In which Tauriel experiences her first true interactions with outsiders, and Thranduil has to fight the instinct to be utterly overprotective.

Tauriel did not need to see Amaniel to guess how bemused she was by Bard's children.

Their elevation to nobility had clearly not affected them. They were the same hardy, sturdy brood she remembered, with Tilda and Bain trying to talk over one another, and Sigrid scolding them both. That was a girl who had become a mother in spirit far too young in life, but she did not seem to mind. However, she did not appear anxious to be a mother in truth – or even a wife.

"Father has had three offers for my and already," she grumbled. "Three, and one from as far away as Gondor. I have only just turned sixteen!"

"At what age do Edain customarily marry?" Amaniel asked.

"Nineteen or twenty, at least in these parts. It only ever happens younger if a girl gets in the family way before marriage. I do not know yet if I even wish to marry, let alone when."

Now Amaniel sounded incredibly confused. "Why would you not?"

"It is dangerous for women," Sigrid said. "With marriage come children."

"Our mother died not long after Tilda was born," Bain explained."And her mother died birthing her. Before the battle, our old men outnumbered our old women again by half."

That was disturbing. Birth was no easy thing for the Elves, but it was rarely fatal. "Perhaps some of your healers could train with ours," Tauriel said. "There must be something to be done about that."

Could she and Kili have had children? Elves could breed with Edain – Lord Elrond was proof of that – but so far as she knew, Elves and Dwarves had never intermarried.

But now was not the time to speculate on that. "If you wish a good excuse to put your would-be suitors off, you should train a while with our healers, once your father has settled to his new position. No one would be offended by your refusal then." They wouldn't dare.

"Do you really think I could?" Sigrid asked, her voice laced with excitement.

"I would have to ask the King, but I cannot imagine him refusing." It was, as he himself would say, diplomacy, and was that not why he had brought her here?

"Tauriel, the sun is nearly set. If you are to dress for dinner, we ought to start now," Amaniel said.

"I hope you remember how all of it works," Tauriel laughed.

"We can help," Tilda offered. "Bain, go be a boy somewhere else."

Tauriel could easily picture the boy rolling his eyes, but the sound of his footsteps went out through the door. "Well," she said, "between us, perhaps we might figure this out."

Dain did not come to that evening's feast, but that was only to be expected; no doubt his advisors were driving him mad with last-minute preparations. Many other Dwarves were in attendance, however, including a number of Thorin Oakenshield's original company.

Though Tauriel had known she would have a prominent part to play, Thranduil could see how nervous she was. He doubted any of the assorted mortals would, at least.

Between them, Amaniel, Sigrid, and Tilda appeared to have worked out the intricacies of her clothing. This dress was russet silk, embroidered in brown and gold, cut simply enough that she would not have difficulty moving in it. The coloring matched the deep, polished brown of her stick, though he did not intend to allow her much use of it. It was easier for everyone if he guided her himself, and his presence beside her would serve as anchor.

"They have erected a great pavilion," he told her, as he led her toward it. "There are Dwarvish braziers at each side to heat it, and long tables face the center. Either they mounted a great hunt, or they have been hoarding food for months, because they could not otherwise have prepared such a feast."

"I smell venison," she said. "And pheasant with garlic."

"It would seem the Dwarves had brought barrels of ale as well," he said dryly, eying the massive casks. "This feast could prove more interesting than I anticipated."

He felt Tauriel shake with silent laughter. "You will have to describe it for me, my lord," she said with bland innocence. "No doubt I will find it educational."

"I will tell you when to duck, should the ale become airborne," he promised solemnly.

Tauriel did laugh then, some of the tension leaving her. A few heads turned, including some of the Dwarves', and Thranduil hoped she was ready to speak to them, for it did not look as though they were willing to let her have a choice in the matter. For their sake, he hoped they were not intent on saying something that would upset Tauriel unduly, advertently or otherwise. He could not get away with rudeness at Dain's coronation, but this was not it, so he could be as rude as he liked, so far as he was concerned.

The eldest Dwarf – whose name, Thranduil had eventually learned, was Balin – seemed to be the leader. His brother – large for a Dwarf, and perpetually surly-looking – followed, as well as a young Dwarf who looked to be a scribe.

"King Thranduil," Balin said, with a slight bow, "we were wondering if we might have a word with Miss Tauriel."

"That would be up to her," Thranduil replied.

"Of course," she said, turning her blind eyes to the Dwarves.

"Do not upset her." It was a warning, but it sounded more like a threat. "Tauriel, Sigrid is near. Should you grow weary, she can take you to rest."

"Yes, my lord." She sounded a trifle irritated, likely with him. No doubt she saw his order to the Dwarves as an offense to her pride, but she could swallow it. He would not have them causing her pain.

Balin eyed his brother. "Dwalin, you have the tact of an oyster," he said. "Go speak to Bard."

Dwalin grumbled, but notably, he made no protest. Thranduil fought a smile, and barely won.

"Come, Master Dwalin," he said. "I must speak with Bard myself."

The Dwarf eyed him with open suspicion, but followed. "Do they pain her?" he asked, when they were halfway across the pavilion.

"What?" Thranduil asked, honestly surprised that Dwalin would speak to him.

"Her eyes. Do they pain her?" He sounded genuinely concerned. The Dwarves must truly hold Tauriel in as high esteem as had been reported.

"No. The healers took her ability to feel her eyes at all." He paused. "Did you truly think I would allow her to spend so much time in pain?"

The Dwarf's answer was plain enough on his face, though to his credit, he kept it unsaid, opting instead for, "I know nothing of the ways of Elves."

"I can assure you, it is not our way to allow our own to suffer, if it is within our power to prevent it. Why does your brother wish to speak with her?"

Dwalin shifted, his unease palpable. "Thorin's sister – Fili and Kili's mother – has moved to the mountain. She wants to see Tauriel, if Tauriel will allow it."

Thranduil halted, and bent the full force of his glare down at the Dwarf. "She will," he said. "I may not."

Dwalin bristled, though he also paled a little at the sheer vehemence in Thranduil's tone. "Why not?" he demanded.

Thranduil did not actually grab him, but he seemed to haul the Dwarf to the edge of the pavilion by will alone. "Because it will hurt her," he said, his voice deceptively calm. "Tauriel would see Kili's other even if she knew it would kill her. For a time I feared she would die of her grief, and seeing that dwarrowdam would tear that wound open anew."

A kind of grudging respect entered Dwalin's flinty eyes. "I am not the only one who has thought all this time that you only meant to use her as some kind of bargaining tool," he said, more grudgingly still. "For once, I am glad to be wrong. Though if you tell anyone I said that, I'll call you a liar and worse."

Thranduil chose not to feel insulted, and felt rather smug that he could do so. "Tauriel is many things, but she is no one's tool. And while I would not normally deny a grieving mother solace, I will not have her destroying herself to give it."

"I may not know the lass well," Dwalin said, "but I think forbidding it would only make things worse for her. With that hair, she'll dig her heels in deeper than bedrock if you do."

Thranduil fought a sigh. "A trait that would transcend race, it appears. Very well." His gaze hardened. "But if this wounds her too deeply, I will hold every last one of you accountable."

"You'd have to get in line," Dwalin rumbled. "Dain said much the same, along with a great deal of cursing."

Thranduil arched an eyebrow, his estimation of the Dwarf-king rising a fraction. "So long as we are all in accord." He glanced across the pavilion. Tauriel seemed grave, but she was not about to break. Sigrid hovered nearby, no doubt as close as she dared, her concern evident even at a distance. Now there was an Edain with actual sense.

Tauriel did not know what to think – or what to do. She could hardly deny the Lady Dís whatever comfort she might offer, but her heart quailed at the very idea.

"Dís would understand if you cannot, lass," Balin assured her. "She knows what you have endured."

"No," Tauriel said slowly, "I owe it to her. Mine was the last face Kili saw." And his was the last face I saw, she thought, but she would not say that aloud.

"You don't owe anyone anything," the scribe – Ori – said. "We owe you, in ways we can never repay."

"She is his mother," Tauriel said. "I have something that was meant to be given to her." Parting with Kili's runestone would hurt, but it had come from his mother, and to her it should return. Tauriel had lost her love; Dís had lost both sons and her brother.

"Only if you are sure," Balin said. "If you wake tomorrow and feel differently, you have only to say so."

She knew she would not change her mind, but it warmed her to know she could, with no ill-will.

The King cornered her before she retired, which was nearly at dawn. "I know what they have asked of you," he said. "You know you need not acquiesce."

"I know, my lord," she said. "While I do not want to, I believe I need to, for my sake as well as hers." She did not know if he would understand that, because she was unsure if she did herself, but her conviction was firm. "I will not Fade," she added, sensing that it was that which he needed to hear. "That danger has passed, no matter how much this will hurt."

She felt his fingers skim her hair, very briefly. "So long as you are certain," he said, echoing Balin.

"I am, my lord. I swear it."

Sigrid and Amaniel helped her out of all her finery, and she breathed a sigh of relief. The gown was not restrictive or cumbersome, but there was an inexplicable weight to it that she was glad to shed. She crawled into bed in her simple nightclothes, and was asleep almost immediately.

Again she dreamt of Kili, but his was no nightmare. For the first time, there was neither battle nor death; instead, she found herself in what was unmistakably a Dwarven hall, though she had never seen one in life. The walls were granite, smooth as glass, hung with torches that bathed the room in a warm dance of red and orange. It smelled of ale and smoke and roasted meat, and it was so crowded that she could make out no single voice among the din.

"You're late," Kili said, appearing at her side as if by magic. His eyes twinkled up at her as he grinned.

"I did not know I was invited."

"You cannot stay," he said, taking her hand, "but I wanted you to see."

To see. Only in her dreams could she see now, but this was exceptionally vivid. "To see what?"

Rather than reply, he led her through the crowd. A few of the Dwarves gave her startled glances, but most seemed unaware of her presence.

To her surprise, he brought her to a table that seated not only his brother, but Thorin Oakenshield as well. Fili had seemed a genial sort even in the poor circumstances in which they met, but Tauriel was shocked at the changes in Oakenshield himself. From what little she had seen of him, he had seemed a surly, taciturn person, quick to wrath and slow to forgive. There was nothing of that now; his expression was open, his posture relaxed – though he did arch an eyebrow when he saw her, and shook his head.

"You should not bring her here, Kili," he said. "Not when she cannot stay. I know you mean well, but it is a cruelty to her."

"I don't want her last sight of me to be my corpse," Kili protested. He looked up at her, eyes wide and anxious. "Tauriel, I swear I did not call you here to cause you pain," he said. "I only wanted you to know that I am well here, with all my family who have gone before me."

"Where is 'here'?" she found herself asking, though she was so busy drinking in the sight of him that she was hardly aware of what left her mouth. She wanted to burn this image into her memory forever – this moment, dream though it was.

"The Halls of Aulë," Fili said, raising a tankard the size of his head in a toast.

"Where outsiders are not meant to come," Thorin said pointedly. "I mean no offense to you," he added to Tauriel, "but there are some things we must not do, even here. That Kili's will could bring you here at all is a miracle, if no good one." He glowered at his youngest nephew. "Do not do it again, or who knows what Mahal will do."

"Yes, Uncle," Kili said sheepishly. "It's a good thing we saw Mum first, or she'd clock me round the ear. Tauriel," he went on, more seriously, "I would not have you grieve me so forever. There is so much yet for you to do and learn, and you should not live it all in pain. There are those who love you, and who will love you. Heal, Amrâlimê."

"You know I can promise none of that," she said, stroking the dark hair back from his brow.

"I think you can, in time," he said, catching her hand. "If you let yourself."

He kissed the back of her hand, and she woke.

Without sight, Tauriel could not tell how long she had slept. The room was still warm, but there was no crackle of wood, so the fire must have burnt to coals. Soft, regular breathing issued from the second bed, and the scent of clean cotton and brown sugar suggested its occupant to be Tilda. Sigrid's sharper scent was faded; she likely had not been here in some time.

Tauriel's face was chilled, and when she touched her cheek, she found it damp with tears. Strangely, though, her heart felt lighter. Whether it had been a dream or a vision, she did not know, but it comforted her in a way nothing yet had. She could hold it in her mind's eye forever now.

She knew next to nothing of the Dwarven afterlife. If it were truly as she had just seen, she could be happy for Kili, even as she mourned him. To know – really know – that he was in a place with cheer and without pain, and that he shared it with his ancestors…perhaps she could use that to banish the image of his dead, still face when it arose in her mind.

She crawled from the bed, and groped for her everyday clothes. All was quiet outside; the feast must have ended, and what little she knew of Edain made her think that many of them would likely sleep half the day away.

Now that she was not surrounded by noise on all sides, she practiced her clicking when she reached the hallway. It helped that she knew already there were stairs, but she thought that she would have been able to find them anyway. The echoes were much easier to read in such a relatively confined space, and she moved down the steps with confidence.

Sigrid had told her the room below was the kitchen, and she could easily smell herbs and flour, as well as tea and day-old bread. The girl had described it in such detail that she wondered if she could fix herself toast on her own. Simply using a knife to cut bread could not be that dangerous.

Her fingers ran along the stone counter as she clicked away, exploring. No sooner had they touched the hilt of a knife, however, than a throat cleared behind her, scaring half the life out of her.

"What," the King's voice said, "do you think you are doing, Tauriel?"

"Making toast, my lord," she said, trying to get her wild pulse under control, "when not being startled out of my wits by my King. With all the herbs, I could not smell you."

He said nothing, and she tried not to squirm. Being unable to see his face meant she could not begin to divine what he was thinking – not that that had been any simple task even when she could see him.

"I would rather you not lose a finger before the coronation," he said at last. "If you are truly hungry, give me that."

She stepped aside, allowing him access to the knife, utterly incredulous. Was King Thranduil really going to make her toast in Bard's kitchen? The sound of slicing bread told her he was. And she had thought her morning (if morning it was), could get no more surreal.

"How late did the feast run, my lord?" she asked, feeling suddenly awkward – but really, how could she not? Elvenkings did not make toast for anyone, even themselves.

"The last merchant staggered home not half an hour past," he said dryly. "The Dwarves might have kept it going all through the morning, had they not had to return to the mountain to prepare for the coronation. Follow me, Tauriel."

She did, clicking her way along, until her hand brushed the back of a fat armchair. The remains of the fire burned in the grate before it, for she could feel warmth on her face.

Thranduil guided her to sit, though she could have managed without the help. Why was he doing this? It would be pointless to ask, for she knew he would give her no real answer.

The coals sparked as he added more wood to the fire. "Are you still intent on meeting with Lady Dís today?" he asked.

Ah. "Yes, my lord," she said. "I ought to, and I think I would like to. I am feeling…better… today." She could not have properly explained her dream – not in any way that would convey the impact it had had upon her, brief though it was.

Thranduil sighed, so minutely she almost did not hear it. "I had thought as much," he said. "I have spoken with Balin. After the coronation itself there will likely be a week's worth of feasting that Lady Dís can absent herself from. You can speak with her privately then."

"Thank you, my lord," she said, and meant it. "I think this will be of benefit to her and I. I am not so fragile as you fear."

"I do not think you fragile, Tauriel," he said, taking the chair beside her, "but it has been very little time since you suffered grievous loss. Even the strongest of us can be broken by things we might not expect."

"It may yet happen," she admitted, "but I do not think it will happen this day. I am more nervous about the coronation than about what might follow. The crowd last night was bad enough, but the coronation will surely be far worse. With so many competing sounds and smells, I will be hopelessly lost."

"Not with me," he said, and there was reassuring firmness in his tone. "I will not let you stray. I must make ready soon, but Sigrid and Amaniel will be here." She heard him rise, and there came a sound that must have been bread being pried off a toasting-fork. His light footsteps crossed the kitchen, and when he returned, he handed her a thick slice of buttered toast.

"Thank you, my lord," she said, turning her face to him. "For everything. You have taken greater care with me than anyone could ever wish."

"You have earned it," Thranduil said, running his fingers over her hair, as he had the previous night. The gesture surprised her again, though this time she was not so startled by it. There was something inexpressibly comforting in it, and brief though it was, a part of her secretly hoped he might make a habit of it. "Enjoy your toast. I will meet you at noon, to proceed to the mountain."

"Yes, my lord," Tauriel said. She did not hear him leave; only the closing of the outer door told her he had gone.

She did indeed enjoy her toast, musing all the while. Thranduil had thawed markedly since the battle, and she poke truth when she said that no one could have been better cared for than she had been, but in all that time they had rarely personally interacted. Certainly she never would have imagined he would one day fix her breakfast. In some ways her King might have changed, but he was as baffling as ever.

There was much Thranduil had to attend to before the coronation, but his courtiers had most of it well in hand already. Lack of any pressing duties meant he had ample time to think, which he was not certain he wanted.

When he saw Tauriel groping for the knife, for a horrible moment he had been certain she meant to do herself harm – that the Dwarves' request had broken something within her to drive her to it. Never had he been so relieved by teasing sarcasm.

He needed to stop fearing for her fëa. She might not have a child to tie her to this world, but she had several other things now. Astrid had helped her adapt to her condition, and he had given her a purpose that she seemed to count as more blessing than burden. He could only hope that the coronation and all that followed would not destroy that.

For Tauriel had become his hope. Looking at her reminded him that things could change for the better, even if it was bought with great pain. She did not have the wisdom that only thousands of years of experience could bring, but in a sense, that had been a boon to her. She was not mired in the past, in millennia of old grudges and ancient wrongdoings. He still did not know what she had seen in that Dwarf, but she had seen something – something worth risking banishment for. And if she could love a Dwarf, surely other Elves could at least work with them without begrudging it.

He knew that Dain would be sure to grate on his nerves in the days that followed, and he would need Tauriel near him, to remind him why he was doing any of this to begin with. She had given much for the sake of these Dwarves; he would not see her sacrifice be in vain. He owed it to her – she had, in a sense, woken him up, but it was not only that. He wanted to hear her laugh again, to see her smile without pain. He knew that some of that pain would never leave her, but he wished her to know joy once more.

Dawn was swiftly giving way to morning when he crossed the cobbled courtyard to the guesthouse. Here and there he could still see scars of the battle, but Dale was well on its way to its former glory. The pale rays of sunrise gilded the stone, glittering off the dew that had fallen in the night. No matter how minutely it was described to Tauriel, nothing could equal the sight of it – he himself might only have one working eye, but it was enough. For a very long while he had bitterly cursed the loss of the other, but her affliction made him grateful his own had not been worse. She had a task to fulfill that could be performed by no other, but a blind King would be of no use to anyone. How terrible it was, that it would take seeing one of his own so wounded to make him appreciate what he still had.

Bard, his face grey with exhaustion, met him halfway across the courtyard. "I must snatch a few hours' rest, my lord," he said. "I am too old now to drink the night away with no effect. Do we leave for the mountain at noon?"

"We do," Thranduil said. "Tauriel is breaking her fast in your kitchen. Try not to startle her."

"Of course, my lord. Will she need any aid the girls cannot provide?"

"I do not think so. They did well for her last night. You may tell them so."

Bard gave him a tired smile. "I will, my lord," he said. "They will be pleased to hear it."

Dressing Tauriel, Sigrid decided, was far more fun than dressing herself.

She knew Tauriel was as unused to find clothing as she was, but you would never know it. Tauriel moved like a warrior and looked like a queen, but Sigrid merely felt foolish – all the more so beside such a beautiful Elf.

The green silk of the dress made the unusual hue of her hair stand out all the more, and the metallic thread of the embroidery glittered in the sunlight. This day she had a simple necklace of gold and opal, that she had once belonged to her mother. An equally simple golden circlet held her hair back from her brow, yet she was far more magnificent than any of the finest ladies of Esgaroth had ever been.

Sigrid's own dress had been a gift from the Dwarves, and it was the first truly grown-up piece of clothing she had ever owned. It was fine wool rather than silk, the better to keep out the spring chill, deep red in color and trimmed with a kind of soft black fur she had been told was ermine. It was worked over with gold embroidery so delicate she had hardly dared touch it until now. It was a dress fit for a princess, yet beside Tauriel, Sigrid felt clumsy and common.

That illusion shattered when Tauriel tripped over the trunk at the end of the bed, and let out a curse that would have made Sigrid's father blush. She had to have learned it from Old Astrid, who could out-swear a sailor.

"If I land on my face before all the Dwarves of Erebor, I will never forgive myself," she said. "Or the makers of this dress. How can silk be so heavy?"

"A question only a seamstress could answer," Amaniel said. "Should you trip, simply tell the Dwarves it is a sign of respect. They would hardly dare contradict you."

Tauriel burst out laughing. "True. Someone hand me my stick," she said. "I will not risk falling down the stairs and undoing all your preparations."

"You know the King will not let you bring it," Amaniel said, pressing it into her hand. "He would be too afraid you would accidentally hit someone."

"And he would be right to fear it. I will leave it with the horses."

There were a few newcomers to Dale that Sigrid would dearly love to watch Tauriel hit, accidentally or otherwise. Perhaps that could be arranged.

They made it down the stairs without incident, and from there out into the bright noon sunshine. Even now, it scarcely counted as warm, and she was glad her dress was wool.

Father, looking both very fine and as uncomfortable as she felt, fastened her cloak around her shoulders. "Let us hope none of us falls off our horses," he said, and he was only half joking. Of the family, only Tilda had taken well to riding lessons right off, and there had been little time to practice.

Amaniel led Tauriel onward to the Elvish party. Ally or no, Sigrid would freely admit that the King of the Woodland Realm utterly terrified her. All Elves seemed like creatures apart, but he might as well have been as remote as the moon.

And yet his aloof expression softened into something very like affection when he saw Tauriel. It was subtle, but it was there, and it made him seem more like a living being and less like an animated statue.

"My lord, can we not repeat my first experience at this?" Tauriel asked, slightly pained amusement in her tone.

"Very well," he said, sounding equally amused. "I will give you warning this time. On three."

He put his hands at her waist, and after counting, swung her up onto the horse as though she weighed no more than Tilda. Her hands scrabbled to find the horse's mane, but she did not slip or fall.

"Thank you, my lord," she said, while Amaniel adjusted her skirts for her.

The rest of the Elves mounted so gracefully that Sigrid was glad she had practiced in secret. Their King himself had no horse, but a massive stag with antlers as long as Tilda was tall. The creature was so huge and so distracting that at least no one was likely to notice if she fell off her own horse.

I disagree with Thranduil's belief that he would be of use to no one as King if he was blind, but he's the sort of person who would think that. Next up is the coronation and Tauriel's meeting of Dís, and writing both of them has been a sucker-punch to the feels.