"Think you that a feast is the right moment to discuss the deaths of my soldiers? Your poor judgment in this matter explains your failure in others."
Row upon row of elven nobility stretches between them. The few Sindar who followed the King out of the West are nearest. Their silver robes and gray-blue eyes shroud them in a celestial mist of beauty unreached by the Silvan courtiers who sit beside, garbed in more earthy greens and browns.
Tauriel—wearing her best gown of forest green and nervously adjusting a borrowed bronze circlet—is down near the foot of the long table, seated with the head gardener, invited as his guest. But Tauriel's ears serve her well. Even at such a distance, she can hear the precise quality of the King's irritation.
Even at such a distance, it makes her quail.
The rumors of the spiders' permanent nests near the forest road filtered into the palace just yesterday. Tauriel, busily tending the athelas in the lower herb garden, heard every word that passed between two whispering guardsmen.
It seems that Tauriel's world is expanding even as Mirkwood itself seems to shrink. Her studies progress. At the young age of seventy-five, she now commands the lowest garden, responsible for the root vegetables that that supply the King's own table. It is an unheard-of honor for a child her age, and she tries to be worthy of it.
But she is still curious about the world outside, the world that used to be hers.
In bits and pieces, she learns. Gathering the early apples in the orchard, she sees a wounded elf stagger towards the gate with news of an ambush. Reading in the library, she listens as the Prince's tutor explains how the elves were first driven into the northeast corner of the forest.
And now, from the King's own lips, she hears that he will not attend the desperate need of his Captain.
She risks a glance up the table. Thranduil is brilliant in vermillion; his hair seems bone-white in comparison. It lies across his tunic in strands as pale and fragile as spider silk. The red of his robe is a match for the wine that has filled his cup without fail since the start of the feast. His eyes, however…they are still sharp, keen, and aware.
Tauriel stares at her plate, fearful that he might sense her gaze. She should not look at him, she should not think his name. She might sit at his table, but she is not of his kind. Nor will she ever be.
The King is speaking again, and his word is stone-carved law.
"At your last request, I gave you fifty from my Palace guard. If you claim defense is untenable with so many, perhaps there is another who does not think the same."
There is a pause before the Captain murmurs an apologetic response, and he excuses himself shortly thereafter.
Tauriel dares one last glance.
The King's goblet is full again.