Tauriel found she was screaming as she watched the orc captain drive the end of his mace into Kíli's body. Perhaps she was saying his name; she wasn't sure. One detail alone held her attention: a single tear that ran down Kíli's cheek as he watched her, seemingly oblivious to his own death-blow.

Kíli! I do—I do love you! she yearned to tell him as his eyes held hers. Then Bolg dropped him and their connection was broken.

A burst of grief, sharp and strong as anger, surged through her and she drew herself to her feet. Bolg already strode towards her, confident of a second kill. Tauriel flung herself at the orc, clinging to his neck as she swung her body round him to pull him off balance. She knew from her earlier failed grapple that she lacked the strength to overpower him, but she didn't mean to. She planted a foot on an outcropping of rock and propelled them both over the cliff's edge.

She let go of him as they fell, hoping to regain her balance and tumble to a safe landing. She felt her shoulder catch on stone and she skidded several body's lengths along the cliff face before she slammed to a stop, the breath crushed from her lungs. Gasping in pain, she tried to stand. Bolg likely survived the fall as well, and she must be up quickly to catch him off his guard. Pain blazed along her back and ribs, stabbed through her shoulder, and she fell back. No. She must stand, must avenge him. She tried once more, but her aching muscles refused to obey her. Tears of anger at her own helplessness pricked her eyes.

She thought she heard a scraping on the stone above her, then footsteps, heavy and slow and certain. He was coming for her. "No!" she sobbed. This wasn't how we meant for it to end, she thought. It all hurt so much. Perhaps death would be a welcome release. She closed her eyes, waiting to feel the brief bite of weapon's edge that would end her pain.

There was a crash, as if the whole mountain had come down, yet no death-blow came. For a moment, she thought she heard the sounds of fighting, and then pain flooded her perception. Her ears buzzed and she felt sick. Blurred shadows blocked her vision and the harsh, uneven sound of her own breathing seemed to fill her whole world. She lay still, thinking of nothing but dragging one breath after another. Slowly, it became easier to draw in air, and as her eyes cleared, she found herself staring up into a low, grey sky.

"Tauriel!" A clear voice called her name. Closer again, "Tauriel!"

Legolas stooped over her and laid his hands cautiously on her shoulders. "Are you hurt?" he asked urgently.

She shook her head. "Kíli! He's—" she gasped, clutching at his arm to drag herself upright.

"Gently!" Legolas held her back. "You could have broken something."

Tauriel struggled against him. "I have to go to him!" Her brows were drawn, her eyes desperate.

Legolas relented and helped her up. "Legolas, he's up there!" She pointed to the cliff's edge above them, already straining towards it. She stumbled and caught herself by his arm.

"All right; I'll help you," he said. Supporting her, he lead her up a stairway cut into the rock. Hurt as she was, she was nearly dragging him behind her in her eagerness.

The climb seemed to take ages to Tauriel, with every muscle and sinew screaming as she pulled herself up each step. At last they reached the top, and the ledge where she and Kíli had fought Bolg came into view. She cried out as she sighted Kíli's fallen body, so small on the empty shelf of stone. She pulled away from Legolas and flew towards the dwarf with a last burst of strength that surprised even her.

Tauriel threw herself across him. "Kíli!" she sobbed. His face was pale and he didn't seem to be breathing. She felt warm blood soaking her clothing and she pushed herself off him to look down at the wound in his chest. There was too much red to see anything clearly; she guessed at broken ribs, a pierced lung.

"No, my dear one," she whispered, placing a hand on the wound, as if she could somehow hold his life in, keep his spirit from ebbing away. She felt the last few flutters of a heartbeat. "Don't leave me," she gasped, nearly voiceless with grief. Tears poured down her cheeks.

Please, she found herself pleading, her thoughts half a prayer, half stubborn will. Don't take him from me. Take my strength, take my life and light. Let my fae strengthen his. Please; I love him. She didn't know where the words came from. They seemed the only thing to say.

She bowed her head against his chest, bending upon him all her will and desire and love. His body was so cold and still beneath her. She felt the strength that she had held together for so long drain from her tired, aching limbs at last. It was all over now. Nothing mattered after this. She felt herself falling, drifting into darkness, lost. At the last, as if in a dream, she seemed to feel his fingers warm in hers, his hand grasping her own. Then even that sensation faded and all was oblivion.

Note on the Sindarin:

fae is the Sindarin variant of the Quenya fëa, meaning "soul, spirit."