When Tauriel opened her eyes, she wondered if the world had stopped. Everyone in the room had gone still, trapped as insects in amber. She looked down at her hands and saw that time had not frozen: she was shaking where she held the athelas against Kili's wound. The dwarf had ceased his thrashing. His chest rose and fell like an impatient bellows, and Tauriel's sharp hearing caught the sound of his heart in its net—fast and reckless, but ardent. Just like him. Tauriel hid the smile that coaxed the corners of her lips.

"Kili," Fili said weakly.

Tauriel lifted her hands from Kili's knee. "He is out of danger," she said. The group clustered around the table let out a collective sigh of relief, returning to their natural state of motion.

Fili's eyes met hers. She recognized the apology they held, the gratitude he could not bring himself to admit out loud. Tauriel inclined her head, almost imperceptibly, to show him she understood.

The others began to move away. The girls set about tidying up the room, which lay in shambles in wake of the battle.

"Ah, let us help you, lasses," Bofur said, jumping at the chance to do something. "We've a fair bit of scrubbing ahead of us if we want those stains out of the floor."

"The carpet will have to be burned," Óin declared. "Unless you want to keep it as a conversation piece."

Soon only Tauriel and Fili remained at Kili's side. Fili took his brother's hands between his own, watching him anxiously. Slumber had apparently claimed the invalid; his breathing had slowed to a normal rate and his head tipped to rest against one shoulder. A dew of sweat covered his skin and dampened his clothes. Tauriel touched the back of her hand to his forehead.

Fili noticed the fleeting crease in her brow. "What is it?"

She shook her head. "Only a slight fever. It will be easy enough to break." When he did not look convinced, she added, "If he can beat back such a poison, he can survive a fever. Trust me when I say that your brother is strong."

"I know he is," Fili said, his tone subdued. After a pause, he snorted. "He's also an idiot."

"Why would you say that?"

"Don't tell me you haven't noticed."

Tauriel allowed herself a small smile. "I may have picked up on a few…foolhardy tendencies."

The dwarf's beard twitched. "Are Elves always so diplomatic?"

"I suppose it depends on your definition of the word," Tauriel said. "If you count settling matters at knifepoint, then yes, we are exceedingly diplomatic."

Fili laughed outright, then checked himself when he remembered who he was talking to. He cleared his throat and glanced back at Kili, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "He tried to pretend he was all right," he said. "He didn't tell anyone how much it was bothering him, or else—" He cut himself off. "The rest of our company left this morning. Thorin wouldn't let Kili go on account of his injury." The memory clouded his pale eyes with indignation. "We were raised to worship the idea of Erebor. We dreamed of the day we would set foot there together. I should be there—we all should. But I wasn't about to leave him."

Tauriel sensed a question in his voice, saw the defiance in his squared shoulders. There was a deeper issue at play here, but she did not know it, so could not help him with his quandary. She had too many of her own to contend with. At least she had solved one of them, for the time being.

Both Tauriel and Fili turned at the sound of Kili's moan, but he was still half-asleep.

"He will be in pain when he wakes," the elleth said with a frown.

"What can I do?" Fili asked.

"Willow bark would help. See if they have any," Tauriel said. "If they do, brew it in a tea—it will bring down the fever and ease his pain."

The fair-haired dwarf nodded gravely, surrendering his brother's hand in favor of pursuing his newfound quest. Tauriel retrieved a fresh bandage from the nearby pile of linens and bound Kili's knee with deft yet gentle fingers. Only when that was done did she allow herself the luxury of cleaning her hands of the athelas. The herbs flaked away in soggy chunks, which she wrapped in the old bandage. She overheard a snatch of conversation from the kitchen as she scrubbed at the light green film lingering on her skin.

"I've heard tell of the wonders of Elvish medicine," Óin was saying. "That was a privilege to witness."

Gratitude flooded Tauriel unexpectedly; perhaps she was not so unwelcome after all.

"Tauriel."

The Elf turned. She had not known he was awake. She hardly recognized Kili's voice, and realized with a start that it had been days since she had heard it, and even then, it had only been for a short time. From his lips, her name sounded like a prayer.

"Lie still," she said, smiling softly. His belabored breaths betrayed him; he needed to rest, not to make conversation. She looked away, but it was out of self-imposed obligation and not true desire.

"You cannot be her."

Tauriel's heart hesitated. He spoke the words as though they were a secret even to him, and she thought perhaps she should not listen. But she could not find the willpower to turn aside from him. She wanted to know.

"She is far away," Kili said, faltering under the fever's sway. "She—she is far, far away from me. She walks . . . in starlight in another world."

Tauriel turned to him then. Her smile had slipped from her face, which could not hide the truth of her epiphany. His eyes sought hers, his brow bent with unadulterated longing.

"It was just a dream."

Kili's sorrow cut her to the quick. She did not know what to do. He was obviously delirious with fever, but he spoke with sincerity such as she had never heard before. His hand brushed hers in a whisper, shy and wondering.

Her fingers parted to twine with his. She had ceased to breathe.

"Do you think she could have loved me?"

Something tore within Tauriel, though what it was, she could not name. She opened her mouth, hoping the right words would conjure themselves from nowhere. But before she could even stammer a reply, a distant rumble sent a tremor through the house, making the walls hum and dust shower from the slats in the ceiling. The walnuts jockeyed with each other in their bowl. Everyone looked up from what they were doing. A sudden silence fell.

"What was that?" Sigrid said, but Tauriel saw the answer etched into her face. She already knew—they all did.

It came again, a roar that was like thunder and nothing like it. It had none of the same quiet contemplation, rain's cool forethought, or even the bright applause of thunder when it sounded in the middle of a storm. It made the hair on the back of Tauriel's neck stand up and listen. Her skin felt hot just to hear it, as though Kili had lent her his fever. A premonition of fire.

She found herself looking at Fili, who might as well have been made of stone. His fist clenched the hilt of the sword at his belt.

"He's coming," he said hoarsely. "The dragon is coming."

On the stove, the kettle began to shriek.

The sound shattered the trance that had fallen over Fili, and he flew across the room to where the boy Bain stood dumbfounded.

"Lad, where is your father? Where is Bard?"

When Bain did not answer, Fili seized him by the shoulders and shook him three times, hard. "The black arrow! Does your father have it? Where is he?"

"N-no," the boy stammered. "We got separated, and he gave me the arrow for safekeeping—but I think they took him."

"Who?" Sigrid cried. "Took him where, Bain?"

"The Master's men caught him," Bain said miserably. "I think they locked him up."

"It's not your fault, son," Óin said. "I'm sure there was nothing you could do."

"What happened to the arrow?" Fili demanded, still clutching him.

"I hid it a few blocks from here, in a fisherman's boat. No one will look there."

"Except for the fisherman!" Fili said.

"At this hour?" said Bofur. "Not likely—unless night fishing is a popular hobby in Lake-town."

Bain shook his curly head. "It's safe."

"The same cannot be said for the rest of your town," Tauriel said. She found herself quite unmoored by the conversation, ignorant to everything mentioned. "If the dragon is coming, we must get out, and quickly."

"Leave?" Sigrid looked at her askance. "We can't leave! Our father's in prison—we can't abandon him!"

"Neither can we." Fili released Bain and faced Tauriel. "Their father is Bard, descendent of Girion. Ring any bells?" The name did sound familiar to the elleth, but she could not put a story to it. "Girion was Lord of Dale when Smaug laid waste to the city—he made a stand against the dragon, and he might have killed him, had his aim been smarter."

"It wasn't his fault," Bain said fiercely. "At least he tried. At least he did something!"

"We aren't here to churn up old grievances," Óin said. "Fili means no offense against your ancestor."

"It doesn't matter," Fili said. "The important bit is, somehow Bard inherited the last arrow, the one that Girion died before he could fire. Bard left with it before the orcs arrived, meaning to use it against the dragon—somehow he knew it would come to this. But it seems that his mission failed before it could even get off the ground." He gave Bain a sharp look. "That arrow is the only thing that can pierce Smaug's hide. Without it, we don't have a chance of slaying him before he destroys us."

"This town is pure timber," said Tauriel. "It is no match for a fire-breather."

"Maybe it isn't and maybe it is," Bofur said, "but either way, I'd wager we have to try and do something. I'm not much for abandoning these folk."

Tauriel's first instinct was to argue, to insist upon as much of an evacuation as they could manage. But she doubted the dragon would stop at simply burning Lake-town. If he saw its people fleeing, he would give chase. They could not possibly outrun the great drake. It would be folly to try.

The Elf glanced down at Kili. He was struggling to stay conscious, his fingers still laced with hers. Had she saved him so that he could live to suffer an even crueler fate?

She swallowed the knot in her throat and tore her gaze away.

"Very well," she said, her tone frosting over as she slipped back into her persona of captain of the guard—cold, matter-of-fact, familiar. She fixed her gaze on Fili, who looked about as conflicted as she felt. "What do we need to do?"

He worked his jaw for a minute, thinking. "You and I will spring Bard," he said, his lack of enthusiasm for the idea evidenced by his frown. "That'll be the easy part. Meanwhile, Bofur, take the boy and fetch the arrow. We'll rendezvous back here when we're done."

"No," Bain said, drawing everyone's attention. "I mean, coming back here would be a waste of time. The windlass is on top of the Master's hall, in the middle of town. Without it, the arrow's completely useless. It won't work on just any bow."

"The lad's right," said Bofur, tweaking one of the swoops of his mustache. "We're short enough on dragon-free time as it is."

Fili bit his lip, looking over at Kili. Tauriel knew exactly what he was thinking—he was afraid what would happen if they left him indefinitely.

Kili cleared his throat. "Fili . . ."

The fair-haired dwarf was at his brother's side in an instant. Tauriel took her hand from Kili's before anyone could notice. "What is it?"

"As much as I appreciate the solidarity . . . some things are more important."

"What solidarity?" Fili said. "I didn't say a word."

"Like that makes a difference."

A laugh hummed low in Fili's throat. Tauriel stared at her toes, feeling very much the intruder.

"Staying with me won't help anyone," Kili said. "Go with Tauriel. She's a crack shot, no mistake about it."

"So I've seen. Fine, I'll cut you a deal," his brother said. "Tell me how this sounds: next time an orc shoots you with a poison arrow, speak up."

Kili wheezed. "Sounds despicably reasonable. What's in it for me?"

"I don't know, maybe fewer near-death experiences? Less rescuing required?"

"I'll have to think about it," Kili said. He tried to smile at Tauriel, but it was more of a grimace, when it came to it. The poison would be a while yet before it faded altogether. "All this rescuing is growing on me."

Another roar shook the house, harder this time.

"We have to go," Bain said. "Before the dragon gets here. My da's the only one who can help—please."

Tilda began to cry at the same time as Kili began to cough. Sigrid held her sister close, while Fili watched his brother with visible distress.

"I will look after him." Óin padded over from the stove, clapping Fili on the back reassuringly. "He'll be well enough here. As well as any of us, that is."

"What a comfort."

"Willow bark," Tauriel said, ignoring Fili's sarcasm. "It will help with the pain."

"Aye, miss, I'm well acquainted with the stuff. Got a pot brewing now, never you fret."

Fili nodded. "Fine. Everyone know the plan? Bofur goes with Bain. Tauriel, you're with me, I suppose. The four of us will meet at the Master's house as soon as we can. Óin stays with Kili and the girls."

"We've got the plan," Bain said. "Let's go!"

"I don't know what you're on about. I've been waiting on you," Bofur told him with a shrug. They departed within seconds.

"Are you ready?" Fili asked Tauriel. Her hands went to her knives—both accounted for. Her bow lay discarded on the floor. She scooped it up and hurried to pull her arrows out of the dead orcs that still decorated the room. She had fewer bolts now than when she first left Mirkwood, but they would be enough.

"With any luck, you won't have to use any of those." Fili stood on the threshold, one foot out the door.

"I have learned not to throw my lot in with luck," Tauriel said, slinging her bow across her chest. "She is far too flighty for my taste."

"Mahal save me from the proverbs of Elves," Fili muttered. "This should be a joy. Let's go." He took to the stairs, his heavy boots thumping down the steps.

The elleth started after him, but Kili's ragged voice caught her in the doorway.

"Tauriel . . ."

"How could you say it was a dream?" she said, unable to meet his eyes. "It was real enough to me."

And then she was gone.