A/N: Hi, all! So, first off, all my thanks to the many readers who've reviewed, followed, or favorited since my last update! You guys are so supportive and encouraging and really keep my spirits up! That's especially true at times like this when I've been dealing with unexpected health issues that cause a lot of pain and actually landed me in the emergency room recently. (Yes, that's why I haven't been updating regularly.) For awhile, I thought about putting this fic on a "medical leave," and that still may become necessary at some point, but for now I think it would be better to just write as often as I can. I've been pain-free for the last four days, so hopefully that will continue as long as possible! If any of you are into sending prayers or positive energy and want to send some my way, that's always appreciated. I feel lucky to have so many sweet and caring readers!

Also, thanks, as ever, to Moonraykir for her keen editorial eye!

A Promise Kept

Chapter 21

A Shocking Confession

May, T.A. 2943—Hobbiton Woods

The little creature had a voice twice its size and wasn't afraid to use it. As it basked on the rocky bank of the Winding Brook, its throat swelled with pride, emitting its distinctive croaking song. "Cenich i cabor?" Tauriel said in Sindarin, then repeated in Common, "See the frog?" She always spoke her native tongue to Norithil, keenly aware that he would hear it from no one else.

The babe silently regarded the frog with wide, serious eyes of almost the same shade of green as the animal's skin. Though he didn't speak, when his mother mimicked the frog's croak, he effortlessly repeated the sound: Cwrrrrrr! Moments later, the frog returned the greeting, and Norithil let out a jubilant cry, eyes crinkling as he slapped the surface of the water with glee. Tauriel joined in his laughter—it was impossible not to—and swirled him about through the shimmering brook while he paddled and kicked.

If it hadn't been for that ready laugh upon every new discovery, it might've troubled her that in the six moons since his birth Norithil had yet to speak a word. Most elflings could pronounce a handful of terms by now, her younger sister even more by her recollection. Sometimes Tauriel feared her son was slow to learn because she was his only source of Sindarin or because hearing two languages confused him, and then she wondered if she should've tried to raise him amongst elves after all.

But then she watched him watch her sort feathers for fletching and reach to put a goose feather in the goose pile and a dove feather in the dove pile or listened to him imitate the call of any woodland creature with the accuracy of a grown ellon, and she felt the coil of worry loosen within her. Norithil was a quick study and could match any same-age elfling in both intensity and duration of attention. The only difference was that elflings seldom vocalized their joy in learning, whereas Norithil frequently announced his mastery of a new task to the world at large with whooping, shrieking, or a hearty belly laugh. So even if her son didn't yet talk, Tauriel knew his mind was developing, and if she couldn't converse with him until his third year, the age at which Glaewen had said many dwarflings learned to speak, then she would just have to be patient.

But, oh, it was difficult! So difficult to wait and wonder, not only about Norithil's language acquisition but about everything that made him different from a typical elfling. For instance, before bathing, Tauriel had nursed the babe, who still wasn't interested in any of the softer contents of her lunch even though an elfling would've been almost fully weaned by now. According to Glaewen, dwarflings weren't commonly weaned until they began talking, but if Tauriel had to wait that long to wean her half-dwarven child, she wasn't sure her milk would last! Also, there was the fact that Norithil was vigorous but still small for his age, and she couldn't tell if that was a natural result of his father's heritage or of malnourishment since he wasn't yet eating fruits or vegetables. But then that worry, too, paled in comparison to the anxiety that gripped her every time one of the young hobbits came down with a fever, for she didn't yet know if her son was susceptible to the illnesses of mortals. Tauriel had never thought of herself as a worrier, preferring to take preemptive action before worry became necessary, but now that there was no action to take, her mind was busier than ever and not always to the benefit of her or the babe.

Freshly washed and clean, Tauriel waded out of the brook with Norithil, dried him, and set him in his basket while she dried herself and replaced her tunic and leggings. She didn't bother with the skirt these days, especially now that the weather was so warm. She was more mobile without it and shrugged off the strange looks she got from the hobbits for wearing "men's trousers."

After wrapping Norithil in his own small tunic of the same evergreen as his eyes, Tauriel hung his basket over a sturdy tree branch so the spring breeze could rock him to sleep and climbed up beside him. She stretched out on her stomach, winding her legs round the branch for balance, and pillowed her head on her hands. Then she sang softly, an old Silvan lullaby about the living forest that watched over each child, and as she sang, gazed into the babe's eyes until, with a satisfied sigh, they fluttered closed, and the lashes that curled like ravens' wings lay still against his fair cheeks. By then, his mother, too, was struggling to keep her eyes open.

Before Norithil was born, Tauriel had not napped since she was an elfling and then only because her nana required it. She'd always been among the spriest and liveliest of the spry and lively Nandor, and even when she was heavy with her own child, she'd been full of hopeful energy. In fact, she'd felt more robust and vital then than she ever had before. But since the birth, she tired more easily and often felt the need to rest along with her little one. Glaewen had warned her that caring for an infant could be exhausting, especially in the early months, but Norithil wasn't a fussy or demanding babe, and Tauriel found only joy, not hardship, in meeting his simple needs. Yet here she was, in the middle of the afternoon, limbs sluggish and eyelids heavy!

Well, she thought, perhaps she must stop resisting the inevitable and let herself drift off for a bit. She'd not been exaggerating that first night in Hobbiton when she'd told Bilbo she could sleep in a tree. Many a time before the spiders came, she and the Woodland guard had taken refuge in the leafy canopy for the night; the treetops provided excellent shelter, sightlines, and camouflage. Not that she and Norithil needed those things in the safety of the Shire, she reminded herself. Still, it was her habit to be alert, and she kept an ear cocked even as the wind whispered through the leaves overhead and the burble of the brook floated her off to sleep. It reassured her that only another of her kind would be agile enough to approach undetected, and she and Norithil were the sole elves in Hobbiton . . .

"What's this? The former captain of the guard asleep at her post? I never thought I'd see the day!"

Tauriel jerked awake, hand on the dagger at her hip in the instant before her vision cleared of sleep and the intruder came into focus. He was the spitting image of . . . "Legolas," she breathed in wonder. And then, finally sure the square-jawed Sindarin prince with hair like a shaft of sunlight wasn't the mere remnant of some dream: "My Lord Legolas! Iston i nîf lîn!"

"And I know yours, Tauriel. It has been often in my thoughts," he returned with a warm smile. At the sight of it, a familiar joy welled within her, one born of centuries fighting at each other's backs by day and jesting over wine by night. She dropped from her tree branch with catlike grace and, in the space of a heartbeat, had entwined her arm with that of her old friend and clasped his hand in the customary greeting of Woodland guards. She was taken aback, however, when he tightened his grip and pulled her close to kiss her cheek.

The former captain stiffened in response. It wasn't that Legolas had never kissed her thus before, but the intimacy of the gesture felt somehow inappropriate now. As did his very presence here in Hobbiton, where she had escaped to begin a new life for herself and her son. The elven prince had entered her thoughts many a time since then but only as a fond memory from a chapter in her history that she had deliberately closed.

"Here, let me look at you." Legolas took her by the shoulders and held her away from him, eyes as piercingly blue as his father's as he searched the face she was abashedly sure was still flushed from her abrupt awakening. "Tauriel, Daughter of the Forest," he said after a moment, translating her name into the Common Tongue, "the Greenwood fades, but your beauty does not."

Did she imagine it, or was there as much relief as admiration in that compliment? In any case, Legolas wasn't in the habit of remarking on her appearance, and his sudden interest in it made Tauriel uncomfortable enough to subtly shrug out of his grasp, crossing her arms over her chest as if to ward off a wintry gust in May.

His brow furrowed. "You are well, are you not?" The elder elf studied her intently, seeming to peer through her in a way that further disconcerted her.

"Certainly. I've never felt better," she lied. She was troubled enough by her own exhaustion of late. No need to trouble him, as well.

"Ma." His face relaxed back into a smile. "That is what I hoped you would say."

Tauriel, too, was thankful to note that her old comrade-in-arms appeared in good spirits and bore no trace of the haunted look Glaewen had described after his return to Thranduil's Halls. She hoped with all her heart that he had found whatever he was seeking on his travels. Which brought to mind an urgent question . . .

"How did you find me here?" she asked a bit tightly.

"If by 'here' you mean this clearing in the wood, your halfling host told me where to look. If, however, you mean Hobbiton, I discovered that from your friend the healer."

Shock and dismay widened Tauriel's eyes. "Glaewen told you where I was?" After all this time, she couldn't believe her faithful friend would betray her confidence!

"No. But she is a poor liar. When I went home and made inquiry into your disappearance, I could tell she knew more than she let on. So when she left for Imladris soon after, I sent a thrush to keep an eye on her. Lo and behold, she led it directly to you." His self-satisfied tone shifted to one of apology. "Please understand I would've come straightaway, but by the time the thrush returned, it was too late to cross the mountains before the snows."

The redhead hardly knew whether to be annoyed that the Woodland royal had had her followed or touched that he'd cared enough to do it, but he must've read her conflict in her eyes because the next minute he said, "Forgive me, Tauriel, for resorting to such crude means to find you, but you must understand that my concern for your welfare outweighed all other considerations."

"Including any consideration of my own consent to be spied upon," was her dry retort.

"Meldis." Legolas took a step toward her, his voice gliding tenderly over the endearment. "It was never my intent to spy on you. But remember that when last I saw you on Ravenhill, that place of death, you were utterly distraught, and by all accounts in my father's halls, you were in grave condition until such time as you left the realm. You didn't think I could allow you to simply vanish in such a state?"

The warrior maid tilted her chin up by several degrees. "No, hîr vuin. Apparently you are the only one who is allowed to vanish." The spark of bitterness in her tone surprised even herself. Until this very moment, she hadn't realized how much she resented Legolas for abandoning her in her grief.

The fair-haired ellon flinched. "You've every right to take me to task for leaving without word, my friend. For that I can only offer my sincerest regret." He took another step forward even as she retreated from his outstretched hand, his expression pained. "But it was precisely because we hadn't the chance for a proper good-bye that I needed to find you. To explain, if you'll but let me, why I left."

Tauriel did want to hear his explanation, but her more immediate concern was who else he might've told of her whereabouts.

"No one. My father has issued a warrant for your arrest as a deserter, but I no longer report to him or anyone else in his kingdom. I respect your reasons for leaving. They are mine as well."

No, they are not, she thought suddenly. Oh, what would he say if he knew the real reason she'd left, who slept quietly in a basket just feet away from them?

"May we sit somewhere and talk?"

Tauriel nodded her consent, and they moved to the large, flat-topped rocks that lined the banks of the stream. The little frog that had sung so affably for Norithil not an hour ago sprang away and, with a decisive splash, disappeared into the shallows.

For awhile, Legolas squinted at the elusive, ever-shifting surface of the water, which in the sunlight seemed laced with diamonds. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet yet earnest. "My whole life, Tauriel, I looked to my father, the king, to know what to believe and how to act on those beliefs. I believed in him—his wisdom, his judgment, his honorable intentions for the kingdom. No one had more of my respect or admiration." He paused, twisting a reed on the shore into some animal shape—a deer or an elk—as elven children were wont to do. "But when he threatened your life for speaking the truth, I saw him as he really is—a petty, narrow-minded overlord whose only currency is fear, that which he acts on himself and that which he inspires in others. He will always be my father, but I couldn't continue to serve him as my king. Not even one day more. Can you understand?"

Recalling that moment on Ravenhill when Thranduil's veil of pride had slipped to reveal eyes brimming with compassion, Tauriel said, "I think perhaps you underestimate him, but yes, I understand."

A small but hopeful smile played over the prince's lips. "I thought you would. We've always been of the same mind, you and I. We fight to protect this world we live in, not retreat into our shells and hide from it like that turtle on the log there." She followed his gaze toward the oblivious reptile sunning itself in its mottled armor. Legolas turned toward her then, and she could hear the passion in his voice as he said, "I've been traveling among the Dúnedain Rangers. They are mortal men, it is true, but in battle they rival the best warriors of the Firstborn. What's more, they understand that Gundabad was a mere shadow of the gathering darkness and have dedicated themselves to defending the Free Peoples of Middle-earth. With them, I feel at last as though my life has a purpose."

This was gratifying news! Until now, Tauriel had pictured her old friend wandering aimlessly, alone and disconsolate. "A noble purpose." In her happiness for him, she covered one of his hands with her own. "My heart sings to hear it!"

"It could be your purpose, as well." Now she stared, perplexed, as Legolas glanced down at their joined hands and squeezed. When he looked back up, his gaze was very intent on hers. "Come with me, Tauriel. Join us. Side by side, we will accomplish more than either of us could alone."

For a split second, the onetime captain heard the call of the battle horn in her mind. Truly, she missed the rush she felt in the heat of the fray, and she had always longed to be part of some greater mission than the Mirkwood border patrols to which King Thranduil had restricted her. But, she reminded herself, she did have a greater mission now, albeit a more personal one—raising Norithil and protecting him from harm. "My lord," she began, "you and the other Rangers have my full support for the work you are doing, and if I can ever be of assistance to you here in Hobbiton, you must tell me. But I cannot—"

"Please. Hear me out. There's more I've not said. About why I left home . . . without bidding you good-bye . . . "

Suddenly, Legolas was fumbling for words with a certain desperation, struggling to meet her eyes, the typical self-assurance of the high-born nowhere to be seen. As anxious as Tauriel was for him to complete his thought, she schooled herself to wait until he was ready to continue, and at last he was.

"The reason was that, after the Battle of Five, I . . . I couldn't face you."

The Silvan maid's breath caught, the old, sleeping guilt that had plagued her in the wake of her friend's departure stirring back to life on that indrawn gasp. So she'd been right! It was at least partly her fault that Legolas had left! Was it because she'd forsaken her brother-in-arms to stay in Laketown and heal an escaped prisoner? Or because it was she who'd driven the final wedge between him and his father? Or because she'd led him into almost certain doom on Ravenhill to save his sworn enemy, a dwarf?

As it turned out, the answer was not any she had anticipated.

"I couldn't bear to stay and watch you grieve the naug." Legolas swallowed thickly and continued. "The way you looked at him from the very beginning, it was . . . intolerable. And then once he was gone and I saw you weep over him . . . I couldn't bear the prospect of watching you weep over him every day thereafter."

At this, Tauriel's cheeks flamed the color of her hair, though more from pique than shame, and she withdrew her hand from his grasp. Legolas had made no secret of how he felt about dwarves, but to hear him express his revulsion in such blatant terms was like a slap to the face. One thing she would never feel guilty about was the love she'd felt for Kíli! Still felt, in truth. Despite eyes that stung with hurt, she lifted her chin. "You mean to say I gave you such a disgust that you couldn't stand the sight of me?"

Legolas turned his head toward her sharply. "No! I don't mean that at all. I wasn't disgusted with you, Tauriel; I was disgusted with myself."

She frowned, uncomprehending. "But why?"

"For being such a fool for the past six hundred years not to realize what I had until it was gone!" His vehemence startled her, and she drew back, but in a swift movement, he leaned forward and clasped her hands again, locking his eyes on hers. "Do you not feel it, Tauriel? You, who were named captain of the guard because you were the most perceptive of us all. You who could hear the spiders sneeze in the treetops and smell an athelas blossom unfold on the other side of the Mirkwood! Dost thou not see?"

Tauriel shook her head helplessly. Longtime friend though he was, the Sindarin prince, guarded even in his most casual moments, had never addressed her so familiarly or with such naked emotion. Yes, she feared she was beginning to see, but, o Valar, she would rather have been blind!

"Tauriel, Tauriel," Legolas repeated her name like a charm, eyes bright and feverish with urgency, the pressure of his hands just short of painful, "forgive me. I should've told thee centuries ago, but I was young and stupid enough to think I'd have centuries more. Tauriel . . . I love thee!"

For an embarrassingly long moment, she sat frozen, too mortified to reply. Before she'd met Kíli and learned what love truly was, Tauriel hadn't been insensitive to the attraction between Legolas and herself, but never had she guessed the feelings ran so deep on his side. Guilt squeezed her in its vice again as she searched her memory for anything she had unwittingly said or done to make him think she could return such a declaration. While she sat like a courtyard statue with her mouth agape, Legolas tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and more gently, almost wonderingly, as if he couldn't quite believe the sentiment himself, said, "Yes . . . yes, I do love thee. Gi melin, Tauriel."

"Legolas," she began, feeling it ridiculous now to call him "my lord" yet not wanting to be overly familiar, "there is something I must tell you . . . " To buy herself time to think, she made an attempt at clearing her throat.

"Yes, meleth nîn?"

Instantly her heart recoiled from the sound of those words on his lips, for she had only ever called one person by that endearment, and he was not here. "Please, I must ask you not to—"

A high-pitched wail pierced the air, shattering the moment. Time seemed to stand still as the pair of elves stared at each other, shifting emotions rippling over them like the sunlight on the water. On the ellon's face, surprise bloomed, followed by confusion, concern, and then something akin to dread.

The babe!

Her trance broken, Tauriel leapt from the rock where she sat as though it burned her, flew to the little one's basket, and gathered him up in her arms. He yawned, rubbed his heavy eyes, and reached for her, immediately pacified at the presence of his nana, who clucked and bounced him a bit to ease him awake.

The young mother felt Legolas's rounded eyes boring into her back. She knew she could no longer avoid the subject of the child; but, frankly, she no longer cared to. Whatever her opinionated elder thought of this half-elfling or half-dwarfling, she refused to feel guilty for giving life to one who had blessed her own so richly.

And so, with the babe on her hip and determination in her heart, Tauriel whirled to face the elven prince who had been like a brother for most of her life and had just now declared his love. "My Lord Legolas," she said, ignoring the way he blanched as she bowed before him, "allow me to present Norithil, my son."

nana—mama

Iston i nîf lîn—I know your face (used metaphorically in my headcanon as "Long time no see")

ma—good

meldis—friend

hîr vuin—my lord

Gi melin—I love you

A/N: MILD SPOILER: I know some of you were hoping to see Tauriel give Legolas a real tongue lashing, but I ended up splitting this chapter in two, so that will happen next time. I can say that with confidence because the next chapter is mostly written already. ;)