A/N: Thanks be to IsabelleBrown, Eryn, Sparky She-Demon, DaniellaBlue, Violette Penn (welcome back!), and Janine for the reviews. Thanks also to those following along in the background.

Tauriel did not think of Bard and the children when she ran, that's true, but then she wasn't really thinking at all. Her reaction was something of a base instinct—fight or flight—and given how recently she'd lived through the traumatic experience of watching the one she loved die, being forced to relive it again after she'd just stopped seeing it in her nightmares... Yeah, that was bad enough. Then to be forced to witness Bard's death on top of that? Flight from the cause of her pain was the only thing driving her. Logical analysis had not even registered as an option.

Of course, you know what they say about hindsight...

Time passed, but Tauriel paid it no heed until well after dark—and even then, she only stopped because Fera needed rest.

Near a week had gone by since her hasty departure from Lothlórien, when she had run away from the love of her life because she could not face his death. And Bard was the love of her life, she knew that now. Not just because they were still bound to each other—for she could sense the connection as a quiet hum in the back of her mind, even though they were far apart—but for the simple fact that she had desired him at all.

Her feelings for Kíli had been strong, of that there was no doubt, or she'd not have grieved him as deeply as she had. But something told her theirs had been the kind of love that flares bright in its infancy only to fade with the passing of time. Tauriel knew now that while they would have loved fiercely and passionately, their love had not been meant to last. Was it possible she was wrong? Certainly... but she didn't think so. At times she wondered what had been the point of their falling for one another if their love was doomed to die, but then she would think of Bard, and she knew the point: One's first love taught a person to love others.

She knew that her love for Bard was different than what she'd felt for the dwarf. It was deeper, and it had begun long before their bonding—perhaps even before she had acknowledged its existence. She knew him so much better than she had known Kíli. She had lived with him and witnessed his conduct as a father, as a leader, as a friend.

She knew him as a lover.

Pain lanced through her chest as she tied Fera to a tree with enough slack in the rope that the horse could graze on nearby foliage. Tauriel dropped to the ground and leaned her back against the tree, drawing her legs up and wrapping her arms around them, her forehead resting against her knees. Each night since her flight from the Golden Wood, she had sat much like this, ruminating over the choices she had made that had led her to this point. She often wondered what she might do differently, and concluded that she would have conducted herself exactly the same way, save for one thing: she would not have looked into that accursed mirror.

She had known, of course, that Bard would someday perish—that she would outlive him by thousands of years, most likely—she had said as much to Sigrid in Mirkwood. But not knowing how or when he would die had in a way allowed her to ignore his fate—to continue living in a state of ignorant bliss, happy just to love and be loved by him.

Now, all she would be able to think about whenever she looked upon his handsome face was what he had looked like in death. And she had run because she now knew that watching him waste away was something she could not bear to do. Whenever she had that thought, Tauriel would feel more awe for Thranduil than she had ever known—he had somehow managed to survive the death of his chosen mate. Whispers in her homeland had said that though they often appeared distant from one another, Thranduil loved Legolas with a fierceness that was unrivaled. His son was all that remained of his beloved Mírya, the late Queen of the Woodland Realm, and it was said that his child's need of him was all that had kept the king from fading in grief, thus following his love to the Halls of Mandos.

If his only son was the reason Thranduil had rallied his spirit enough to remain a part of this world, why were the children she had seen in the mirror not enough to save her from fading? Was she truly so inferior to the Sindar lord because of her Silvan blood?

Tears fell silently down her cheeks as she thought this, though it was not the first time she had done so. It would likely not be the last. It was a thought that made her almost glad she had left Bard and his children behind, forsaking those she would have carried for him, as they all deserved much better than her. Someone stronger, and able to survive the ills of heartache—even Bard was far greater a person than she, for he had done the same as Mirkwood's king and roused himself from despair for the sake of his children. Why did she have to be so blasted weak in the face of mortality?

Her stomach rumbled then, reminding Tauriel that she had not eaten that day. She did not eat now, as she had no appetite. She hadn't had one since beginning her flight through the mountains, but had resolved to eat at least once a day in order to keep up her strength. But tonight… she just didn't care. She was tired, mentally more than physically, and at last shifted so her head was atop her unopened bedroll, and fell into the open-eyed sleep of her kin on a fervent prayer that she would for once not be reminded of the future she had been forced to bear witness to.

Sometime later she was awoken by Fera, who nudged her shoulder insistently. The elf became aware almost immediately as to why the horse was agitated—a sound that could be none other than the pounding of heavily-booted feet, combined with shrill shrieking and unfettered rampaging through the forest. The woods she had found herself in on the mountain had provided ample cover as she crossed from east to west, and Tauriel had counted it the one small blessing she still held of the Valar that she had for the last five days encountered no orcs or goblins, though she had seen evidence of their passage.

The dawn of the sixth day was to be the one in which her luck ran out, it would seem.

She hurried to her feet, hastily slinging the cord that kept her bedroll together over her head. With one of her knives she slashed at the rope tying the horse to the tree and sprang onto Fera's back. They could not stay here, as they would soon be found and likely killed. If they ran, they at least stood a chance of survival, for her senses told her sunrise was less than an hour away.

"Noro, mellon nín! Noro!" she whispered, adding a kick to the animal's flank to attest her desire for urgency.

Fera needed no such encouragement, as she took off at a gallop the moment Tauriel was on her back. The sound made by the horse's hooves unfortunately meant that if the horde coming toward her hadn't known she was there before, they certainly did now. Black Speech reached her ears, sending a cold shiver down her spine as she hunched over Fera's neck, her hands wound tight into the horse's mane.

The creatures behind her increased their pace. Low-hanging branches whipped at her face and hair, but she did nothing except urge the horse to run faster. A glance spared over her shoulder now showed torches in the distance, and a line of orcs and goblins charging toward her. Tauriel looked forward again quickly, her eyes searching for any way she might get out of their path.

She saw nothing ahead save for the continual downward slope of the mountainside.

Fera cried out a frightened whinny and stumbled, though she kept running. Tauriel looked to see that an arrow fletched with black feathers had been sunk into the horse's rear just inches from her tail—she hadn't thought they were that close, and had time enough only to turn her head out of the way as another arrow caught her eye; it grazed her ear as it flew past. The sting of its bite was nowhere near as painful as that of the third arrow, which pierced her upper right arm just below the shoulder, the shaft lodging halfway through the muscle.

Tears stung her eyes but she did not let them fall. Instead, she fought against the pain and pulled her bow free, turning as she nocked and released an arrow blindly—though Elvish eyesight was superior to that of many races, the pain in her arm was making it difficult to focus, let alone draw the bowstring. She drew another arrow and fired, this time hitting a target, she knew, from the screech that followed the faint thump of its landing.

By the Valar, they were so close! Another orc arrow landed in Fera's flank; the horse screamed again and her pace slowed. "I know it hurts, my brave friend," Tauriel said in Sindarin, "but I beg you, keep going!"

As she released her third arrow, another from the pursuing creatures hit her, catching her just below her leather vest. The pain doubled her over and she nearly fell off; barely was she able to keep her seat as well as her bow in hand. Tauriel turned around—she could not fight anymore, not on the back of the horse. But she could not stop and face them either, for there were too many.

Nienna save us, she begged silently, even as another arrow slammed into her shoulder. It was quickly followed by another hitting Fera, and that was the last straw for her mare; the horse stumbled, losing her footing and throwing Tauriel over her head. A short scream ripped from her throat as she flew into the air and then slammed to the ground, the impact breaking not only her fall but all three of the arrows that had pierced her. White-hot pain flared as her flesh tore, the intensity increasing when Fera rolled over her right leg, snapping both the lower bones.

Tauriel screamed again and fought to gain control of her pounding heart. She had to get up somehow, to move the rest of the way down the slope, but the pain now verged on blinding—darkness crept along the edges of her vision. Using her bow to support her weight, she forced herself to stand on her good leg. Fera had come to a stop several feet ahead but the horse was still on the ground, struggling to get up. Tauriel could sense that the mare was in agony, as she was, and she made to move toward her, using the bow as a walking stick. She was so focused on her mount she did not see the party riding swiftly toward them from the field below.

She didn't get far. Unable to support herself on both legs, she stumbled on the first step and fell, her momentum causing her to roll down the side of the hill, past her horse, and all the way down to the edge of the plain below. Her head struck the side of a small boulder, and as unconsciousness claimed her, her last thought was of her husband:

I'm so sorry, Bard. Forgive me, my love…

Sindarin:

Noro - Run