It is amazing how many people think that a lack of sight will somehow coincide with a lack of hearing, if the hushed whispers are anything to judge by.
Tauriel drums her fingers on her thigh as she paces the throne room, trying to work off nervous energy.
She has heard the name 'Sauron' floating around the palace like a sickness, whispered in the shared breath of huddled friends as they shift their weight nervously.
Thranduil is reluctant to tell her what is going on outside of their borders, claiming that he doesn't want to worry her with things that she is helpless to do anything about, but that doesn't stop her from catching bits and pieces.
Legolas is traveling with a selected group, to destroy some artifact of the Dark Lord's.
The details are fuzzy, and she gets different stories from every conversation that she eavesdrops on, but that is more than enough to have her worried.
There are rumors of great battles against incredible odds, lost kings returning, wizards and betrayals, trolls and goblins and orcs, and even Balrogs.
It all sounds so horrific, Tauriel doesn't know what to believe.
And as if that were not enough, there is word of an attack looming on the horizon.
Orcs and spiders and dark creatures of every sort have been amassing across the land, preparing for what looks to be some final battle.
No one is telling her anything, and it is not only terrifying, it is infuriating.
She may be young, but she is no child. And being blind does not impair her thoughts. She wants to know the truth, but no one is willing to share - not even her King, who sits most days and broods as he worries over his son and his kingdom.
It frustrates her to no end.
Tauriel paces to the window again - normally seventeen steps, but as little as fourteen if she lengthens her stride - and whirls around to pace back as she listens to her King shift upon his throne.
He is nervous as well, understandably so. Even if only a fraction of what she's heard has any truth behind it, it means there will be another war.
And that is something that no one wants.
Even though it has been years since the last great conflict, Tauriel still finds herself shuddering at the thought of it. The sight of a battlefield strewn with corpses haunts her memories, and sets her nerves humming with a terrified adrenaline that has no outlet besides the laps she is wearing into the floor of her King's throne room.
If there is another battle, more innocents will die. More of her friends from the guard will be lost, and more immortals will have their eternity cut painfully short.
The death of some of her kind in any war they join is a certainty that she will not delude herself about, but it doesn't make it any easier to stomach.
They had already lost so many at the base of Erebor...would they even survive another attack?
And where was Legolas? Her best friend was probably in some Eru-forsaken corner of Middle Earth doing who knew what, and most likely getting his stupid, brave arse into trouble...
There is rustling from behind her, and Tauriel perks up as she hears her King move.
As best she can tell from sound alone, he stands, smooths out his robes, and sits once again in a more comfortable position. And after waiting for only another few seconds to be sure he does not need anything, Tauriel returns to her pacing.
She should have been with Legolas.
She should have been at his side, protecting his back as they'd done for centuries, but instead she's here and helpless and blind.
And it's her own fault.
Thranduil assures her that Legolas is fine whenever she asks - that his letters tell of adventure, but no injury - but Tauriel is not sure. She can't read them for herself, and she can't help the sneaking little suspicion that her king is omitting details for her supposed benefit.
The whole business of it is driving her mad.
There is an itching energy burning in her fingers and heart and soul that makes her want to grab up her bow and charge straight into the depths of the forest, to fight back an evil that she cannot even see, but she knows that this is foolishness . Something so dangerous and reckless would only get her killed, as well as endanger the people who would likely come after her.
And so, to her utter frustration, she stays obediently in the palace, eavesdropping on every conversation she can and slowly pacing herself into a hole.
"Tauriel, come here," the King calls suddenly, snapping her out of her trail of thoughts, and she turns around mid-pace to cross to his side.
He bids her to turn around and sit when she approaches him, and she sinks to her knees before him without question.
A moment later she feels his touch along her scalp, feather light as his fingers trace her braids.
"My Lord?" she asks, her thoughts fully re-routing onto the motion of his fingers through her hair.
"Be still," he commands gently, and Tauriel complies with a huff of breath. She can feel him slip the clasp from her braid, his fingers teasing the bottom of the weave apart, and her face heats up in a flush as she realizes what he is doing.
"Did I mess up the braids again?" she asks as his fingers quickly comb the plaits from her hair.
"No, I am simply bored," is the nonchalant reply, and Tauriel has to bite her tongue to keep from commenting. This has become a bit of a habit of his recently, calling her over to his side for inane things like this, with the excuse that he is "bored."
She suspects it is his way of working off stress without admitting that he is worrying.
She would complain about his constant restyling of her braids if it didn't feel so damn good to have his fingers running over her scalp and down through her hair. As it is, she simply closes her eyes and relaxes into his touch.
Her King's fingers are gentle and deft as he combs them through her hair, teasing out little knots and unwinding her own clumsy braids so that he can re-weave them.
Tauriel can feel a slight, constant pressure as he begins braiding one of the locks, noting that he is not starting in the same place as where her braids normally sit.
Thranduil must feel her curiosity, because he explains a moment later.
"I'm going to see if this style will help keep your hair out of the way a bit better."
Tauriel hums a little sound in content, settling herself more comfortably at his feet.
It is a flimsy excuse at best - her normal style keeps her hair far enough out of her face that it is not a problem, and she can simply twist another braid in if she needs it further controlled - but she allows the white lie.
Tauriel leans herself back a bit as he works, so the throne supports her spine, and shifts one knee up to her chest so that she can lean her chin on it.
The motion of his hands gives her something to focus on beside her worry, and Tauriel allows herself to relax as he "entertains himself" with her hair.
She doesn't even notice when her eyes slowly start to flutter closed.
"There," Thranduil murmurs gently a long few moments later, startling her back awake just as she's beginning to drift off. "Feel better?"
Tauriel hums a questioning noise in the back of her throat, turning her head a fraction towards him.
She feels his fingers card through her hair a final time, sweeping it back over her shoulder.
"I could see how tense you were," he says in explanation, and she's not sure if it's scolding or pity that she hears in his voice. "Playing with your hair seems to relax you."
She huffs out a breath but cannot deny his statement - not when his touch had her nearly drifting off against his knee.
"I would be less tense if someone told me what was really going on," she replies, trying to keep the childish bitterness from her tone and not quite succeeding. "I hear them all whisper, but no one will tell me what is truly happening."
Thranduil's fingers trace down through her hair again before his hands come to rest on her shoulders, one of his thumbs tracing the curve between her collar and her throat.
"That is because none of us truly know, dear one," he admits. "What little we hear from reputable sources is disjointed at best."
"You could at least share what you do know. And I do not care that you are trying to keep me from worrying about what I cannot change," she cuts him off before he can protest. "Not knowing merely leaves the truth to my imagination, and it is doing me no favors at the moment."
Her King is silent for a long moment before letting out a weighty sigh.
"I can only tell you one thing for certain, little one," Thranduil says gently, stroking a hand over her hair in a way that nearly feels sad. "There is going to be a war...and we are all going to be a part of it."