Disclaimer: I do not own/am not associated with/make no money from The Lord of the Rings or The Hobbit.
1
Elves were difficult creatures to pin. They had reflexes fast enough to shoot an arrow out of the air, and senses sharp enough to know when danger was coming. It wasn't just the sharp eyes or keen ears either. The very trees and stones spoke to them and screamed when evil approached. The best way to take down an elven warrior is either from an extreme distance while the elf is distracted, or to swarm it and take it down by sheer numbers. And even then, an elf did not sell its life cheaply, and the attempt often failed.
So when the goblin archer crept up upon the lone elf, he expected failure. He did it anyway because courage is not only allotted to the virtuous and ambition is not in short supply among the corrupt. He expected failure and death but he, like all his kind, hated elves with an inbred intensity that bordered on bloodlust. He lusted for the elf's scream of pain, for its blood to flow, for its immortal soul to be torn from its mutilated, ruined flesh. Already, the archer had marked one of the dwarves for death, and he dearly wished he could mark the elf in the same way. The agony of its passing would be glorious. Alas, elves knew how to counter the poison that would soon be claiming the dwarf. If he was to ensure the elf's death, he'd better aim to kill.
He had to creep closer than was safe to ensure the shot would be a good one. An ideal shot would be to mortally wound…but not instantly kill. The elf would writhe in pain and agony and feel as its life blood spilled into the earth, and perhaps its elf friends would come and see its death throes…it was a sort of pain that kept on giving and the goblin reveled in it. It was only too bad that he didn't dare to stick around for the other elves' reactions; he was courageous and ambitious, not suicidal.
Even with the sweet vision of watching his poisoned arrow sink deep into elf flesh, he was absolutely shocked when, as he crept upon the lone elf, as he took his aim, as he released…nothing happened to hinder him. The elf he fired upon didn't move. No hidden elves ambushed him in turn. The forest was silent, and the elf stood tall and still upon the cliff even as his arrow sang through the air.
The goblin still expected something to happen. He expected the elf to hear the faint rush of displaced air as the arrow sped its path. He expected the very trees to shout a warning.
He did not expect for the elf to barely move, its body just starting to twist about, clearly hearing something but too late, too slow, and the arrow bit, bit deep, through armor, maybe even through bone.
Without a scream, without completing the turn, the elf accepted the arrow into its back and promptly tumbled over the cliff and out of sight.
The goblin was so surprised by success that for a long moment he only stared at where the elf once stood, already half convinced that the young warrior had been some sort of vision and that he had only shot down a phantom. Goblins, however, are not prone to flights of fancy, and after the moment of shock, elation sang through his black blood. He almost danced his way up to the very rock where the elf had stood so he could feast his eyes on the broken body below. What he found was the river, the waters here rapid and unforgiving and not so much as a drop of blood was left behind to share the story of the elf's passing.
It was…unfulfilling in some way, to kill like this. Likely the elf's friends would never even know what had happened now, unless through a bit of luck the body washed up somewhere. Still…he had done it. He had killed the elf warrior, and maybe it was even now drowning slowly while the pain of the arrow wound bore it down, and that would have to be enough.
So maybe the goblin was a bit too gleeful, and a bit stupid in his victory, because surely if there was anything his success should have taught him, it was don't stand about in profile on a great big rock where anyone might see you. He'd gotten the lone elf, but the forest was crawling with them, and goblins are not the only creatures capable of creeping. It would have served him right, he supposed, later, if he'd been shot down in just the same way he'd taken out the elf. Instead, he suddenly felt cold metal tickling his throat, and unforgiving hands had his weapon torn away and he knew he was a dead goblin, just not dead yet.
They took him to the elf king and the goblin cowered and humbled himself, all the while looking for the best place to stick the blade, because elves are not the only ones who don't like to die cheap and, even though the only blade left the archer was his tongue that didn't mean he couldn't strike to the very heart. Blood and death were glorious, but pain was pain, and if the goblin was to die he'd tear that proud, very blond king's heart from his chest first. He hadn't known the name of the elf he'd shot, and one elf looked much like another, but he did have eyes, and blond hair was in short supply among his captors. So he waited while the elf king stared down his nose at him, all emotionless and otherworldly and grand, promising freedom for words, as if any elf ever suffered a goblin to live. He wanted to know about the thirteen dwarves. Very well.
"One less dwarf," the goblin rasped out gleefully. He didn't know what the dwarves were to the elves, but they had been defending them and that was enough. He was slightly disappointed when that didn't garner any response, though only slightly. Anyway, that was just the introduction to what he really wanted to share. "One less elf, too. All alone on the rock, he stood. I shot him down, with my Morgul bow. His pretty blond tresses were stained red, before the river took him."
The goblin saw his words strike true. He had a very brief seven seconds to enjoy his victory before his head was removed from his neck.
2
Elves have many strengths. They are in tune with the song of the world in a way that few other species could match. They cherished life, and life cherished them in return. Trees were, for the most part, friends, though even trees could become corrupt. Elves could sense danger or evil, just as they could sense goodness. They could befriend the wild places of the world, for they were a bit wild themselves. They are strong in body and in mind and have far reaching senses to match.
What elves cannot do is breathe underwater. And immortal doesn't mean an elf can't die. It just means that all elves who do die, die too early, die young.
3
Tauriel didn't mean to leave behind her kin and shield mates, her people under her command. She pursued their escaping captives and slew any orcs that got in her way. Then the dwarves were swept beyond the reach of orcs and elves alike, and the orcs fled between the trees or died beneath elven weapons, and the elves cared more about the monsters in their woods than the escape of some unwanted guests and they chased the orcs and let the dwarves float where they would. Tauriel did care what happened to the dwarves, or at least to one of the dwarves, a dwarf she knew to be injured already. At a stretch, she could have said it was her duty to pursue escaped prisoners. Her king did not like elves to run off alone into the forest, especially if that running would put them in contact with the outside world, with men, with dwarves, with orcs. Still, he probably would accept her excuses, when she returned. It's not like he'd specifically forbidden her to go after the dwarves. It would be harder to explain when she didn't return with any of them…but she could share intelligence of their movements. And maybe she could save a life.
She pursued in the trees, because there wasn't a spare barrel readily handy for her to leap into, and even if there were, that would probably be one folly too far. On the river she would be vulnerable. In the trees, she was at home.
She was too slow. Or rather, she was slower than the swift current of the river. She also had to keep in sight of the water, in case she came upon bodies or wreckage or any sign the dwarves had, in fact, left the river behind. For the first hour, she followed in determined silence. In the second hour, for the first time, doubt entered her heart. The battle tenseness that had held over from the battle was fading into the usual hunt readiness. But this was not a usual hunt, and as her rash pursuit went on for hour after hour, there was time to think about more than what she was running to. It occurred to her that she had made a mistake.
It wasn't a mistake to follow the dwarves exactly, nor would it be if she rendered medical aid once she caught up to them. The mistake was in slipping away silently, like a child sneaking from their bed at night to run away from home. She was an adult, and she had duties, and she should have told someone where she had gone. As it was, they might even fear her dead. If nothing else, they'd spend time and effort to search for her, time and effort that could have been put to better use. If someone under her command had acted as she had done…well. She'd accept the consequences when they came. It was too late to turn back.
When she caught up to the dwarves, all would be worth it. It would be worth everything. She felt it in her heart.
She never saw what pursued her. Sometimes, being used to always having someone to watch your back could be dangerous…when you unexpectedly find yourself alone.
4.
Thranduil had weathered many wounds in his long life. He knew pain intimately, and how to handle it without allowing it to handle him. The worst of his life, the one pain that came closest to ending him, hadn't touched his body. Elves can feel pain to their souls as physical sensations. Get too near the darkness, and an elf's soul would burn. The dark speech hurt to listen to. The day Thranduil felt his soul ripped in half was, up to then, the worst of any blow he'd ever been dealt. He lost half his soul that day, with the passing of his wife.
He didn't have another half to tear away. If Legolas were truly lost to him…this was a wound he did not think he could survive. He could feel it now, hotter than dragon's fire, and only the uncertainty of what had happened to his son kept Thranduil on his feet.
The orc lied. Legolas was not dead. Goblins lie. It's what they do. His wife's son was not dead. His son was…missing.
"We have found no sign of Prince Legolas or Captain Tauriel."
If Legolas was dead, then Tauriel likely was as well. She was close to his son, almost as a sister, hopefully only as a sister. She would have defended Legolas if she could. If he were captured or carried off somehow, she would have pursued. She must be pursing him. Legolas could survive an arrow. He could survive the river. He could survive.
"Bring me my armor."
His son could be alive, but wounded, dying. Or he could be dead. Thranduil would find his son. Either way, he would find his son. And if his son were taken from him, if he must endure this pain, then he would not fade. He would take what he was owed in blood from the orcs. If he was to join his son, his wife, then he'd take as many of those foul malformed walking carcasses down with him as he could.
But his son was alive. He wasn't dead. He was alive.
5.
"It's a weed. We feed it to the pigs."
Dwarves may not be quite up to elven standards when it came to medicine; after all, a dwarf healer couldn't study its craft for hundreds or thousands of years, but dwarves do have long memories all the same. And this dwarf knew a healing herb when he saw it, even when it was being chewed upon by a pig. It was just as well. It's not like they had an elf handy to practice medicine anyway.
He made sure he gathered a lot. It was going to be a long night.
An elf also would have come in handy when the orcs attacked.
6.
Tauriel should have been more on guard. To be fair, she had been focused on her surroundings; it came second nature now whenever she entered the forest, but those surroundings she had focused upon where mostly located about the river.
She was far from the river now. At least, she thought she probably was. She hadn't been aware enough when the spiders had dragged her to their nest to know exactly where she was, except in deep trouble.
They had attacked without warning, but then that was usually how it went. She had been stung almost before she knew they were there, but she had still managed to kill two before she lost all sensation and then fell into darkness. She had thought herself dead, so it was rather a surprise to wake up again.
She woke up in a sticky situation, finding herself quite literally tied up in spider threads. It was dark, wherever she was, but she could sense the forest around her so she supposed it was just the usual dimness found beneath the tightly knit tree branches of the forest rather than that she had been dragged underground somewhere. Or perhaps it was night. She had no time sense at all.
Normally, even in a situation like this, she wouldn't be overly scared. A little bit of fear was important, of course; it was what made a person a person instead of a mindless animal. Still, she'd know that there were others nearby who would help her. She'd always known that Legolas would come for her, no matter how dire the situation seemed. And if Legolas had happened to be next to her in danger, she knew others would come. But now…now she was alone. Utterly. Completely. No one knew where she was. No one knew she was in danger.
Never had she felt so completely alone. Well, there was one time. That time had been worse. Then Thranduil had taken her in, and there had been Legolas and she hadn't been alone anymore.
She had to get back to them. She struggled, but the threads that bound her were tight, and sticky, and she still felt weak and ill from the spiders' venom. She felt dull pains all over, whether from being dragged or repeatedly poked and bitten she couldn't be sure.
She was going nowhere. She'd lost her weapons, probably dropped in the very place she was ambushed, somewhere by the river. It occurred to her that she might well die. Alone and ill and unarmed. She might die.
And if she died, what would happen to the dwarf? Who knew what horrible poisons that arrow shaft had been coated in? She struggled, and she struggled, and she failed.
She was still alone.
7.
Elves cannot breathe water.
When Legolas fell, and it seemed to him he fell forever, while something unwanted and foreign and wrong invaded his body and left fire and ruin in its wake in one sharp and unending sensation of PAIN, when he fell he did not expect to die.
Death did not occur to him. And because it didn't occur to him, it was perfectly natural for him to keep on living. He fell into water and pain and he could see his own blood in the water and it would have been a very bad moment to pass out for he likely wouldn't have awoken again.
He didn't pass out. He swam, though each stroke tore at him with claws. The need for air hurt worse in that moment, so he pushed himself, and his head was above the water as the water swept him on and on and on. He didn't swim hard and he didn't go far, for he could not. Not even the will of an elf could overcome the frailty of a body that has been so wounded. It wasn't enough to save him from the river.
If it hadn't been for the debris he would have been lost.
It wasn't a whole barrel, just half of one that had been smashed during the battle. It had swept up into some tree roots, roots that Legolas was going to pass by because he was in the wrong part of the current and he couldn't fight. He missed the roots but somehow the barrel was there, floating like a gift, and maybe it was. Trees do love elves.
He had strength enough to drag himself upon it, but no more.
He was dying. It just took him a while to figure it out.
His body floated on the make-shift raft and he followed after the dwarves, rather more successfully than Tauriel did in the trees. Of course, currents being what they were, no one knew that he was there, for all he was almost directly behind them the whole way. At least, not until they stopped.