The hour was late.

Or it was early—Tauriel could not tell. The membrane between night and morning was thin and ragged with cold. The stars were in the sky, but for once she took no solace in them. A deep loneliness had settled into her marrow; her bones felt heavy beneath her skin. She thought perhaps that they were protesting what they knew would come before dawn: a horse to bear them away from here, a road to take them westward, back to Mirkwood.

The Elf moved silently through the camp. It was her turn to make the rounds, according to the schedule she and Sigrid had set for the healers. Every hour, one of them visited with the refugees at large, checking in with those they had treated earlier in the day and tending to anyone who might have newfound concerns. The shoreside settlement was quiet for the moment, with most of its occupants asleep or trying to be. Dozens of fires guttered in hastily-dug pits, and here and there a few wakeful souls murmured softly amongst themselves or shared a weak cup of tea. No one said anything to her as she walked past, but she got the odd smile from the few folk who happened to meet her gaze.

Those smiles were easy to return, in spite of the disquiet in her heart—almost too easy. Tauriel needed no further reasons to stay. The strength of her attachment to these people and their fate surprised her. The work she had been doing with the refugees fulfilled her in a way that her duties as captain of the guard had not; her efforts here sprang from a source of selflessness, a desire to effect change for others, rather than guarding them like a possession, pretending they was somehow removed from the troubles of the wider world. Knowing that, in hardly more than an hour's time, she would have to put all that aside, pained her more than she could have imagined. It seemed somehow paradoxical that the only way she could truly help these people—stitches and salves aside—was by prostrating herself before the very king whose cold indifference to anything beyond his ken was what had spurred her out of it in the first place.

And by no means was his aid a surety. Tauriel remained skeptical that any such prostrations would soften Thranduil to the plight of Esgaroth. Yet after the day and the evening spent debating with herself on the matter, she was now certain that she had no other choice. Before the sun made the most of its rising, she would be riding away from here, trying not to look back.

She finished her round without incident or inquiry. She took her time going back to the healers' area, knowing that when she got there, she would have to tell someone she was leaving. Countless times throughout the day she had tried and failed to tell Kili, or any of the dwarves, or even Sigrid, who she had been stealthily grooming to assume responsibility in her absence. The girl was more than capable of taking the reins, but it would not be fair to shove them into her hands without warning.

Of all of them, she wanted least to break the news to Kili. She had been distancing herself from him ever since she made the decision, in hopes that it would trick her own trickster heart, but all it had gotten her was a confused, downcast dwarf and a conscience-stricken Elf. It did not set a glowing precedent for how she would feel once she left without farewelling him, but she had many long years yet ahead of her, and she knew from experience that sharp wounds became dull aches with time, if no less unpleasant. The same would hold true for Kili also, she had to believe that; after all, they had only known each other, indeed known of each other, for a space of mere days. Not that brevity could speak for intensity . . .

Tauriel felt a coward for it, but she was relieved when she arrived back at the tent to find everyone—healers, patients, and third parties alike—asleep at the helm. She checked on the mortals who were there to recover and found everyone in order. She paused as she passed the chair where Kili slept in a catcurl, cradling his bandaged knee to his chest. The crutches that Fili had procured from him earlier in the afternoon—two pieces of semi-dry driftwood—leaned against his chair. In slumber he had no cares, no pain to crease his brow. She felt a twinge of sadness, however sweet—she wished he could have this in the daylight, this sleep-soft peace. She wished it for herself, too.

Kili shifted, muttering something indistinguishable. Suddenly self-conscious, Tauriel hastened away, escaping to the main tent, where they treated patients and stored supplies. Sigrid was there, long since wilted in a slanted wooden chair. Her chin was making notches against her chest as she slept.

Tauriel touched her shoulder. "Sigrid."

The girl shot awake as fast as if the Elf had set her dress on fire. "Huh—what? Where? I'll get the bandages—"

Smiling, Tauriel pushed her down gently. "Relax. All is well, and quiet for now. I am sorry to disturb you."

Sigrid looked around blearily and blinked a few times, registering her surroundings. "No, it's good that you did," she said, rubbing sleep from her eyes. "I was winding bandages—I should get back to it."

"Sit a moment longer. I need to speak with you."

The girl's lovely face grew troubled. "Is there something wrong?"

Tauriel brought over a jaunty little stool and made a perch on it. "No," she said. "And yes, at the same time."

Sigrid leaned forward encouragingly.

The elleth sighed. "Your father has asked me to appeal to King Thranduil for help on Esgaroth's behalf." She met the girl's eyes evenly. "I am glad to do so—and I sincerely hope I can help in this way—but it means I must return to Mirkwood."

"You're leaving?" Sigrid knit her brow. "When?"

"At first light."

"But—but you can't!" She looked more than a little distressed. "How will we carry on without you? I don't know the first thing about healing, and neither does anyone else—we're all looking to you—"

"Sigrid." Tauriel made as if to take her hands, hesitated halfway there, then clasped them in her own. "You know as well as I do that you know a good deal more than that. The worst is behind us. It will be smaller things now, like infants with colic and old stitches that need pulling."

"Stitches!" Sigrid said in horror. "I don't know how—"

"You will learn," said Tauriel firmly. "You are not alone. Others will share their knowledge and your burdens with you."

"Aren't you coming back?"

"I wish I could promise that, but I do not think it will be in my power to decide."

Sigrid squeezed her fingers. "You don't mean the king will imprison you?"

"Not in name, no, I think not. But it seems unlikely that he would grant me freedom of return after all I have done against him."

"What do you mean? What did you do?"

"I left," Tauriel said shortly. "I cared about something other than what he wanted."

"He'd punish you for that? For helping us? For helping the dwarves?"

"Helping the dwarves, perhaps, but more likely for disobeying him. I am the captain of his guard—at least, I was—and as such must follow his command without question. Thranduil did me a great boon when he appointed me, at great risk to himself besides. I am the youngest ever to hold the position, and there were many who advised strongly against me, on account of my previous indiscretions, to say nothing of my temper."

"You? A temper? For an Elf, maybe, but I've seen acorn caps with worse behavior than you."

"Have you ever seen an acorn cap disembowel an orc?"

Sigrid grimaced. "No."

"Indeed." Tauriel studied their hands, still clasped across their knees. It was such a simple act of friendship, and yet remarkably comforting. It made it easier to speak of her past, which was so strange to discuss with an outsider, someone who took her at face value and knew nothing of her history, save what she chose to share. "Some would call me a zealot, and once, they might have been right. My parents were killed by orcs, many years ago in the southern reaches of the forest."

Sigrid gasped.

"I was very young, and already I had fire running reckless in my veins. I was distraught. I left the safety of the Woodland Realm to hunt down those selfsame orcs. It was a fool's errand, of course, but I could hardly see for want of revenge."

"Did you succeed?"

"In finding the orcs? I did, and it was my misfortune. I slew them—the whole pack. But I nearly killed myself in the process."

She let a moment lie between them. Silence flooded the tent, silvering their hair like dew.

"What happened?" Sigrid whispered, when she could take it no longer.

"Legolas came after me. He always does." Tauriel smiled.

"Legolas?"

"Thranduil's son, and prince of the Realm. He was with me at the very beginning, at your house."

"Oh! Yes, I remember. The handsome one. Do you—is he—are you—I'm sorry. I shouldn't be asking." Even in the dim candlelight, Tauriel could see her cheeks ripening.

She laughed. "You need not apologize. The answer, to all three, is no. He is my hunting partner, and like my brother."

"Where is he now?"

"I do not know." At last Tauriel reclaimed her hands—she had almost forgotten that Sigrid had them. "Pursuing the orcs, presumably."

"I hope he's all right."

"Oh, of that, I am certain. Legolas is handy with a bow, to say the least. The orcs are no match for him, even with the numbers in their favor. I only wish he was here—he could convince his father far better than I. Thranduil will not be pleased with him either, but he would not punish his son."

"This is sounding worse and worse by the minute." Sigrid massaged her temples wearily. "I'm sorry, Tauriel, but I don't think you should go, if he's going to be that angry."

"I must," Tauriel said gently. "Sigrid, look around. This cannot stand. Your people need help. And I will do what I can to win it for them. In the meantime, you must carry on without me. Keep things running smoothly, and let no one panic—that means you as well, do you hear me? Do you think you can do that?"

This time, Sigrid did not falter. "Of course," she said. "I'm no expert, but I'll do my best."

"I know you will. You could be a great healer one day, Sigrid, if it is what you wanted. You already are."

Sigrid looked down at her lap to hide her flush of pleasure. "Thank you, Tauriel." When she lifted her head again, her eyes were shining. "I—I don't want this to be good-bye, but if it is . . . I am proud to call you my friend."

"And I you, Sigrid. Prouder than you know."

Together they stood, both fussing with their clothes, Sigrid sniffling slightly. Bofur gave a loud snort in his sleep nearby, making them giggle.

Sigrid stepped forward and surprised Tauriel with a quick, shy hug. "I'll miss you," she said as she pulled away. "Good luck."

"Hannon le," said Tauriel, placing her palm against her heart. "That means thank you, in my tongue. Good-bye, Sigrid. Until we meet again, I hope."

As she padded quietly out of the tent and through the convalescents, she kept her gaze to herself. Had she let it wander, she would have discovered that sleep came less easily to some patients than others—one dwarf, at least, heard her as she passed, her footsteps softer than leaves falling on the grass.

Bard, as Tauriel had expected, was already awake. Actually, he was still awake—apart from a few hours' nap around suppertime, he had been far too busy to rest. There was much to be done: plans to finalize, squabbles to settle, supplies to distribute. At this early hour the beleaguered bargeman (if he could really call himself that anymore) was consulting with the committee he had put in charge of the food stores, discussing ration sizes. Every part of his body was crying out for sleep, but the sun would be up soon, and people would be wanting breakfast; they had to figure out portions before people started stirring. It was a lot more complicated than it sounded, since they had to keep in mind that what they had now was all they would have for the foreseeable future. They'd sent out hunters and gatherers to comb the area, but this late in the year, Bard didn't trust their luck. On top of that, a lot of their food had been compromised by its stint in the lake—they were in for a lot of soggy bread, if nothing else. The only ray of light in this culinary darkness was Tauriel. If she could convince Thranduil to help them, it would mean fresh food—or dry food, anyway, and that seemed a luxury beyond estimate.

Bard was sitting down, poring over their current inventory with a few other members of the committee when Tauriel entered their hearth-circle, as if she'd known Bard was thinking about her. She had an air of resignation about her, dimming her usual fierceness, though by no measure her beauty. Bard checked the sky and realized why she had come.

"Excuse us for a moment," he told his colleagues. "It will really only be a moment this time, I promise." They got up and moved away, grumbling about interruptions and delays. Ignoring them, Bard smiled at Tauriel, though the smile felt tight. "I hope you'll forgive me for staying seated in your presence."

"Of course. In fact, I insist that you do," said the elleth. "I apologize for the interruption, but I must make ready to leave before long. Were you successful in acquiring a horse?"

"Indeed I was. The ostler was, rather. He and his charges are at the far northern end of the camp. I told him to expect you."

"Thank you," Tauriel said. "I will ride as swiftly as the steed will bear me. I cannot estimate for you how long to wait before you abandon hope of Thranduil's coming. It may take a great span of time to convince him, if he can be convinced at all. Days for you are not days for the Elves."

"I understand," Bard said. "I might never abandon hope, but if you don't succeed, know that I won't blame you. Lake-town is in your debt regardless. And so am I, for that matter."

"It has been my privilege." Tauriel bowed from the waist. "Blessings on your people, if nothing else may come."

The ostler had chosen a fine horse for Tauriel's journey, a strawberry roan who took to the Elf at once, nosing at her tunic for potential clandestine carrots. Tauriel laughed and rubbed her velvety nose, apologizing that she had no gifts to give her in return for the service she was about to render.

"I'm sure she won't hold it against you, ma'am." The ostler was checking the mare's hooves with practiced hands. "I can already tell she likes you."

"What is she called?"

The lad pulled a face. "Peaches," he said with obvious disdain. "Some folk don't know how to name a horse with respect. Her owner hasn't been back to claim her, so she's all yours."

Tauriel studied the horse called Peaches. Her eyes were lively and intelligent, and she had a soft white blaze that ran from nose to forelock.

"That is no name for an elegant lady such as yourself," Tauriel said thoughtfully. "No, I think not. I will call you Norin. In my tongue it means 'fire queen.'"

"Naming her after yourself, are you?" The ostler chuckled. "I've the feeling she'll follow you anywhere, by the end of this."

"Would that she could. But she cannot go into the forest with me. I will turn her loose at its edge, and hopefully she will find her way back to you."

She glanced up at the lightening sky. She could stall no longer—it was time. She threaded her fingers through Norin's mane and leaped lightly onto her back.

"Fair roads, lady," said the ostler.

"And to you, whenever you take them." She leaned forward over Norin's neck, about to squeeze her heels into the horse's sides, when a cry reached her ears and made her go her utterly still.

"Tauriel! Wait!"

Her stomach shrank to the size of a keyhole. She knew that voice.

And indeed, it belonged to Kili, who was hobbling towards her as swiftly as he could on one leg and two pieces of driftwood. He was moving so quickly and so haphazardly that Tauriel was shocked he had not already tripped and fallen flat on his face.

"Slow down," she called. She clucked to Norin and trotted over to him, saving him the distance that remained. He staggered to a halt, panting heavily as she slid from the mare's back and landed a few feet away. Sweat coated his brow; it had obviously cost him a great deal to catch up with her. She felt a flash of guilt. She should have known better than to think she could sneak off while he slept.

"So it's true," he said between breaths. "You're leaving."

He must have overheard her conversation with Sigrid. She nodded. Where was the sense in denying it?

"I can't believe it," he said, and she knew the pain that lined his face was not purely physical. "I can't believe you're going back."

"I go for Esgaroth." Tauriel prepared to enumerate the logic of her decision yet again, but Kili's interests lay elsewhere.

"You weren't even going to say good-bye?" He sagged against his crutches.

For a few seconds, she struggled for the right words, before she realized that they did not exist. "What can I say, Kili?" Her voice was like a small flame in a high place. "What could I tell you that you would want to hear?"

"Anything," he said fiercely. "I don't care what it is. I only know that I can't bear the silence—by fire and forge, just say something!"

Beside her, Norin whinnied, unsettled by Kili's rising tone. Tauriel felt her own frustration uncurling in her chest. This was exactly what she had hoped to prevent by slipping away unnoticed.

"Very well," she said, the flame flaring up. "I will say something to you." She straightened her spine. "I will say that it tears me apart to go. I will say that I would not do this if there was no other way. But I will not say good-bye."

The last of her words scorched the air with their vehemence. They stood, glaring at each other, their hearts beating fast wings in their chest, until a weariness passed over both of them at the same time. Kili's shoulders slumped, and Tauriel felt her anger peel away.

"Forgive me," she said. "I did not mean—"

He held up a hand. "Don't. Don't ask me for forgiveness. You don't need it. You've done nothing wrong, Tauriel. Don't let anyone convince you otherwise."

The truth of it ran through her like a current. She had spent her whole life asking for forgiveness: from Thranduil, from her parents, from herself. What if Kili was right? What if she was chasing something that she did not need? Something that, in the end, meant nothing?

"Go if you have to," Kili said quietly. "I won't judge you. But just remember that he can't take everything from you. No one can."

Tauriel said nothing. How could she, after such words? No reply could do them justice. She simply held his gaze with her own, each warming the other with the honesty of silence.

"Lady Tauriel." It was the ostler this time, approaching from behind. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but someone's coming. A rider."

"What?" She turned to the north, following his line of sight, and gazed into the early fog rolling in off the lake. Her eyes found him at once, the rider bearing down on them, and her heart pumped full of unlooked-for joy. "By the Valar. It is Legolas!"

"Legolas?" Kili hopped up next to her, squinting at the horizon. "That pampered princeling who stole Thorin's sword?"

"He stole all of your swords," Tauriel reminded him happily. "He also helped to save your life—more than once, I might add."

"Pardon me if I don't grovel at his feet."

Tauriel gave him a sidelong look, ready to berate him in Legolas's defense, but his eyes twinkled with mischief. He was teasing her.

"Stop," she said, laughing. "He will not understand your humor as well as I do."

In only a few minutes, Legolas drew nigh. His horse was working hard, its coat lathered with sweat—they had probably ridden all night. Even the Elf showed some signs of fatigue. He pulled up short when he reached the makeshift corral. Tauriel ran to meet him, the ostler hard at her heels.

"Legolas!"

The prince slid from his horse's back and opened his arms. Tauriel flung herself into his embrace and held him tightly, scarcely believing he was here. Finally she pulled away, keeping him at arm's length so she could study his face, smiling all the while. A bruise had formed across his cheekbone, and there was a little dried blood under his nose, but he seemed to be in one piece.

"Mae govannen, mellon nín," said Tauriel, clasping him by the forearms. "I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you hale."

He grinned back at her. "And I you, muinthel. I thought I would find you here. You never could ignore a wounded animal."

"I still cannot," she agreed. They stepped aside so the ostler could see to the horse, which he clearly recognized as one of his own. Legolas must have stolen him right out of the stables. "There is much to tell, but I must hear your story first—where have you been these past few nights? Did you pursue the orcs that fled us?"

Legolas nodded, releasing her arms. "I chased them all the way to Erebor."

"Erebor? You went to the Lonely Mountain?" Kili swung up to them on his crutches.

Tauriel held her breath, waiting for Legolas to reply with something scathing—or worse yet, something demeaning. Instead he said, "Into the mountain itself. I saw your kinsman there, also—Oakenshield, and some of his fellows."

"Thorin! Is he all right?" Kili said.

"If by 'all right' you mean just as much an arrogant fool as he was the last time you saw him, then yes, he is all right."

There it was. Thankfully, Kili was too occupied with his relief to devise a retort to the insult against his uncle. He seemed to deflate a little. "And the orcs?"

"They are no more." Legolas looked back at Tauriel, his face hardening. "I saved his life, and yet he would not settle his debt with what I requested. Again the treasures of Lasgalen are refused us by the dwarf who would call himself King under the Mountain."

Tauriel's brow furrowed. "You asked for the gems as payment?"

"I thought to bring them back with me," Legolas said, "as a token of apology, and as justification for my misbehavior—and yours, for that matter. They are but a trifle to the dwarves, and I know my father covets them."

"Of course he covets them! And why should he not have them? What could possibly be more important than Thranduil's white jewels?"

"They are not his," said Legolas, bemused by her sarcasm. "They are ours. The jewels of our people."

"Yes, and what better to help our people than to add to the wealth of the king's vault? Is it not bloated enough already?"

"Peace, Tauriel. Tell me what has made you so angry."

"Everything," she said fervently. "People are dying—their homes are burning to the ground. Darkness grows within our own borders, and the kings of this world think they can bicker over jewelry! Meanwhile, I am to be punished for being the only person with anything like common sense still left in her head!"

Normally, Legolas was quick to rise to such a challenge, but apparently this time she had startled him out of a comeback. He blinked at her several times, taking in her flushed cheeks, her eyes bright with passion; he looked down at Kili, then over at Norin.

"Where are you going?" he said, more to himself than to her. "Were you—are you going back to my father?"

She lifted her chin. "I was. I am."

"You cannot think he will accept you without quarrel. His forgiveness will be sorely won, you know that. He will not—"

"I do not ask for his forgiveness," she said. She could feel Kili's eyes on her. "I ask for his help. For Esgaroth. For these people." She swept her arm toward the camp behind them; the refugees were now starting to rouse as dawn filtered over the mountains.

"What makes you think his generosity will be easier than his forgiveness?"

"It is not a question of ease. It is a matter of doing what is right. This is right, Legolas. I am sure of it."

"That may not be incentive enough for my father."

"Then what of trade?" she said. "We have long done fruitful business with this town. Surely there are many things Thranduil will miss if that business fails."

Legolas pursed his lips in thought. "Better, but it still may not suffice. Especially coming from you."

"I am all that I have."

"Not anymore," he said. "He will not be pleased with me, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he will be more likely to hear my requests than yours, empty-handed though they may be. I will go in your stead. I will give him news and tell him of Thorin's refusal. And so will I ask him to send aid to Esgaroth, if there is any mercy to be had in his heart."

"Ask him to do it even if he has no heart."

The prince ignored the jab. "As for you, I will try to reason with him at your behest. At the very least, I will ask to lighten your punishment. But if his mind is set, even a plea from his own son may make no difference."

Tauriel squared her shoulders. "I am prepared for that possibility."

Legolas nodded. "Good. Then it is settled. I will ride to Mirkwood to treat with my father, and you will stay here until I send word that it is safe to return. I doubt he will let me come back for you. If you hear nothing . . . do what you will." A shadow of sadness passed over his brow, but only fleetingly. Legolas would never let any emotion show long on his cast-iron countenance.

"Hannon le," said Tauriel. Despite the gravity of the situation, she felt as though an enormous burden had lifted from her shoulders. She did not have to leave, after all. The orcs were dead, Legolas was alive, and he had a much better chance at securing Thranduil's help than she did. Her other worries could wait, for the moment.

"I will depart within the hour," Legolas said. "In the meantime, some water would not be amiss, if you can spare any. I will need a new horse as well; that one is spent. But first, let us sit together—I must hear your story, now."

*muinthel = sister

Happy Easter, everyone! I hope your springtimes are getting more springy. Lots of character stuff in this chapter; it was great fun to write. Please enjoy! All your support is deeply appreciated :)

Love, Quill