My contribution to Terrifying Tolkien Week. Needless to say, this is not a happy or fluffy fic.
Banishment, Tauriel reflected, would have been better.
She'd been so mazed with grief after Kili's death that she hadn't questioned the King's insistence that she return to the halls. Some part of her had half hoped he would execute her, though she knew he would not; Eldar did not kill one another. He would no more have stabbed her than she would have shot him.
Imprisonment was always a possibility, but she would not have minded the dungeons – she had, after all, spoken there with Kili, and could Fade in peace.
Imprisonment she received, but not in the dungeons, and not in any manner of way she had ever thought of.
She'd spent the last weeks locked in the King's rooms, given full run of them without being allowed so much as a step beyond the door. At first she'd been entirely bewildered when, battered, bloody, and bruised, the King had led her to his own bathroom, ordering a bath drawn and fresh clothes brought before leaving her to it. She'd sat in the steaming water, fragrant with lavender, and cried until there were no tears left in her. It had taken every ounce of effort she had to wash her hair, and she did not bother combing it before struggling into her clean clothes – soft trousers and softer tunic, brought from her own rooms.
When she emerged from the bathroom, the King steered her to the chair by his dressing-table, and patiently combed out her hair as he had when she was very small, and had no mother to do it for her. His hands were as gentle now as they were then, and she wondered why – why any of this. It was a question she was too tired to ask, though in hindsight, she should have. Perhaps, if she'd known, she would have been able to escape.
He'd put her to bed in his own bed, but sat up late himself; her last sight, before exhaustion claimed her, was of him pouring a very large glass of wine.
When she woke, he was still there, seated before the fireplace, which now held only glowing coals.
Her head was slightly clearer now, for all she wished it was not, but she had no idea what to say. For whatever odd reason of his own, Thranduil detested words of gratitude. "My lord," she said instead, shocked at the hoarseness of her voice, "what would you have me do now?"
He looked at her, and even in the dimness, the expression in his eyes struck her as odd. "Stay, Tauriel," he said. "My son has gone. I will not lose you, too."
She hadn't realized then how incredibly literally he meant it.
The next two days she had slept, woken only when gnawing hunger forced her to. Her fëa didn't want to eat, but her hröa was of an entirely different opinion, and when she spied a platter of fruit and bread on the nightstand, she dutifully sated her stomach's demands, though she tasted none of it.
What time it was, she had no idea; she was alone in the room, and when she forced herself to rise and inspect the rest of the King's chambers, she found him nowhere. It felt wrong to be in here without him, no matter that he had invited her; it was probably best to leave, though where she would go, she knew not. She got the first of many nasty shocks when she tried the door, and found it locked.
From the outside.
Why in Eru's name would the King lock her in his chambers? Surely, if he wanted to imprison her, the dungeons would have been a better option. What made him think he could trust her not to do something horrible to his chambers, upon finding she couldn't leave? She wouldn't, of course, but how was he to know that?
Perhaps he merely did not want her wandering off so soon after her loss, lest her grief carry her to some manner of harm. Still, it was odd.
As she had nothing better to do, she broke into his supply of wine – if he intended to keep her here, he could hardly object. Two cups in and she decided that picking the lock was a fantastic idea, though she still didn't know where she would go once she was free. It was merely the idea of being trapped that she disliked.
The alcohol impaired her dexterity greatly, and it didn't help that all she had to work with was a letter-opener. All she'd managed to do was scratch both lock and door by the time he returned, and the glare he bent on her was so fierce that she scrambled away.
"What," he asked softly, "do you think you are doing?" He'd always towered over her, but now, from her position on the floor, he seemed a giant, a cold statue of marble that lived.
"The door was locked, my lord," she said inanely, alcohol rendering any more intelligent observations impossible.
"Yes," he said shortly, "it was." He reached down and took her arm, hauling her to her feet with a strength that was honestly a little terrifying. "I told you that you would not leave me, Tauriel," he added, not relinquishing his grip.
"I was not going to, my lord," she hastened to assure him. That strange, unsettling look in his pale eyes was back, more noticeable in proper light: unstable, and more than a little possessive. It sent her stomach lurching, and not in a pleasant way. "I simply wanted to go for a walk."
"No," he said, finally releasing her. "Not yet. You are not well."
That was true enough, but still. Protesting was probably not a good idea right now – that look in his eyes spooked her, made her even more wary than she otherwise might have been. "Very well, my lord," she said carefully. "But I am awake now, and I must do something." She would try her escape again tomorrow, just to prove to herself that she could.
Suspicion lurked in his gaze, but he said nothing of it. "Pick a book," he said, "and read to me. This day has been long, and I can think no more on it."
She chose a tale of the history of Gondolin, sitting in the chair opposite while she read, though she soon wished she hadn't. Tales of the First Age were rarely comforting; whatever miseries her life had brought her, she was glad she had not been alive then.
"Were it not for Maeglin, the city might yet stand," she grumbled. "Aredhel should never have married Ëol. Why did she not simply leave him?"
"Because he would not let her escape." When Tauriel looked up over the edge of the book, the King's expression chilled her. "He could not bear to be parted from her."
"He did not know her," she protested. "He was like an Edain, marrying for desire rather than love."
"There is more than one kind of love, Tauriel," the King said, and that look, that quasi-mad, possessive gleam had returned to his eyes. "You are too young yet to know the difference, but you will learn."
It didn't sound like a promise. It sounded like a threat.
"Your hair needs combing. Come." He rose, and waved a ringed hand for her to follow. Follow she did, carefully setting aside the book, unease roiling in her gut. Where it came from, she didn't know, but there was no gainsaying it. She sat when bidden, and stayed very still while the King drew the comb through her hair. The alcohol made her head spin.
Never before had his touch unsettled her – not that she had known it in a very long time. There was nothing actually improper in it now, but it lingered perhaps longer than was appropriate, his fingers brushing over her scalp and along the back of her neck. It made her shiver, but that too was far from pleasant – there was an unnerving sense of hunger in his touches that would have been less disturbing if they had been simply carnal. Tauriel was uncomfortably aware of just how large his hands were, how easily he could snap her neck with just one if he chose, or crush her windpipe with those long white fingers.
"You are nervous, Tauriel," he said, his breath a hot ghost on the crown of her head.
"Only confused, my lord," she said, somehow keeping her voice level. "You have no reason to do all of this for me."
"I told you, Tauriel," he said, irritation lacing his tone, "you are all I have left, and I will not lose you. No harm can come to you while you are within my chambers, so here you will stay."
Oh, she was dearly tempted to argue, but again, she did not dare. She did not trust this alien facet of her King. Not when his eyes were at once so warm and so cold. "For how long, my lord?"
"For however long I say." He turned her chair, inspecting her with a level of scrutiny she did not at all like. Up close, she realized how exhausted he had to be; his pale face was pinched and drawn, with dark circles under his eyes. No wonder he seemed so…off. He took her chin in his right hand, tilting her face up. "You are weary, Tauriel. You must sleep."
"So must you," she said, though in truth, thought of sharing a bed with him terrified her. Not because she thought he would harm her – she was quite certain he would not – but because his proximity itself disturbed her. Perhaps it was all in her mind, but he seemed to radiate more heat than an Elf ought to, as though he ran a terrible fever.
Now he was the one who looked like he wanted to argue, but surprisingly, he did not. "Perhaps you are right. You have night-clothes in the wardrobe – I will join you shortly."
She did? Since when? Much must have happened during her two-day nap. She wondered what in Eru's name everyone else who actually knew about this was making of it. Perhaps she could get news from whatever guards might turn up while the King was away.
Her sleepwear, like her day-clothes, was sturdy and functional, a gown of soft white linen. Changing into it took no time at all, and she hurried underneath the blankets before the King could return, turning her face away from the door and shutting her eyes. Sooner or later he would snap out of this strange madness, and she would rather they both have no more to be embarrassed about than they already had.
Sleep eluded her, however, even as she hear him cross the floor, and felt him climb into bed as well. Thankfully it was far larger than two or even four people would need; each had more than enough space. They need not wind up on top of one another, even if they both turned out to flail in their sleep.
Or so she thought, anyway. Tauriel's eyes flew open when his arm wrapped around her waist, drawing her back against the heat of his chest, chin rested on top of her head. The scent of him was all but overpowering, rich and spicy, and it utterly terrified her. "M-my lord?" she said, hoping he couldn't feel the panicked thundering of her heart. It fluttered in her stomach like a trapped rat, freezing her.
"Hush, Tauriel," he said, the words a warm breath against her hair. "You are safe."
Am I? she wondered, even as his hand found hers and twined her fingers among his. What was he doing? There remained nothing carnal in his desire, but desire there was, and all the more frightening because she could put no name to it. It would have been far easier if it were merely her body he had been after – this was something darker, something close to all-encompassing. Something he no doubt thought was pure, and perhaps, to him, it was. Whatever he wanted or needed from her was not nearly so simple as physical desire.
Wary though she was, eventually sleep claimed her, and she wished it hadn't; she dreamt again of the battle, of watching Kili's fëa darken before her eyes, fleeing to the Halls of Aulë to join his forebears. She watched the light leave his merry eyes, helpless to do anything, while the tears froze on her cheeks and her heart shattered. Never before had she considered that heartbreak could be a physically painful thing, but to her it was, as though someone had reached into her chest and squeezed until something splintered apart. Something precious and fragile that she would never regain, in this life or the next.
She woke with a face wet with tears, though this time they were hot rather than cold, her cheek pressed against the King's bare chest. She tried to recoil, but his arms were wrapped around her like iron bands, holding her in place.
"Weep, Tauriel," he said, stroking her jaw with his thumb. "Weep, and remember, and move on."
Move on? Move on? Move on to what, she wanted to ask, but her voice was nowhere to be found. The King was the one who needed to move on, to find a way out of whatever mad sickness had befallen him. The healers needed to see to him, if she could but tell someone about this.
Wrong or not, unsettling or not, he was there, warm and alive, and she let herself cry, because it was the only way she could think of to drain some of the poison inside her. Her tears left a layer of salt against his skin, but he did not seem to mind – indeed, the only reason she knew he wasn't asleep again was because he still stroked her jaw. Maybe…maybe this wasn't so bad. Yes, it was unnerving, and entirely unlike Thranduil, but there was an odd comfort to be found as well.
When she woke again, it was because the King's arms were wrapped so tightly around her that she was having difficulty breathing. His body was so like a furnace that she'd been sweating in her sleep – she needed a bath, but she feared to take one until he left for the day.
She tried to squirm out of his grasp without waking him, but his grip only tightened, and she swore she heard her ribs creak. "My lord, you're hurting me."
He blinked awake, and his hold loosened at once. "Where are you going?" he asked, suspicion lurking in his eyes.
"The bathroom, my lord," she said. Eru, was she going to have to justify her every move even within his chambers?
The suspicion eased, but did not abate entirely, and dread curdled in her stomach. What had happened to him? Surely losing his son could not be the sole cause – Legolas was abroad, not dead.
She had to try to get a message to him. If anyone could cure this strange madness, it would be him.
"Do not linger," the King said, eyes narrowing.
"I need a bath, my lord," she protested. "You are very warm – I've been sweating my sleep. Even my clothes are damp."
"If you need a bath, I will give you one," he said.
Tauriel froze. The thought was more horrifying than anything else had yet been. "There is no need for that, my lord," she said, her voice unsteady. "You know that I will not go anywhere." Cannot go anywhere.
"I disagree. Stay here and I will fill the tub." He rose before she could protest, leaving her still frozen.
It should not be such a terrifying idea. Eldar had no real nudity taboo, and communal baths were common; unlike Edain, Elves were not tempted by simple exposed flesh. But the thought of being even more vulnerable to the King than she already was… She wished she hadn't said anything. She knew that if she did not obey, he would strip her himself, and see nothing wrong with it – again viewing his motives as completely pure.
There would be no escape, she realized dully. Even if she managed to leave his chambers, she could never leave the halls; sooner or later he would hunt her down, and she didn't want to contemplate what he might do to her. Right now he was kind in his possessiveness, but she had an unfortunate feeling that could all too easily change.
And even if she did, by some miracle, make it out of the halls – out of the kingdom – what had she to live for? Kili was gone, and the position that had formed the basis of her identity was lost to her. Better to die by her own hand than endure the long, slow process of Fading. Elves could linger for decades in that state, and thought of lingering so long in the King's madness was not to be borne.
As if her thought had summoned him, he appeared in the doorway. Never before had she seen his hair so disheveled, and it only added to his general air of unbalance. "Come, Tauriel."
Go she did, unable to halt her shivering, which of course he noticed.
"Why do you tremble?" he asked, inspecting her far more closely than she was comfortable with.
"I am cold, my lord," she said, and it was true enough; lacking his heat beside her, her skin was chill and clammy, her nightdress unpleasantly sticky with sweat. She could not look at him while she stripped it off, and climbed into the bath as quick as she could. The tub was recessed into the floor, and like everything else in his chambers, it was stupidly oversized, with benches to sit upon so that one did not drown trying to sit on the bottom.
The hot water did feel good, and eased a little of her tension. Her hair floated in a cloud around her, and that too was a comfort, for it made the rest of her less visible. Tauriel shut her eyes, and tried to pretend, if only for a few moments, that she was alone.
They flew open again when the water was disturbed – oh Eru, did he truly mean to get in with her? He did.
She froze again, unable to move, barely able to breathe. Her skin crawled, the heat of the water unable to fight the goosebumps that broke out all over her. She dared not protest, nor ask just what he thought he was doing. Her eyes closed again, for all the good it did her.
"Lean forward," the King said, his deep voice echoing off the stone walls.
She did, with great trepidation, and jumped a little when he pushed her hair out of the way. There came a small splash, and then she felt a washcloth on her back, rubbing in soothing circles. That, perhaps, was the worst of this: he was genuinely trying to be comforting, and just as genuinely thought he was succeeding. She could not let him know that he was accomplishing quite the opposite.
He said nothing, and neither did she, even as he soaped the cloth again and ran it down her right arm, washing away every trace of stale sweat. Tauriel's arms did not lack for muscle, but his fingers still circled them fully, and she was reminded again of how easily he could kill her.
Would that be such a bad thing? she wondered. Would she truly mind if he drowned her in this tub?
Actually, yes. She was determined to die by her own hand. She did not want to go to Mandos murdered by her own King, no matter how mad he might be. Even now, she would not have him be a Kinslayer. Legolas would never forgive him, nor would he forgive himself, once this strange malady lifted. At least he could rationalize her suicide as unendurable grief for Kili. And he would not be wholly wrong.
Yes, she though, as he moved to her other arm, once he had left for the day, she would take that letter-opener and open her veins. It was still razor-sharp in spite of its failed use as a lockpick. She need not endure this strange compound pain for much longer.
"Lean back," he said, and when she did, she flinched a little when her back hit the hard plane of his chest. Her eyes remained closed, for she knew that if she opened them, she would go as mad as the King.
She was relieved – though no longer surprised – that there was still no carnal desire in his touch, not even when he washed her breasts. Thank Eru for that, at least. Even so, it was all she could do to remain still, especially when his left arm wrapped around her waist. What did he want from her? He might not desire her in any sense she understood, but he seemed to crave contact. She simply couldn't understand – but then, she doubted he did, either.
Tauriel didn't realize she was crying until the King's fingers traced the line of her tears. "It is all right, Tauriel," he said. "I will not leave you."
That, she thought, is the problem.
When at last he'd finished, he dried her off and bundled her into one of his own dressing-gowns. It smelled like him, rich and spicy, but at least it more than covered her. Again he sat her at his dressing-table and patiently combed out her hair. When he was through, he pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, and went off to dress himself for the day.
"I will have breakfast sent for you," he said, when he returned. He looked now like his usual resplendent self, clad in robes of black and silver brocade. It was strangely comforting, seeing him as he ought to be.
"Thank you, my lord," she said, somehow finding her voice.
When he left, she heard the door lock behind him.
After a moment, Tauriel rose, and went to don her own clothing, rolling back the sleeves as far as they would go.
The letter-opener had been returned to its place on his desk, and she took it in her trembling hand. The tip was so sharp that it drew a small bead of blood as soon as she pressed it to her wrist, shockingly bright against her pale skin.
With deep, calming breath she stabbed down, hard, and drew the wicked blade the entire length of her forearm. The pain was not nearly so bad as she had expected – nor was it when she opened the veins of her other arm. The hot, coppery scent of blood assailed her nose, and she felt as though the heat of it scalded her unbroken skin.
It was not long at all before her vision clouded, and then there was only blessed darkness that contained no pain.
Tauriel had not known what to expect of the Halls of Mandos, but this was not it.
The pain had not followed her here, at least. She was lying on a very soft bed – but there were bandages around her arms. Surely she would not need them after death.
It took her a moment to realize that the room smelled familiar – like Thranduil. The realization snapped her eyes open with sudden, mounting horror.
She'd failed. She was still alive. Still trapped.
"It is about time you woke."
She looked to her right and found the King seated by her beside, severity and sympathy warring with the possessiveness in his pale eyes. She had no idea at all what to say, so she said nothing.
"I told you I would not leave you, Tauriel," he said, brushing the hair from her brow.
She tried to sit up, and for the first time registered that there was something wrapped around her ankle. A chain clinked when she shifted again, and she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the other end was attached to his.
"And you will never leave me."
Quite suddenly, Tauriel understood Aredhel.
The story of Ëol and Aredhel is one of the creepiest things Tolkien ever wrote. Ëol was an Elf in the First Age who saw Aredhel riding through his forest and thought she was hot, and so deliberately got her lost and led her to his house. She didn't at first realize she was actually a captive, and eventually they got married. What makes it so creepy? This line: "Aredhel was not wholly unwilling." Yeah. They seem to have been happy for a while, because Stockholm Syndrome will do that to a person, but of course it ended in murder.
Will Thranduil's motives remain as weirdly pure as they are now, or will he eventually turn into Ëol 2.0? I leave that to your imagination. By then, Tauriel might not be wholly unwilling either.