II. Life Debt
TA 2413
(523 years later)

News spread like wildfire through the forest and the palace guard was mounted and ready not thirty minutes after it arrived. Thranduil rode at the fore with Legolas by his side. There was no telling how great the incursion was, so they prepared for the worst, gathering to their company a dozen or more additional warriors for every league they traveled south. Thranduil knew they were unlikely to reach the most distant farm in time to save it, but he hoped those closer to the border would have the numbers to hold the line before reinforcements arrived.

They smelled the fires long before they arrived. The telain were still smoldering and so were the trees when at last the forest gave way to open fields. A battle had been fought on the grounds of the farm. Bodies of orcs still lay strewn across the ground. Those elves who were injured in the battle remained, gathering Greenwood's dead. They had made camp at the far side of the farm beneath the trees. Thranduil led his company to meet them.

An elf stepped forward, his expression grave. He wore the uniform of a warden, blood splattered and torn, but no armor. The ellon bowed, "My king."

"Warden," Thranduil acknowledged the elf with a nod. "Report."

"The southern regiment has driven back the orcs. They are now in pursuit but could use reinforcements."

"What path?" Thranduil asked.

"Southeast. None could miss their trail."

Thranduil turned and swiftly dispatched Feren with two hundred guards to follow the path. He ordered Haldor and those remaining warriors to secure the borders, both south and east. Thranduil's orders were swiftly obeyed. A few seconds later both the warriors and their deer vanished into the wood as quickly as they came.

Thranduil dismounted and Legolas followed him. The King had already surveyed the faces of the living from his horse. Those he sought were not among them.

"Iauron?" Thranduil asked.

The warden shook his head solemnly. "We were too late."

"Where?"

The warden pointed to a line of bodies others were preparing for burial. Thranduil went to them, leaving Legolas behind to receive the remainder of the warden's report.

The King had not seen Iauron for many years, but the ancient elf looked the same, or nearly so, despite the unnatural stillness of his face. Beloved though he was, it was not the sight of Iauron which caused Thranduil's heart to strain in his chest. Lying beside him was the face of another. One Thranduil had not seen since his wife's death. Roewen's eyes were closed, her face bloodied, yet there was no way Thranduil's eyes mistook her. Her bright hair lay in cascades about her face and shoulders. As a warden, she had always kept it contained. It fell freely now, proof she had not been expecting an attack.

It had been many years since Thranduil had last cursed her name, but every instance past returned to him now in a wave. So often he had wished her dead in Caladhel's place, and yet seeing her now brought his heart only pain. He knelt beside her and clasped her hand. Beside her lay Faentôr and their sons. Thranduil recognized Aurel and Aithron, though he had not laid eyes on them since they were very young. The third Thranduil guessed by the lines of his face. Legolas surely knew him by name, for Thranduil had permitted Roewen's sons to join the border guard. It was a small concession won by Iauron long ago.

A wave of guilt struck Thranduil hard and it threatened to overwhelm him. He tightened his grip on Roewen's hand. "I never thanked you for saving my son," he whispered. "I am sorry. I am sorry I could not save yours." Thranduil was well aware that his apology had come too late, but he offered it anyway in case the stories of Mandos were true and Roewen could hear him repent.

Legolas watched his father from afar while he listened to the rest of the warden's report. He did not wish to interrupt his father's mourning, but there was a matter more urgent than the dead.

"Father!" he called.

Thranduil, noting the urgency in his son's voice, returned Roewen's hand and rose to rejoin his son. "What news?" Thranduil asked.

"There is a survivor."

"Who?"

"A child," said the warden.

"How much does he know?" Thranduil asked.

"She, my king. She knows her family is dead."

"Does she fade?" Legolas asked.

The warden shook his head. "I detect no signs of despair – only rage."

"Take me to her," Thranduil commanded.

The warden bid his prince and king to follow and led them to a makeshift tent some ways away from the dead and injured. "If you will, my king, speak softly," the warden whispered. "She is finally asleep."

Thranduil nodded to the warden before entering the dimly lit space. Legolas followed behind him.

The tent was barren, save for a bed which had been fashioned from a pair of crates and mass of blankets. Upon the bed lay a small child with long red hair. She was curled up beneath a blanket facing the wall of the tent. Thranduil studied her for a moment. Her breath came in a steady rhythm. Too steady. Too fast.

Thranduil had observed this manner of deception more than once when Legolas was a child. He sat down upon the edge of the bed. "You are not asleep," he said.

The child stirred and she rolled onto her back to gaze up at him. "No," she said, wiping the tears from her eyes.

"Why pretend?"

"The warden wants me to sleep," she said. "I told him I would try. I even closed my eyes, but it is not working."

"What is your name?" Thranduil asked.

"Tauriel," she replied.

"My name is Thranduil."

"That is our king's name," Tauriel said.

Thranduil nodded. "It is." He gestured to Legolas who stood now beside him. "And this is my son, Legolas."

"Prince Legolas?" Tauriel asked.

Legolas smiled and nodded.

The child looked from Thranduil to Legolas and back again. "Did you come to save us?"

Thranduil exhaled deeply. "We tried. I am sorry we did not reach your home in time."

"So am I," Tauriel replied.

For the briefest of moments Thranduil swore it was Roewen's ghost who had spoken. It jolted him to his core, reminding him of a night long ago when he and Roewen had spoken of loved ones lost. Thranduil studied the child closely, for what, he knew not, but the longer he watched her the more he was sure. It was only a child who stared up at him, an angry child with unflinching eyes.

"You must try and rest now," said Thranduil. "In the morning, you will return with us to the palace."

"I cannot," Tauriel replied.

Thranduil was caught off guard by the child's declaration. "And why is that?"

"We are banished. My mother said."

Thranduil was not immediately certain how to respond. He had no intention of lying to the child, he weighed only how honest he should be. At last, he said, "I banished your mother, a long time ago, but I do not recall banishing you."

"Why did you banish her?"

Thranduil fell silent again while he struggled to form an answer. As time lengthened, Legolas' hand came to rest on his shoulder. Thranduil knew his son offered permission, but despite Legolas's support, it was difficult to find the right words. "Someone I loved very much was killed by orcs," Thranduil explained. "I was angry they died, and your mother lived. I did not want to see your mother again. It hurt too much to see her."

Tauriel stared at Thranduil a few moments before reaching out her hand to take hold of his. "Will you kill the orcs who took them from us?" she asked.

It had been a long time since Thranduil held a child's hand. Hers was so small and he gave it a gentle squeeze. "I will try."

"I want to help," Tauriel declared.

"And so you shall, but first you must grow strong and learn the arts of war."

"How long will that take?"

"Many years."

"But the orcs will be gone by then," said Tauriel.

"I wish that were so." Thranduil set his hand on the child's head and whispered a simple spell meant to ease her to sleep. "Rest now. You are safe."

Whether the child believed him or not, her eyes grew heavy and her breathing slowed. A few minutes later she was asleep.

When at last the child slept, Thranduil rose and Legolas followed him from the tent. They headed back to the makeshift infirmary to see to the wounded.

"Father," said Legolas.

"Yes?"

"This is not your fault."

"Did I say it was?"

"Not in words," Legolas replied.

Here Thranduil stopped and turned to face his son. Legolas's concern was etched upon his face. Thranduil was not sure what it was that troubled him, but whatever the cause, his worry was misplaced.

"If it had not been Roewen and her kin who died here, it would have been someone else."

Legolas nodded, but his gaze moved to the tent before returning to his father. "And Tauriel?" he asked. "Surely she has other kin in Greenwood."

Thranduil's decision to care for Tauriel at the palace had clearly puzzled his son. Thranduil realized now that as much as Legolas remembered about Roewen from the days of his youth, there was so much more he never knew, and perhaps, never would.

'We are kin', Thranduil wished to say, but the words caught in his throat. Instead he laid a hand on Legolas's shoulder and gripped it tight. "I owe Roewen a debt, one that can never be repaid."

Legolas knew his father loved him, but even so, it touched him to hear him acknowledge that truth in words.

Legolas smiled at his father. "I suppose I owe her, too," he said. And after, his thoughts returned to the child asleep in the tent. "If she is anything like her mother, she will make a fine warden someday."

"We will see to it," said Thranduil. "Now come, we must visit with the wounded."


A/N: This piece is my origin story of the "for 600 years my father has protected you, favored you…" bit. Also, I'm not sure where this idea started in the fanfic world, but Arwen is not the last elf born in Middle-earth. That is a misconception that is not based on Tolkien's writings.