prologue.


The woman they had found wandering the borders of their lands was very sick. It took the strength of only one Silvan guard to lift her and carry her through the high gleaming doors of the hall, and he bore her away like he would the weight of a sleeping child.

They had been charged that night with patrols on a quiet midsummer evening. The air was hot and thick as breath when they first set out and above them the stars blinked dreamily in the sky. Five of them there were, a small faction of soldiers loyal to the crown, armed only in their supple leathers and hauberks against harm.

During the course of the night they spoke little. Their sharp eyes roamed the length of the horizon, the color of spilt ink now that the sun had completely disappeared from the sky, but they expected no fell beasts or strange shapes to appear in the emptiness between their forest and the mountains beyond. A lull had begun to take place in the corruption of Mirkwood. It was no longer the lush and vibrant woodland of its former glory, but the great spiders were more passive as of late. Whispers of the necromancer to the south grew fewer and less urgent. The dark enchantment seemed lifted for a moment; room was made in the burdened spirits of the elves for merriment and rest. Songs and feasts bore an air of levity. The volatile temper of the King himself appeared vastly improved.

Throughout the months of spring and early summer, the Silvan elves had enjoyed their respite of quiet peace. This night was much the same as it had been for many months past. The trees around them moved softly, placidly, in a wind that carried on its balmy current the spice and sounds of the Elvenking's halls behind them. The skittering of small feet could be heard deep in the underbrush, muffled by the thickness of the briar leaves. Overhead, tucked away high in the canopies of the oaks and ancient ashes, the boughs rustled and shook with much activity. An air of contentment wrapped itself around the edges of the forest like gossamer. Bare and docile as a silky fog.

Closer to midnight, they had begun to hear the footfalls of an approaching figure. Travelers and wanderers in those parts numbered few, especially under the cover of nightfall, and it did not escape their notice. Their pointed ears flicked and veered toward the sound. They began to perceive the sounds of struggle – labored breaths and staggering broken steps that seemed arduous to the elves as they listened. Whoever they were, it was plain that they were gravely wounded.

Their leader gestured wordlessly toward the embankment from which the noises were coming. It was understood, between all of them, that they would sooner shoot to kill than ask questions – by order of the Elvenking himself.

It had been the youngest of the troop to find her – nearly unconscious, but somehow, even in her feverish stupor, found the strength to pull herself into the high grasses which framed the dark road. Finding his quarry to be unarmed and vulnerable, the guard put aside his weapons, lifted the wounded girl into his arms without a word, and returned to the outer rim of the forest.

.

.

.

News of the strange arrival, they decided, would have to be brought personally to the King.

Tauriel, Captain of the King's Guard, had been present on the patrol that night. She had been the one to happen upon the cloaked figure, who had used the last of her strength to crawl silently into the tall grasses. Tauriel had looked upon the wound with her own eyes…there was no doubt that the girl had fallen ill some time ago, had suffered for what must have been more than a fortnight. These vast open fields, untouched and serene, were chosen to be her shallow grave. She had collapsed, and calmly, without ceremony or despair, waited for death to come for her.

The stench of rot still filled her head with a sickly sweet perfume. Fever had set in. The pall of sickness drew dark unsightly shadows in those eyes bright with a heat like fire. Tauriel had left quickly to fetch the Elvenking, and an alien grief had begun to burgeon in her heart no sooner did she take her leave. Without immediate aid, the girl would surely die in the slow, painful hours to come…and she could not bring herself to abandon the poor creature so easily to such a cruel and lonely fate.

"Your habit of bringing home wounded animals grows tiresome, Tauriel," said Thranduil, annoyed that he had been pulled away from the merrymaking. He halted before a dimly lit corridor off to the side of the great hall – one that led down straight down into the remote healing rooms. "Let this be your last or you may quickly fall out of my favor."

Tauriel followed behind, her eyes hard as they moved restlessly along the cool stone walls. "She is dying, my lord. I had no choice but to bring her to you."

"It seems clear to me that you could have left her there to die in peace," He remarked coolly. "You could have ended her suffering for her. A swift and sure hand with your dagger would have been clean and humane enough. And yet you brought her to me, a fool's hope in your heart that she might be saved. There was no lack of choice…you had many to your advantage. Nonetheless, you allowed yourself to be swayed by clemency."

At last they reached the end of the hall, choosing the one door from which a watery and golden light emitted. Tauriel lowered her eyes, fixed them stiffly on the cold black floor. She felt sickened by his pitiless words. "You speak of mercy as if it were a weakness."

He said no more, but gestured for her to remain outside. Though reluctant, she obeyed and stood quietly, her hands folded as she let herself sink deep into thought. Soon, the others were dismissed as well with orders to return to the outer borders. One, a young Silvan guard with eyes that matched the shade of last fading twilight, lingered behind as he saw the look of sorrow on his Captain's face. She could not bring herself to meet his gaze. Shame wrung her insides at the thought of allowing her emotions to be worn so plainly and so bare for the world to see.

"All will be well, Captain," the guard reassured her, his fine clear voice tempered with the warmth of kindness. "It is fortunate that you happened upon her…she may live yet."

Without another word and a subtle bow of his russet head, he departed.

And she, tarrying for but a moment behind him, took her leave as well.


Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. All characters, except for mine, belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.