Disclaimer: I do not own anything Tolkien created. And there's only one OC in here that belongs to me; the other belongs to Peter Jackson, with whom I took liberties due to ignorance for this fic.

Special thanks to: Meryah, WillowDryad, and the attendees of TheLionsCall writers' group (Lil, Sir-William, Sir Edward, and The Happy Islander) who so kindly read this over and made their comments.

Runner-up of Kabam's "The Hobbit: Armies of the Third Age" fanfiction contest.

Note: Though I'm working with a movie character, the location is book-verse.

I can remember those days of peace, when light and laughter reigned. The happy golden years of gaiety and childlike pleasures. That blessed while in which I had danced under the emerald canopy of the Greenwood. The time that you were here with me.

"Will you not come with us?"

"It is not my place –"

Laughter. "Why ever not? Your father is a royal escort; therefore, you are of the court as well." His eyes twinkled. "And you yourself are fairly near family."

Another voice, the king's. "You are welcome to accompany us, sweet maiden."

Alessëa hesitated, her eyes drifting over to the chief of the royal guard. She flashed a mischievous grin at the prince and mounted. "The last one there is no true horseman!" The drumming of hooves beneath them, the laughter on their lips, the heedless wheeling through the forest, the mindless elation of the race coursing through her veins.

I long for the babbling of that sparkling stream, the fluttering of the leaves as they played with the sunbeams. To dance again to the music of the woods and play frolicsome games with the friend of my childhood. But all is dark and still. I wish for nothing more than the healing of the empty place in my heart you had once occupied.

Threads, threads all about them. Their mounts suddenly pulled up and shied away from the shadows. Creeping shadows, tendriled shadows. One such tendril reached out – oh, horror! – black and solid. Alessëa gave a cry of terror, the prince a shout of dismay, their horses whinnies of fear. A mass of gruesome darkness followed the tendril into the light.

A rattling cackle came from the creature. "Sweet, sweet, such are sweet."

Rearing, tilting, falling, she landed on the turf. There was the twang of a bowstring and a scream barely animal that sent her shuddering. More legs, more fat bodies emerged, trailing more threads behind them. Hissing whispers and shuddering chatters surrounded them. She groped for her knife, gripping, slashing, darting away. Then – joyous relief! – charging warriors.

The moon is a waning sliver in the heavens tonight. Just like the night that separates me from you. Just like the scar on your cheek. Yes, I can see it: it is your face that looks back at me. Those stars form your defined cheekbone – so like my own – and those stars over there finish your face and that one is bright enough for an eye. The wispy clouds make a fine mane of silver locks, trailing into wind-swept strands. But is this right? For it makes me ache for you more.

Eyes blazing, swords flashing. Twirling strokes, leaping blows, diving jabs. Swift and elaborate as any dance. Alessëa was almost dazzled by the sight. A sudden cry of pain gripped her as the king fell.

"Ada!" The prince's straw hair mingled with his father's in a posture of grief. The black menace prepared to strike again. Before she could cry out, an arrow from the chief guard Thandion struck first. Stomping, biting, snaring; thrusting, slicing, shooting. But she had no time to watch for the creatures were still closing in. Alessëa thrust her blade at them. The prince loosed his arrows, rage propelling each one. But however many they slew, more would shimmy down their awful strands: tough, sticky to the touch, and – worst – entangling. The prince cried out and Alessëa turned as he fell by his father, stung by one of the foul beasts. In that moment, she felt threads binding her legs. Her blade bit into her foe before she teetered and fell.

Only the silver-haired guard remained to stand over his king's prone form, plying his blade, piling their writhing corpses. At last, just one shadow more, but it was quicker. The warrior dropped to his knees, releasing the bow from his hand. The creature stung him again. And again.

She could not cry out. She could only crawl forward, always forward. Watching. The foul shadow approached the king, readying a final blow. She took up the warrior's bow. Drew back. Breathed out. Loosed the shaft. And another. And another. The black body reeled, staggered, fell at last.

I am sorry. I failed you. You, who had never failed me.

But it was too late. She knew it before she touched his hand. Still, she hoped. Hoped that life would return to those woodland eyes, pass through his open lips, colour the flesh around his crescent scar. But he grew cold and white. A hand – the king's – rested on her shoulder. The prince wept with her. The warriors gathered in silence.

Never will I forget, never. But I hope you'd be proud of who I've become.

"Call me no more daughter of Thandion…."

I am Tauriel.

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