the years. Aelfar's front hooves stamped impatiently to the sound of sliding locks and creaking hinges until the mighty front gates swung open, pushed by eight armoured Dwarves. Tauriel thanked them as she urged her horse forward, the bitter chill of the early morning banished as she crossed the threshold by lines of flaming fire-pits. The gatehouse, three stories tall and topped with artillery, was the most outwardly obvious of the defensive improvements made by King Dáin since Erebor was retaken, but decades in the Dwarves' confidence had led Tauriel to understand that hundreds of subtle devices lay hidden in the Kingdom's outer wall. She doubted even Thranduil, with all his hubris, would dare bring his army to its doorstep now, no matter how few Dwarves were inside.
Thankfully, Tauriel thought as she rode slowly to the main gate, that would not happen. In the aftermath of Five Armies, when Elves and Dwarves had shed blood together and died next to each other, the Woodland Realm's long-standing isolationism began to thaw. As his son, Legolas, had travelled the North with the Dúnedain Rangers, Thranduil appointed Tauriel his emissary to Erebor and Dale, thus casting his eyes and ears to his left and right. More open relations between the realms had been to the benefit of all, bringing untold wealth, prosperity and happiness to all three kingdoms. Golden filigree caught the light seductively as the main gates swung open slowly, parting the triumphal carvings of Thorin and Dáin which graced each door. The familiar smell of stone dust, hot metal and roasting meat washed over Tauriel as Erebor exhaled; no matter what the time, the Lonely Mountain's furnaces never slept. Its rocks seemed to provide an inexhaustible supply of iron, gold, silver and gems for its many smithies to labour over. It was little wonder that the Dwarves thought of the mountain as holy, Aulë's gift to his children.
Tauriel dismounted inside the gate, and Aelfar was led away to the stables. A guardsman accompanied her to the rooms permanently kept for her, as a courtesy more than anything else; Tauriel had spent so long in the Lonely Mountain, she felt like she could make her way around it better than most Dwarves, and it sometimes felt more like home than Mirkwood did. Unkind countrymen would sometimes accuse Tauriel of "going native"; an opinion which betrayed their parochial natures.
As the guardsman left her at the door, Tauriel removed her riding-cloak. She had become accustomed to Dwarven styles of dress, wearing beneath it the thick padded jerkin Dwarves favoured while riding, as well as heavy leather gauntlets. She still wore the leather breeches and boots of a Mirkwood border guard, but they were augmented with a thick belt bearing a golden buckle, forged especially for her by Dáin's favour. As she removed her gloves, she noticed a short letter bearing the seal of the King on her nightstand; a standard diplomatic welcome, but with an odd postscript: Look in the wardrobe.
An exquisite gown in leaf-green, embroidered at the collar and cuffs with golden thread strung with pearls and diamonds, hung in her wardrobe, with a note reading A token of friendship. Tauriel held it to the light and examined the way the flames scattered through the thousands of facets, before turning to face the full-length mirror opposite the dresser, holding it in front of her. It was in the Dwarven style, but adjusted for an Elf's proportions; Erebor, for all its renown in metalworking, had no shortage of expert tailors. Beautiful as it was, Tauriel found herself frowning.
"You don't have to wear it," a gruff voice at the door said. "Sure there's plenty of maidens in Erebor who'd chew their beards off for it. They might need it adjusting a wee bit, though."
Tauriel smirked, not turning round. "I knew you were there, Dwalin," she replied. "There isn't a Dwarf alive who can surprise an Elf." Her smile faded and grip on the dress loosened momentarily. She inhaled sharply and laid the dress on her bed before crossing the room to where Dwalin stood in the doorway, clasping his hands and pressing her forehead to his. "It's good to see you again, my friend."
"And you," Dwalin replied as they stepped apart. "You're looking good. Well, for your age."
Tauriel raised an eyebrow. Dwalin's dry humour hadn't changed since she first met him. "You can talk," she retorted. Dwalin had, in fact, aged very well for a Dwarf who'd seen as much trouble as he had. His mighty beard was now grey and his hard, weathered face was lined with wrinkles, but his eyes were as keen and his arms as strong as ever. It was that mix of experience and skill, and his unquenchable thirst to lead the line, that had seen Dáin appoint him Captain of the Guard almost as soon as he'd been crowned.
"Good iron stays sharp," he quipped, inviting himself in and slumping in a chair with a hint of a wince. "You here for the feast?"
"I am," Tauriel replied.
"In a personal or official capacity?"
"Official," she said. "Officially. Unofficially…"
Dwalin smiled sadly, but he couldn't keep it up. "I'm sorry," he said softly, "but she hasn't changed her mind." Tauriel's chest swelled painfully. She nodded briefly once and stretched out an arm to surreptitiously support herself on the dresser.
"I'm...running out of time for her to do so," she replied with a mirthless laugh. "Or rather, she is." Dwalin sat forward in his chair.
"You are the most trusted Elf, the most beloved by any of the Dwarves, in an Age or more," he said softly. "That's got to count for something."
Tauriel cast her gaze downwards, abashed and angry all at once. "It should," she said.
Dwalin sighed. "Ah, come on," he bellowed, leaping up out of his chair and out of the room. "It's too early to be miserable. You fancy a pint?"
"It's seven o'clock in the morning!" Tauriel protested, following him.
"And a slice of toast?"
Even after six decades the sight of an Elf in Erebor, historically the most stubbornly Dwarvish of the Dwarven realms, still caused amusement and rubbernecking. Even a simple breakfast, such as which Tauriel and Dwalin shared in a communal hall, could not pass unnoticed.
"Engrave it! It'll last longer!" Dwalin roared at a pair of teenage Dwarves goggling at the Elf who towered over him from another table. "Honestly," he grumbled as they scurried away, "you'd think they'd have stuff to do at their age."
"Like fighting and interfering with themselves?" Tauriel replied as she prised a brown breadcake open.
"Great and proud Dwarven traditions both," Dwalin mumbled through a mouthful, before washing it down with a swig of beer.
"Are the rest of the Company coming?" She asked, tearing a crust off with her teeth.
"Far as I know," Dwalin replied. "The ones in Erebor, at least. Gloín's still over in the Blue Mountains, with his lad, Gimli." Tauriel nodded. The unspoken question hung over them like a mine-shaft about to collapse. She swallowed and ventured it.
"Has there been news from Moria?"
Dwalin seemed to freeze in place, unblinking and unmoving, as though a wizard had stopped time around him.
"No," he replied after an uncomfortably long silence, immediately helping himself to another deep draught. Tauriel bowed her head.
"Dwalin, I'm so sorry-"
"Don't say that," he growled, wiping his beer-soaked beard. Tauriel's sympathetic stare locked with his eyes, hard and angry. "People always say sorry when someone's dead. Don't know why."
"It's natural," Tauriel said softly, "to feel sympathy for the bereaved-"
"Aye, but I'm not bereaved am I?" He asked seriously. "There's been no funeral. No mourning songs have been sung. His chair still sits in the Great Hall, waiting to be sat in again." He shook his head and drained his mug. "Balin lives," he muttered. "I'm sure of it."
Tauriel smiled weakly. The tendency of Dwarves to attempt to speak reality into being was one of the traits she liked most about them, but sometimes it felt desperate and even sad. This was one of those times.
"I am sure," she replied, refilling his drink.
"How's Prince Fancy-Pants?"
Tauriel raised another eyebrow. "King Thranduil is very well, thank you," she replied. "Life in the Woodland Realm continues much as it has for the last age."
"Still imprisoning innocent Dwarves, then?"
"Are you really still sore about that?"
"I broke a toe trying to kick that door down, you know."
"You've no-one to blame for that but yourself."
"I'm just saying, if it had been a Dwarf prison, I'd have broken my whole foot. Shoddy workmanship."
Tauriel chuckled silently. "Dwarves really were born from stone," she said. "You're as unchanging as the mountain. Save for a bit of weathering," she quipped.
"They say your kind were born by a lake, don't they?" Dwalin retorted. "Explains why you're all so wet."
The remainder of Tauriel's breadcake bounced off of Dwalin's bald head. "Oh, that's it," he announced, mounting the table as Tauriel began to laugh. "I'll teach you to respect your elders!" He boomed, emptying a whole mug of beer over her head. Tauriel let out a yelp and wrestled Dwalin to the floor.
"I'm nearly three times your age!" She shouted, giggling. Dwalin slipped from her sopping grasp and got her in a headlock.
"Don't think I'll go easy on you 'cause you're an old fart," he growled, grinding his knuckles into her scalp as Tauriel shrieked with laughter.
A loud, deliberate cough made both friends freeze in place. They looked up and parted hurriedly, attempting to look as dignified as possible when both of them were soaked through with beer.
"Your majesty," Dwalin mumbled, hands behind his back. Dáin stood, somewhat fatter than he'd been at the start of his reign but no less intense, in a long, luxurious fur robe as red as his hair had once been. Huge, heavy gold rings weighed down his stubby fingers, clinking musically against the equally ornate jewellery in his beard as he stroked it thoughtfully.
"To think," he mused, "that I should live to see my Captain of the Guard disrespecting Dwarven ale by pouring it over the head of an Elf." Dwalin and Tauriel's lips twisted as they suppressed a smile. "We're honoured to have you back, Tauriel." Tauriel touched her hand to her breast and bowed deeply. Years of kingship had mellowed the wild and woolly Dáin Ironfoot somewhat, but his eyes still retained the fire of the youth who had fought so bravely at the Battle of Azanulbizar at an age when most Dwarves were still considered children.
"The honour, as ever, is mine, King Under The Mountain," Tauriel replied, awkwardly pulling her soaking hair behind her shoulders as she straightened. "I hope my Lord Thranduil will not leave it so long to send me back here next time."
"I'd ask where you've been for the last year, but…" Dáin chuckled, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. He knew, better than anyone, that Kings had secrets. "Dwalin," he continued, "we need to talk about the feast tonight. And we should probably let Tauriel clean herself up, eh?"
"Aye," Dwalin agreed, crossing to Dáin's side as the two of them headed off, deeper into the mountain. "Bloody Elves!" His voice echoed, out of sight. "Can't take them anywhere!"
Tauriel breathed deeply as her head appeared above the water of her bath, rapidly turning murky. Even before Dwalin's attack the night's ride, begun at the Woodland Realm's eastern gate at midnight, had left its share of dirt and grime. She reached up out of the brass-coated tub and pulled the chain above her, sending another load of hot water trickling down a sluice extending from the wall. She sighed contentedly as her bathwater began to steam until even her Elf-eyes could barely see her hand in front of her face. It amused her to think of how the Elves considered themselves the wisest of all beings in Middle-Earth, yet it was the Dwarves who had perfected the art of indoor plumbing.
As she ran her fingers through hair that billowed like the fluke of a great sea-creature beneath the water, the twinkling gems of her newly-gifted dress on the bed caught her eye through the mist like starlight through clouds. Again, it discomfited her, though she couldn't place why. It was a kingly gift, and no mistake, a dress fit for a queen; Dwalin's earlier words about her standing in the eyes of the Dwarves of Erebor had not been flattery. And yet, she was hesitant to try it on, much less wear it to an event as important as the Thorin's Day feast.
A knock at the door derailed her train of thought. "Who is it?" Tauriel called out.
"Míma, m'lady Tauriel," a squeaky voice replied. "The Lady Nîn sent me."
Tauriel turned over in her tub, surprised. Dáin's mysterious wife, Nîn, was rarely-seen by any at Erebor, preferring to stay in the Iron Hills while Dáin ruled the Lonely Mountain. She says it still smells of dragon, she'd once heard Dáin explain her absence. "One moment," she said, clambering from the tub and wrapping a long, fluffy bathing gown around her body. "Come," she called as she pushed her hair back.
An apple-cheeked, middle-aged Dwarf woman with an upturned nose waddled into the room carrying a huge pair of bags. Ostentatious gold and iron rings and chains in her elaborate hair and sideburns rattled as she walked. She gasped as she beheld Tauriel wringing out her hip-length hair. "Oh, my word," she gushed, "yes, I should be able to work a wonder on you!"
"Forgive me," Tauriel said, embarrassed, "but you are…?"
"Míma," the Dwarf repeated. "The Lady Nîn's personal hairstylist." Míma gave an elegant curtsey. "I must confess, I've wanted to have a go at Elven hair for…" The words dried up in Míma's throat as she caught sight of the dress laying on the bed. Her bags hit the floor with a clunk as she instinctively reached out to caress it. "Durin's Beard," she whispered, her huge eyes glistening with the reflection of gemlight. "It's...it's…" Tauriel scratched her head awkwardly. Dwalin hadn't been exaggerating about the dress, either.
"To be honest," Tauriel admitted, keeping her voice as low as if Dáin himself were eavesdropping, "I'm not sure I'll wear it." Míma gasped with horror, as though she had just confessed a crime.
"Why ever not, m'lady?" She asked, crossing to the bed and delicately lifting a sleeve, running her thumb over intricate golden embroidery. "I don't mind telling you that this probably costs more than I earn in a year!"
Tauriel winced. That was part of the problem. As a Silvan Elf, pretty much the lowest of the low in the great Elven hierarchy, she had imagined as a child that becoming a princess would be a thing of joy and wonder. Instead, after hundreds of years in service to the ruling Sindar Elves of the Woodland Realm, seeing the disparity between their gilded lifestyle and that of her kin, the last thing she wanted to do was add to it. But, as she watched Míma caress the dress as though it were her firstborn, she finally pinned down the reason for her ambivalence.
"It's beautiful," she agreed, taking the other sleeve and admiring the way its gems caught the light a hundred different ways. "And it's a very thoughtful gift. But...it's Dwarven craft. It's the dress of your people. King Dáin may see nothing but a gift to an ally, but to the average Dwarf, seeing an Elf in their fashions, encrusted in jewels…" Tauriel shook her head. "It would be an insult."
"Begging your pardon, m'lady," Míma replied, "but I am an average Dwarf. Average as you can get. And even I know who you are, and what you did for us." Tauriel looked away, abashed. "When we call someone Dwarf-friend, it's not because you're just one Dwarf's friend. You're all Dwarves' friend." Tauriel nodded, forcing a sad smile. If only that were true, she thought to herself as she laid the sleeve down and brushed it flat. "Now," Míma went on, doing likewise. "Sit yourself by the mirror, if you'd be so kind, and let Míma work her magic."
Magic was not far from the truth. Míma's enormous bags contained more accoutrements than Tauriel had ever imagined existed; curlers, straighteners, tongs, knot-pullers, de-frizzers, re-frizzers and more pairs of scissors than she could count, not to mention an apothecary's worth of various poultices, waxes, unguents and lotions. "If only we had some beard to work with," Míma mused mournfully, staring thoughtfully into the mirror from behind Tauriel. Tauriel could not echo her sentiment. "So, how do you usually do your hair?"
The question caught Tauriel speechless. "I...don't?" she replied, truthfully. Apart from the odd braid, the vast majority of Elves just left their hair to its own devices. A haircut once a decade tended to keep it neat. "We Elves have never really...gone in for hairstyles like yours."
"Nonsense!" Míma rebutted, combing out Tauriel's hair, looping it over her arm to stop it dragging over the ground. "When I was at the Iron Hills I saw a group of Elves with the wildest hair I'd ever seen. Great, thick queues like rat's tails. Horrible, they were! No offense, of course, ma'am."
"None taken," Tauriel replied, nonplussed. Whatever Míma thought she'd seen, they certainly weren't Elves.
"Well, don't you worry, m'lady," Míma replied as she gathered Tauriel's hair into a single queue and pulled a shiny pair of golden scissors from her pocket. "I ain't the Queen Under The Mountain's hairdresser for nothing. When I'm done with you, you'll make the Arkenstone look like a bauble."
Several hours later, Tauriel emerged from her room, and a king's ransom of precious stones glistened in the light from the burning sconces that lined the walls. The dress fit perfectly, despite the fact that she had almost certainly never even set eyes on the tailor; yet more testament to the Dwarves' skill as artisans. She gingerly reached up to touch her hair, breathing a sigh of relief when it didn't collapse in her hand. Míma had given her a coiffure which was subtle and understated by Dwarven standards, but positively outrageous by Elven ones; she had braided the majority of her hair into a single, intricate ridge which ran from the front of her head, producing something of a quiff, all the way to the back and down between her shoulder blades, where it untangled into gentle curls that reached the small of her back. Tauriel confessed she was taken with it, but it had taken some pleading to convince Míma not to put jewellery in it. Even then, she'd twice caught her trying to slip a bangle into her braid. In contrast to her assertions, the Dwarf was far from average.
Tauriel's first few steps were oddly wobbly. After a lifetime of the same hairstyle, her feet had become accustomed to a very particular weight and balance. Clambering through the treetops of Mirkwood was impossible unless you knew precisely where all of you was. Having accustomed to her new gait by the end of the corridor, Tauriel was thankful that the dress touched the ground; Dáin, perhaps typically, had neglected to also provide matching shoes, forcing Tauriel to wear her riding-boots.
She emerged onto a balcony from where she could see Erebor in its entirety, a pulsing, shouting, writhing organism of a million moving parts. In the main concourse, just within the gates, merchants haggled, bartered and sold before setting out on journeys to the Blue Mountains, cheek by jowl with hot food sellers. Deeper into the mountain, the sound of hundreds of chisels clinking on rock and hundreds of hammers clanging on anvils created a symphony of artistry; the sound of an entire population bent upon a single imperative. Far below her, she made out Dáin's red robe. The King was walking side-by-side with Dwalin and seemed to be chatting amiably with subjects who passed by. The brotherhood of Dwarves had never failed to astonish Tauriel; coming from a land where the differences between haves and have-nots were stark and eternal, the real camaraderie between the highest- and lowest-born Dwarves felt novel, even subversive.
She descended the steps leading from the balcony and joined the throng of Dwarves hawking wares. Tauriel was keenly aware of every head which turned after her, every conversation which halted mid-sentence as she passed. She was unsure if it was due to her being an Elf or, after Míma's earlier reaction, what she was wearing, but she had a sneaking suspicion it was both.
"Lady Tauriel!" A very elderly Dwarf, his beard snow-white and almost to his feet, addressed her. Tauriel blushed. It still felt strange to be addressed as such, and most likely always would. "So nice to see you again," he said, bowing slowly. Tauriel returned the gesture with a nod and continued on her way, crowds parting where she walked, some with smiles, and others with stares. At length she reached the staircase down to the Great Hall of Thrór where Dáin and Dwalin oversaw preparations for the feast, due to begin in a few hours.
As she descended the stairs, she saw them both stand straight before a tiny approaching woman, flanked by two guardsmen. Tauriel's heart clenched in her chest. She couldn't hear their exchange over the cacophony of merchants and hammers, but she could guess. The trio, and the guardsmen, descended another staircase even deeper into the mountain. Tauriel knew where they were going.
Unable to stop herself, she followed at a discreet distance. Even in her ornate dress, she was too practiced at moving stealthily for any of the party to notice her just a few yards behind them. The staircase wound deeper and deeper down, until it finally reached a vast underground vault lined with statues, kneeling and arms outstretched as if they were holding up the very mountain. Dáin, Dwalin and their companion went on ahead while the guardsmen halted outside the entrance. Tauriel tried to nonchalantly breeze past them but, with a whirlwind of metal, found their weapons at her throat. Through the doorway, just yards away, the three turned around. Dáin and Dwalin looked alternately ashamed and apologetic, while their companion wore a look even sharper than the spear-points that grazed Tauriel's throat. An elderly Dwarven woman, dressed in mourning black, exuding bitterness and hatred.
"Lady Dís," Tauriel pleaded. "Please."
Dís stepped forward until her face was just inches from her guards' outstretched spears. "Begone," she snarled, before turning on her heels and pushing past Dwalin and Dáin. The King Under The Mountain slunk off after her without another word to Tauriel, leaving her and Dwalin separated by spears and silence.
"You look lovely," he said sincerely, before turning to follow Dáin. Tauriel stepped backwards, pressing her hand to her throat where the spears had pricked her as the guards withdrew their weapons as smoothly as mechanical toys. As the footsteps from the other side of the doorway faded, she made her long and lonely way back up the stairs.
