Pyrrhic

Tauriel took Kili's limp hand in her own and entwined his cold fingers with hers. She was very aware of Legolas standing silently only a few feet away, wearing that blank, emotionless face that she could read so well.

He was mourning. And not for Kili; no, never for the dwarf. He was mourning for her.

By now it was impossible not to know of the prince's regard for her. All it took was a close of her eyes and she could picture him standing before his own father, the elven king that could kill him in an instant, expression defiant, willing to die for her-

-no, whenever her memory of Legolas spoke, instead of hearing "If you touch her, you will have to kill me as well." in the flowing language of the Elves all she could hear was her name spoken in a desperate scream, uttered in the harsh tongue of Men: the last thing that Kili had said to her.

She was ashamed of where her heart lay; with almost a complete stranger who was dead now, instead of with the prince who was equally ready to kill and die for her, whom she had known so much longer and knew so much better. But right now, the only thing she knew for certain was that she did not deserve their affections, either of them: two young men with selflessness that surpassed her, with courage and kindness that stretched beyond her imagination. Their love for her made her feel like a horrid criminal, guilty only by their devotion.

She looked up only to see that Legolas had now gone and Thranduil stood in his place. Again, this time tenfold, humility overwhelmed her and she cursed herself for the thousandth time. How heartless was she, that she loved a dead man more than she would ever love the live one that had saved her life by risking his own countless times.

But the heart was selfish and would not be denied. If only she had denied it; maybe then she wouldn't have been have been caught up in this terrible mess.

Tauriel had heard many stories of loss told by old heroes of war when she was but a child. Most of them spoke of a cold numbness, of an absence of pain that was hurtful in itself.

She wondered where that was now; she wanted it. She needed it. Because. It. Hurt.

"I want to bury him," she said quietly; her mind was desperate for a distraction, something to draw her attention away from the pain.

Thranduil simply nodded, surprising her: she had thought that mockery, maybe an I-told-you-so moment was in order. But he was merely silent.

She pressed Kili's gloved hand to her chest, and, unable to stop herself, cried out, "If this is love, I do not want it." And it was true. A passionate hate for love swelled within her throat, almost hiding the grief. But not quite. The grief still cut like a knife. So blinded by bereavement and the sheer need to make it stop, she looked up at the king and begged. "Please, take it away from me."

Again, Thranduil was quiet. Tauriel felt fresh tears trace their way down her cheeks, and she gasped out, "It hurts." Her eyes searched his, pleading for an answer. "Why does it hurt so much?"

This time he did speak, and the words pierced her down to the core. "Because it was real." His eyes, so like his son's, regarded hers sorrowfully, the pain in them as sharp as broken glass.

She couldn't bear to look into those eyes, and her own wandered down to the face of her beloved. Slowly, for the first and last time, she placed a kiss on his icy lips. Already a thin layer of frost had spread across them. It scared her. She pulled away.

Silence fell between the Sylvan warrior and her king. No more words were spoken. No more needed to be.