A/N: WOW! Thank you so, so much for all your Follows, Favs, and, especially, feedback on Chapter 1! I'm thrilled to have both new and old readers alike interested in following this little tale along, so many kudos to ya'll for being here! :)

This chapter came together much quicker than I anticipated. However, to those unfamiliar with my work, I have a couple WIPs in play at the moment, so updates will likely be once a week (if not a bit longer) from here on. If you can bear with me and be patient, I promise to (hopefully!) make each chapter worth your while.

Disclaimer: The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings are copyrighted to and belong to J. R. R. Tolkien. I'm just playing in his sandbox and receive no financial gain from this.

Chapter 2: Gumlaith (Weariness of Spirit)

After minutes of being manhandled by two aggressive guards, whose hands were securely coiled about her arms, Tauriel managed to break free of their excruciating confines; but, that was as far as she managed before a series of arrows were pointed at her from every direction.

"I don't require your pushing and shoving to walk obediently!" she bravely snapped at them, emerald eyes aglow with suppressed uncertainty as they darted from Elven guard to Elven guard before her.

Tauriel recognised their faces, though each tried to feign their own awareness of who she was. She had once trained them as their captain, and yet, she was now on the opposite end of what had once been cordial relations based upon mutual respect and regard.

Tonight, she was a mere prisoner in their cold-stone eyes; an Elleth of no particular value or importance.

"You will come with us," said the guard seemingly heading this outing, his eyes razor-edged as they stared at Tauriel like that of a stranger; he refused to lower his bow and arrow an inch, the others following his lead.

The guard's blatant lack of trust pained Tauriel to witness. Firverior, a Silvan Elf of the same rank as herself, with long, auburn hair and intensely dark eyes, had been Tauriel's friend for centuries. She considered him a trusted companion amongst their highly fighting-skilled kin; one of the best in combating the spiders of the south that had been attacking Mirkwood by the hundreds. The manner in which Firverior stared her down this night, with such displeasure and disdain in his eyes as she had never seen, was a hardship not easily withstood, and Tauriel glanced elsewhere, unable to maintain eye contact.

"On what grounds?" she challenged, her voice quickly losing its edge.

"That's between you and your king," Firverior answered stiffly, jolting Tauriel where her feet were rooted to the soil.

"I serve no king," she whispered in return, her upper lip curling with discontent.

Firverior's eyes flashed with anger and betrayal. "You're an Elf of the Woodland realm, Tauriel. You have a king, and it is to him whom you shall answer."

"As I recall, I was banished by the king. I am no longer an Elf of the Woodland realm."

"Banishment does not erase one's ancestral privilege," Firverior retorted, uncompromising; at last, he lowered his bow, and the eleven guards circling Tauriel did likewise, though they kept their sharp attention on their red-haired captive.

"Why am I being summoned to the king?" Tauriel pressed, raising her hands into the air, befuddled. "I don't understand."

"As I've told you, that's a matter between you and your king." Tauriel intended to say more, but Firverior cut her off. "Come. He's awaiting our return."

With the swirling shimmer of his cloak, which caught the moonlight peaking through the trees, Firverior turned on his heel and stalked off, commanding his fellow guards to do likewise in Elvish. The two who had previously had Tauriel hostage by the arms moved in to reclaim their grasps, but she swiftly waved them off, staring them down as courageously as she was able. They drew backward, hands automatically reaching for their arrows.

"I said I can walk," she hissed between clenched teeth and walked on, finding herself immediately flanked by watchful, mistrustful Elves on all sides.

What could King Thranduil possibly want with me now...except to, perhaps, do away with me?

Thranduil had retreated to his private study by mid-day, determined not to be disturbed for the remainder; or, for as long as he could bargain on not being needed on the many matters that required his attention.

Seated at the end of a vast, elaborately carved desk of treasured oak, Thranduil finished penning a correspondence to a friend abroad, whose own written message to the Elven king had carried worrisome rumours; gossip that began in the east, quickly passing through Mirkwood and beyond.

Thranduil sat back in his oversized chair to ponder these angst-filled whispers; poisonous hearsay that would only ravage and corrupt Middle-earth's inhabitants, if they allowed it to consume them.

The supposed coming of a Second Darkness—hell-bent on plunging Middle-earth into Sauron's servitude—wasn't exactly new information. Every faint rumour that spread on the wind was deeper cause for concern, however.

Worthless gossip, the collected ruler in Thranduil insisted to those who looked to him for council and strength. Inwardly, the rumours troubled him greatly, however, and not simply because the terrible inkling of such a coming had afflicted his soul for many, many moons but because...

My son is out there.

There was little doubting that Legolas would see fit to join the burdensome, trying battles of Middle-earth that lay ahead. By now, he had surely secured the whereabouts of Aragorn—at Thranduil's suggestion before their parting—and, if what Lord Elrond had once told him in confidence was true, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, would eventually be persuaded to turn from his path of exile and take his rightful place amongst his people.

Or so we can only hope.

His son would naturally wish to see such a prevail for Men as much as any other Elf in the kingdom, Thranduil included. It wouldn't be in Legolas's good nature to turn his back on those in need of help, either, particularly when the fate of Middle-earth was at stake.

No... He won't stop until he sees this world's greatest hopes fulfilled.

Thranduil wished the same for Middle-earth, of course, but, unlike the Elven prince, it would not come at the expense of more bloodshed from his kin. No. He had witnessed too much needless death, heinous destruction, and crippling despair to forsake his people's lives one more time. Too many had been slaughtered at the Battle of the Five Armies, and at wars raged before then. The many Elves Thranduil had witnessed fall at the foot of the Lonely Mountain was, for their king, the final straw.

No more.

If only his son had understood the extraordinary difficulties of kingship, of protecting one's people, and of having so much blood on his hands—and marked on his shattered soul—for the rest of eternity.

If only...

Perhaps then Legolas wouldn't have looked upon him as he had the day he left: with disappointment and disdain.

Thranduil was well-aware of how others had misconstrued his image, referring to him as nothing more than an 'opportunist', 'heartless' and 'self-serving'. It was the price a protective king paid in order to defend what was rightfully his. For Thranduil, that was and always would be Mirkwood and all his faithful kin who dwelled therein. His impassioned wish to keep their way of life secure was of the utmost importance, ever since he had come to rule the Woodland realm thousands of years ago.

It was onerous to try to persuade those who opposed his way of thinking—and manner of ruling—to his position and outlook on Sauron and his endless thirst for power. That outspoken former captain of his and, later, Legolas had proven two of his most strident opponents on such matters. Not in all regards, but in many.

Still, the rationale to not spill anymore immortal blood for the sake of Middle-earth's perilous cause remained Thranduil's unyielding stance, no matter what his son—and others like the forthright Tauriel—opined to the contrary.

If only they could understand. If only they'd seen what I've seen...

With a graceful air, Thranduil rose from his chair and roamed about the grand room, decorated in splendid carvings of old and personal trinkets that reminded him of memories past, painful as they may be: a fancy, golden box containing the magnificent white stones Thranduil had gifted to his late wife, later returned to him by the Dwarves; ancient tomes filled with the glorious tales of their people, which he had often read to Legolas as a child, much to the prince's delight; crystal broaches once worn by the brave warriors of his kin, who had fought alongside their king and died defending him. Thranduil kept every fallen Elf's broach as a sore reminder of their great sacrifice: the stripping of their immortal life.

Thranduil halted before the large wooden chest that contained these broaches and carefully opened the lid. The chest was near overflowing with the majestic symbol of Mirkwood—of Elves past slain—and the overwhelming amount wrenched at his heart. They had all been his soldiers once, and that of his father's—every single one—and all that was left of them now was a crystal series of branches.

So senseless. So reprehensible.

Thranduil cast the lid shut at the loud knocking upon his study door. He commanded whoever it was to enter in Elvish, and one of his head guards normally stationed at the front gates came marching in, looking quite shaken.

"Hîr vuin," greeted the Silvan guard, respectfully bowing his head as Thranduil turned to him, waiting on an explanation for the intrusion, "I've come to report that Firverior and the others have returned."

"And?" Thranduil demanded, waiting patiently.

"They tracked that pack of Orcs as far as the outskirts of Éothéod, but they came upon something else; someone Firverior thought should be brought to your attention at once."

Thranduil quietly stepped closer, his movements slow and steady, arms woven behind his back. "What did he find, Berialagoswen?"

The guard named Berialagoswen's eyes lowered a fraction as he replied, "Tauriel, my Lord."

The king's blue irises flickered and the muscles in his face tightened, as if he were coiling in on himself to keep his self-control in check. His calm demeanour bordered on morphing into action, seemingly torn between maintaining coolness or allowing the rankling ire over the sour subject of his one-time captain to manifest and take charge.

Ultimately, he settled for coolness.

Berialagoswen remained perfectly still, silently awaiting his king's order. Thranduil had ceased inching towards him, his ruby red robes casting a dangerous shimmer against the pearls of starlight pouring into his study.

"Bring her to me," he commanded after a tense-filled silence. "Now."

By the time they reached the front gates of Mirkwood, Tauriel was no longer fazed by the ill reception she was bestowed upon by the two Elves standing guard, Berialagoswen and Lainos, though their shock at encountering her puzzled her greatly.

Odd, she wondered as she breezed past Lainos, who eyed her as though she had lost all Elven attributes. If the king gave the order to hunt me down, wouldn't everyone have been informed of it?

"Wait here," Berialagoswen commanded to the lot of them and hastily disappeared to inform King Thranduil of her arrival.

Tauriel sighed, irritated at being so in the dark, but took the quiet opportunity afforded to her to look upon the entrance to the intimate refuge she had once called home.

The ancient oaks were healthy-looking and resplendent still, their vibrant foliage marking the beginning of autumn and flecked with blazing blood-reds and fiery golds unlike any one could find elsewhere in Middle-earth. The well-remembered sight squeezed Tauriel's heart in two.

How deeply she had missed the Mirkwood forest, despite so many foreign glimpses to the outside world provided to her since abruptly leaving home over a year ago. Returning after such an extended absence should have been welcoming and warm, but breathing in the crisp, autumn air tonight filled Tauriel's soul with the deep-rooted yearning she had, for too long, struggled to repress: homesickness. Banishment had bridled her hopes of ever returning, particularly under happy circumstances, and such was the dispirited case this evening.

"Why Éothéod?"

The unanticipated disruption to her thoughts startled Tauriel. She turned to Firverior, who had posed the question. He stood at a distance, along with his comrades, all of whom ogled their former captain with peculiarity.

"I'm sorry?" she breathed, the beat of her heart accelerating.

"Why so close?" he pressed her quietly. "Aren't there other realms you might have found less...painful to take shelter?"

Tauriel forced an impassive raise of her chin. "Yes," she answered him simply, careful to keep any emotion out of her response, "but the reminders would still be...inescapable."

Firverior cocked his head sideways, not following. "'Inescapable'?" he repeated, seeking clarity.

Tauriel offered only a contrived smile. "Grief will follow no matter where one seeks to hide from her."

Slowly, Firverior nodded, understanding finally crossing his fair face. "And Mirkwood?" he inquired after a short pause, to which Tauriel stretched her mannered smile farther.

"It's still home to me, even if I can no longer refer to it as such by name."

"King Thranduil will see you now."

Berialagoswen's sudden return to the entrance brought Tauriel's and Firverior's hushed conversation to a close. Firverior stepped back and lowered his head, giving the matter over to his brethren.

The head guard gave a curt toss of his head and Tauriel was abruptly sided by two guards once more, one of whom pushed her rather forcefully to follow Berialagoswen's lead. Her eyes caught Firverior's as she was coerced onward to meet with the king, but, unfortunately, she discerned neither comfort nor reassurance from her friend's return stare, which was grim at best. She swallowed hard and tread the narrow, winding pathway that led to King Thranduil's study, refusing to look back. The enormous, hefty oak doors opened as they approached, with two more guards flanking its entrance.

As she stepped inside the towering space, Tauriel found herself suddenly face to face with her king, who was seated in a wooden chair off to the right. The moonlight trickling into the study cast fragments of sharp light against his otherwise tall, darkened figure, the scenery at his back a dramatic view of the wondrous night sky, just visible between Mirkwood's high trees. Upon his head Thranduil donned his ornately decorative crown of thorns and berries in annual homage to the harvest season; but, there was nothing warm in his hardened face that Tauriel recognised. His stare was cold and unfriendly, his rigid body language, despite being seated, serving his reputation as the intimidating Elven ruler Tauriel well remembered.

In all her six hundred years of life and service, Tauriel had rarely been afraid of her king, only uneasy at times that Thranduil invoked his wrath, speaking in such an eerily quiet fashion that even his son would grow nervous and uncertain of his intentions. For the first time on this chilly evening, however, she was truly frightened. Her inclination immediately was to bow, despite the fact that she no longer served him, so she hurriedly lowered her head, shifting her eyes from such intense eye contact.

For an excruciating moment that seemed to last for an age, Thranduil said nothing in return, merely made a calculated study of her person with his eyes. Tauriel could hear her breath stiffen and the hastening beat of her heart against her chest; she tried to keep still.

"Hîr vuin," she addressed him softly, respectfully, with a certain ache in her voice.

"Tauriel," Thranduil, at last, greeted her, though without any hint of affection. "What a surprise this is."

Cautiously, Tauriel raised her head, increasingly perplexed by the strange events that had brought her here. "Is it?" she inquired hesitantly, narrowing her eyes up at him. "Did you not send your guards after me tonight?"

"After you?" Thranduil's response was indifferent. "Of course not. Don't be absurd. I banished you from this realm many moons ago. Why would I seek to hunt you down now?"

"I don't know. You tell me, my Lord," she added, wishing to get to the bottom of this confusion but without spurring Thranduil to anger.

Alas, an ominous upward curl materialised at the corner of Thranduil's mouth that didn't put Tauriel at ease. His eyes then darted to Berialagoswen and the two guards still holding her firmly by the arms.

"Leave us," he demanded of their company, and Tauriel heard their footsteps retreat, the heavy doors soon closing her in with an overwhelming-sounding echo. Her heart pounded faster still, her agitation increasing now that she and Thranduil were completely alone.

Thranduil wasted little time continuing to study her at a distance. He rose agilely from his chair and approached the disloyal Elleth as a fierce lion stalks its prey: deliberately, wilfully, eyes rooted to the catch.

Tauriel was quickly engulfed in the king's shadow, unhinged by the near empty void she discovered in those radiant blue eyes. It caused her to shrink in his presence, though only just.

"Do you have a death wish, Tauriel?"

Tauriel reared back, perturbed by such an odd question. "My Lord?"

"A pack of Orcs were spotted to the north not four days past. They weren't far from where you reportedly made camp. Dare I ask, were you waiting for them to happen upon your tent and take you out?"

"I..."

"Do speak up," Thranduil hissed with such aggression that Tauriel started. "As I recall, you had no trouble speaking your mind to me in the past."

Tauriel blushed but managed to find her voice. "No, I wasn't waiting to be found, my Lord."

"Really?"

His voice dripped with mockery, making Tauriel fluster. "I don't know why you'd insinuate that I'd do such a thing, my Lord, but, I can assure you—"

"That you've become so consumed by your own grief that you would willingly put your life at stake, just to be rid of it?" Thranduil sought to challenge her, staring Tauriel down heatedly, though he never raised his voice. "Yes, I would insinuate such a disappointing action possible on your part, Tauriel. Am I wrong to believe that you still grieve the loss of that...Dwarf?"

Tauriel could feel her cheeks burning with indignation, a mixture of rage and humiliation now marring her pretty features. The way her king spoke so distastefully of Kíli, without referring to him by name or with a shred of thoughtful consideration, gutted her. She hadn't an inkling where such a fiery, false accusation of attempted self-destruction was coming from, either—perhaps she had become the subject of ridicule by Thranduil and her people in her absence—but she was determined to set the king straight, if he would allow her.

"My Lord," she insisted, struggling to keep calm, "I've had no intention of hurting myself these past many months."

The harshness in Thranduil's face did not waver, however. "I'm not convinced," came his terse reply.

"I honestly had no idea Orcs were that close—"

"Then, for goodness's sake, Tauriel, be sensible!" His uncharacteristic outburst took her aback, enough to cause her knees to wobble. "I took you to be perceptive and wise once. Do not force me to lament yet another wrong."

The intensity between them abruptly stilled and Thranduil quickly turned away from her, his refined robes thrashing and waving about with furious flair. He sought refuge in his chair again, half of his pale face submerging into the shadows.

Tauriel looked on, unsettled, yet unable to glance away. "I... I do apologise, my Lord," she found herself softly begging his pardon. "I hadn't given much thought to running into Orcs in those parts. I will be more mindful in the future."

Thranduil did not respond. He simply stared at Tauriel long and hard, unmoving, compelling her to try to fill the uncomfortable silence.

"I still don't understand why I've been brought here."

Slowly, Thranduil answered, "I never gave the order to retrieve you." At Tauriel's visual befuddlement, he continued, "I sent Firverior and a handful of our guards out to hunt down the whereabouts of these Orcs. He happened upon your camp and was right to take you under his charge and bring you here for safekeeping. You could have been killed out there, Tauriel. Have you lost all sense of reason?"

The gnawing vexation in the Elven king had returned, but Tauriel took a deep breath and centred her emotions. "I told you, I didn't know—"

"A lazy excuse for incompetence."

Before Tauriel could fire back a retort, Thranduil was on his feet once more, the cutting lights and shadows outlining his face urging her back a step. He hadn't advanced on her, and yet, his slightly hunched forward stance suggested that he might very well do so.

"You shall remain here."

"What?" Tauriel's green eyes widened in shock. "But, I—"

"At least until these Orcs have been hunted down and dealt with. You cannot be trusted to linger on your own."

"But, my Lord, I've been banished from these woods. You said so yourself..."

Tauriel hated how simpleminded her remark sounded, and yet, it was the plain truth. Why would King Thranduil suddenly show a change of heart and express his concern—albeit, marginally—for her welfare when she was, to him, a traitor to the realm? It hadn't been all that long ago that she had pointed an arrow at his face and threatened to kill him, after all.

Now he wants me to...stay?

Much to Tauriel's bafflement, Thranduil called in Elvish to the guards outside the door to return, waiting on them to reemerge before he stalked up to her, his bright eyes boring vigorously into hers. Tauriel's breath stilled, her wary gaze locked on his.

"Consider your exile lifted," he told her; he then brushed past Tauriel to order the guards to escort her to a bedchamber, but she wasn't really taking in anything but the king's shocking pardon. He turned around to face her bewildered countenance one last time, and, when their eyes met, he added a smug, "For now," to his withdrawal before he took his leave.

Tauriel watched in stunned silence as Thranduil glided away, his flowing, golden hair barely moving against his back and his silhouette made more impressive by the outline of his extravagant crown. Even from behind, he appeared as ominous as ever, and yet...

I'm no longer banished?

The two guards didn't try to manhandle Tauriel this time as they led their one-time captain away without a word. Even had they displayed less tact, Tauriel wouldn't have been able to focus much on their mistreatment, though, for she was too dumbfounded to find herself back in Mirkwood, her banishment unexpectedly revoked, and two of her kin leading her to a bedroom where she would surely receive a large, warm bed to crawl into.

Perhaps this isn't the end, after all...

Elvish Translations:

Hîr vuin = Beloved lord

A/N #2: This won't be a quick and convenient lovey, dovey coming together of our two stubborn Elves. There's a lot for them to see eye to eye on first before any romance can occur.

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