When the sunlight drips from the leaves above and shadows swell between the trees, Tauriel slips away and follows the path she knows so well. The front door of her house has fallen in, rotted from years of neglect. The windows are scabbed over by a crust of tough webbing; her knife cannot saw through it.
So she peers through the strands and swallows hard as the sight of her small bowl and spoon placed between her parents' larger dishes brings everything back before her.
They had been eating corn cakes and fruit. She can remember her mother laughing as she dribbled honey over Tauriel's dish; her father had leaned over and stolen some on the tip of his finger.
In the quiet of night, the susurrus of whispering leaves become her parents' voices.
But it is an illusion. They are dead.
A long, low cry breaks from between Tauriel's lips and she crouches underneath the window, hands plucking at the splintering wooden planks. What is she reaching for? Anything that house once held for her—love, comfort, family—is gone, and has been for years.
There is no regaining what she has lost.
"Soldier."
She cannot cry in front of him. Not again. Tauriel was weak when she was a child, but she has grown strong and tough as a nut since then. She will not cry in front of him.
"Your Majesty," she stands, bows. It is easier to focus on the tips of his black leather boots—stained with mud and darker things—than his pale face and eyes. "I am no soldier."
"No, you are not," he agrees. The edge of his cloak flutters as he turns to look out over the rest of the village. Tauriel looks with him.
It is a melancholy, disheartening sight. The bodies of many spiders lie curled where they fell before sharp swords, but what is their reward? No house here is fit for habitation; the gardens are grown over and the ground is fouled.
And only danger lies in the trees ahead. From here to the edge of the forest is spider territory. Many a battle like this one will be needed before peace once more sits in splendor in the Greenwood.
As she stands behind her King and considers the ruin and waste, it bursts upon Tauriel with the swiftness of rising dawn that she finally knows her mind.
"With your permission, your Majesty," she begins, slowly, speaking to his unmoving back, "I may one day become one."
If she is to be one of the Guard—who must stand stolid in the face of goblins and other horrors—she knows she must be fearless before King Thranduil. She breathes deep and stands straight and tall, shoulders thrown back and chin high. Her heart beats quick and light, like the flutter of a hummingbird's wings.
He does not face her. But she sees his long nose and heavy brow in profile as he nods, once.
"We shall see."
