On the very edge of the bridge, with one foot yet on the land, Tauriel paused. Her men went on ahead of her, none breaking stride or so much as glancing aside. Not as their wayward captain had done.
"Will you come in, Captain?"
Tauriel raised her head, and her mind was made up. "No, Lírien. Not this night."
"Shall I inform any of your men?"
Tauriel smiled at that. "I'll be in no danger on my own."
Lírien had his doubts. But it seemed that he did not care to question her. She'd answered his complains numerous times enough. Instead he said only, "Go in safety, Captain. I will send word to the king."
"My thanks, Lírien,"
And without waiting for any word more, Tauriel turned on her heel, and she went back into the trees she loved.
The Wood was dark, this night – as it was dark all nights, and many days, but more. More dark than she'd seen it in these many passing months. And the dark was a dark not of the heart, but merely the eye. This dark bore none of the evil she had come to despise. This was a kind and gentle dark. And she loved it.
The air brushed chill against her cheeks, and she wondered without the Wood if there would be snow. She had gone, many years ago, to a place where the trees were thin, on the edges of the Wood, and she had seen the marvel of it – of snow – all glittering white across the ground and gracing the boughs of the overhanging trees with their glittering splendor.
Eagerly, Tauriel swung herself into the bows of an oak which she loved.
Dawn would come soon. She could feel it in the beating heart of the oak, in the smell of the air.
The thin branches were unwise places in which to bide, but Tauriel had done so many a time in disregard of any counsel, and as she had yet to come to any true harm because of it, she would not deny herself the pleasures of a glimpse above the trees.
The sky was dark yet, sprayed with shadowed, scudding clouds. A winter wind kissed her face, and fluttered the leaves about her like a dark sea.
There was no snow to speak of, but she could not feel disappointment at that while she could see the stars.
A star would rise in the east.
A great star. The making of Feanor's hand, twice-stolen, the dearest star of the Elves, rising up out of the dark east, the forerunner of a sunrise to come.
She would wait a while, and she would watch for Ealendil's star.