In which Tauriel heals, Thranduil stews, and someone else gets involved.
She won't eat.
The next time Tauriel wakes, she does not reach for the lamp, nor does she attack the guard – Menelwen – who sits at her bedside. She is not sure how long she's gone without food already, but it is enough to have weakened her, so she simply carries on starving herself, ignoring all who come into her room. The only thing she will consume are the pain cordials, in the hope that enough of them will poison her.
She does wonder what everyone else is making of this – the traitor who threatened the King, brought back and healed after trying to take her own life. She doubts Thranduil has offered any explanations, because he has no consideration for anyone else's feelings, not even his son's.
He visits her sometimes, saying nothing, only watching her with a sorrow that makes her want to kill him. Tauriel wishes he would drown in it, and trouble her no more.
He's not here now, however. It is Huoriel who sits at her bedside, chattering away and brushing her long hair. Tauriel has always liked Huoriel – the elleth is one of her best lieutenants, and she at least doesn't seem to care that Tauriel has been branded a traitor.
"We miss you, Captain," she says, drawing the brush so very carefully through Tauriel's limp hair. She is tall for an elleth, her own hair brown as freshly-turned earth, her eyes hazel flecked with green. "Sadronniel is capable, but she is not you." She's careful not to mention the casualties – she never speaks of anything negative, actually.
Tauriel doesn't mind. Her bed is warm and comfortable, her sheets smelling of dried lavender, and there is something vaguely pleasant about having her hair brushed. None of it is worth protesting over – not that she'd respond even if it was. She won't give anyone the satisfaction, not even kind Huoriel, who simply doesn't understand. Who will never understand, because Tauriel will never admit to anyone that she was ever naïve enough to let herself be seduced, and to believe it could actually mean something.
She can't call herself stupid, because at the time Thranduil had given her no indication that he was merely using her. He is an accomplished liar, she'll give him that – she'd thought the affection in his pale eyes was real. Oh, she'd known that nothing official could ever have come of it, not with the difference in their stations, but she had thought his regard for her genuine. That her fondness was returned. That he could lie so convincingly has made her distrust as well as hate him ever since.
Kili, why did you have to die? Why did I have to live? She still doesn't know why everyone is so desperate to save her, not when she so very obviously wants to die. Surely someone out there is saying, let the traitor finish what she started. Why are none listening?
Tauriel doesn't know, and she is too weary to think more on it now. Sleep claims her, and, as always, she hopes she will wake to the care of Mandos.
Iólel, her left arm in a sling, gives Thranduil a look of utter helplessness, her dark eyes grave. "My lord, we cannot force her to eat," she says. "She would fight us if we tried, and even in her state – well, I might not be the only one to come away with a broken arm."
Thranduil paces the room, breathing the scent of yarrow and feverfew. "She accepts pain cordials, does she not?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Add broth. It is not enough, but it is better than nothing, and it will perhaps stimulate her appetite."
"We will try, my lord," Iólel says, with a sigh. He knows that she – and everyone – wonder why he is so bent on saving the life of an elleth who so very publicly threatened to kill him, but none have dared ask, and his mood has been so foul that he doubts anyone will. They had better not.
He leaves Iólel, and shoo's Huoriel out of Tauriel's room. Tauriel, as usual, ignores everything, but when she sees him, she turns her head away. She hasn't screamed at him since the first day she woke – she has said nothing at all, and refuses to look at him.
It twists at the dull pain that always lingers in his heart, and her appearance only makes it worse. She's downright skeletal, her cheekbones sharp as knives, eyes sunken and ringed in shadow. There is nothing of the fiery elleth he loves – she is purposefully snuffing her own light, and he is helpless to stop it.
So far, he has not dared speak to her – not after what happened the last time she heard his voice. He doesn't know what he hopes to accomplish by these visits, but he finds he cannot stay away. When she sleeps, he can comfort her, but when she is awake? He does not know. The only thing he is sure of is that he has to try.
He wonders when she will speak to him. He knows her – sooner or later her temper will fray, and she'll give out at him, or so he hopes. If she is past all capacity for anger, she is truly lost.
She has been silent for so long that when she does speak, it takes him entirely by surprise. "Why will you not let me die?" she asks, her voice sandpaper-rough from disuse.
Thranduil thinks very carefully before he answers. He cannot tell her it is because he can't bear to – that would only enrage her. "Because the world would be a darker place without you in it," he says. "I know you will not wish to stay, Tauriel, but give your light to Lothlórien, or Imladris. Galadriel would love you, as would Elrond." As do I, he thinks, but he knows far better than to say it.
"I want neither of them," she says flatly. "What I want is lost to me, but I will take Mandos in his place. I will no longer deal with the cruelty of this world."
There is nothing pointed in her words, yet he flinches anyway.
"I wanted to leave, before," she says, just as flatly, "but I would not let you win."
Thranduil understands part of that, and it sends guilt pricking through him, but mostly he is confused. "What do you mean, win?" he asks, uncertain he wants to know the answer.
Still Tauriel won't look at him. "You wanted to drive me away," she says. "To forget me. I wouldn't give you the satisfaction of driving me out of my home, no matter how much I wanted to leave, but I find I no longer care."
She couldn't have hurt him more if she'd stabbed him in the chest. The pain of it actually drives the breath from his lungs – was that what she truly thought? "Tauriel –"
"Not a word, Thranduil. I stopped believing your lies twenty years ago." She turns on her side, fully away from him, her shoulders hunched. "Now go away. You cannot be stupid enough to think I would ever actually want you here."
He wants to protest – wants to say so many things, but all the words in his mind refuse to string together into coherent sentences. But even if they could, what can he say? He remembers every single cruel word he spoke to her that morning – and how horribly ironic, that it is them, the lies, that she believes.
Thranduil knows that the only intelligent thing to do is obey her, but he finds that he simply cannot. "I was guilty," he says, "that morning, and I took it out on you."
"I do not care what you felt that morning," she retorts, "and I do not care what you feel now. The result is the same. Whatever the cause of your guilt, I hope it rots you from the inside out. You tricked me and you used me and you drove me away as though I were some Edain whore, and I wish I had shot you in the head when I had the chance."
Her every word rings of truth – she means them, all of them, and Thranduil bows his head. In that moment he wishes the same. "I did not trick you, Tauriel," he says, not a little brokenly. "What I said the next morning – those were the lies."
"I don't believe you. And even if I did, the result remains the same. Go away, Thranduil. I do not want you." Tauriel curls into a ball, hugging herself, and he knows that this time, he must do as she says. Lingering will accomplish nothing save upset her further.
"I know my apology is worthless, Tauriel," he says, rising, "but I am sorry. I have been sorry ever since you walked out that door."
She curls into an even tighter ball. "Had you actually said something then, I might have listened," she whispers. "You will not trick me again, and if you will not die, you will at least have the grace to allow me my own death."
No, he thinks, I will not. But he has said enough, and learned far more than enough. He leaves in silence, and wonders how long it will take her to carve the rest of his heart away.
After Thranduil leaves, Tauriel realizes that she has two choices: cry or sleep. As she vowed decades ago to never shed another tear over that liar, she chooses sleep.
In her dreams she knows she is with Kili, though she cannot see him – not in Erebor, but in a small village of Dwarves and Edain. There's snow on the ground, and the breeze that bites her cheeks is frigid, but the sun shines fiercely, glittering off the snow like diamonds.
The deep clank of a hammer striking an anvil rings out behind her, and she turns to find a smithy – plain and small, but well-built, the entire frontage open to the air. It's filled with tools, none of whose names she knows, and a forge that glows like a red eye. It's Kili who mans it, of course, but beside him is a girl – a young girl, but already nearly his height, with his shaggy dark hair and the telltale pointed ears of the Eldar –
Tauriel wakes weeping, her cheeks stretched tight and stiff with the salt of her tears. The Valar, she thinks dimly, must truly hate her. Her head feels thick and heavy, and aches behind her stinging eyes, but try though she does, she can't stem the tide of her tears. It is as though the dream burst her carefully-constructed internal dam, and it is not long before she's sobbing, her lungs fighting for air and burning as they fail. It wakes all the pain of her injuries, igniting a fire in her ribs, and why, why will they not simply let her die?
She thinks of that girl-child, with her father's hair and mother's ears. Could she and Kili have had children? Eldar and Edain can breed, but to her knowledge, the possibility of an Elf-Dwarf offspring has never come up.
She's never particularly wanted children, but she could easily have wanted Kili's. She'll never get the chance, now.
Her pillowcase is wet, strands of hair sticking to her face, and still she cannot breathe. Perhaps she'll suffocate – her lungs are useless, their struggling in vain. Dark sparkles dance before her eyes, and she presses her face into her damp pillow. If her tears will not smother her, perhaps it will finish the job. Eventually, after what seems an eternity, consciousness deserts her.
She dreams again, but not of Kili.
Wherever she is, it is unlike anywhere she has seen in life. Before her is a field of wildflowers, a field that slopes down to a river far below. Incongruously, the oaks to her left are in full autumnal splendor, their leaves mingling in every gradation of yellow and orange and red. It's warm, but not overly so, and the sun has barely risen.
She turns, and behind her runs a small brook, chuckling quietly to itself. Presiding over it is a massive tree she knows to be a willow, though she's never seen one. Its trailing branches curtain a massive boulder, and on that boulder sits a woman.
She isn't Eldar, Tauriel sees, but neither can she be Edain. Though her skin is the color of damp earth, her long hair is golden-red, and her eyes the most vivid green Tauriel has ever seen. More striking, however, is the sheer aura of power that surrounds her – Tauriel hadn't known such power could exist in Middle-Earth.
"We are not in Middle-Earth, little one," the woman says, rising. Standing, she has to be at least seven feet tall, garbed in a robe of green that shifts hues with her every movement, like shot silk.
"Where are we?" Tauriel asks, though it is all she can do to find her voice. She's in no pain here, but it is difficult to speak to such a creature.
"A place of my own creation. The world has been cruel to you, Tauriel, in ways I do not appreciate. Your part in the song is not yet over, but you speak truth when you say that you have nothing."
"What?" Tauriel asks. The only thing she truly wants is Kili, and even Mandos cannot return him to her.
"A purpose," the woman says, taking her hand. A jolt like lightning passes through the contact, jagging up Tauriel's arm and all through her, sparking her nerves, but it brings no pain. It's easily the strangest thing she has ever felt, and yet not unpleasant. Her skin tingles with it, as though she's just gone swimming in an icy river and dried herself in the sun. "It has been long, little Tauriel, since I have touched any in Middle-Earth. Rest, and heal, and when you go out into your forest, see what you may do with it. Too long have you been powerless and cold, child, but you need be neither any longer. Heal in your home, and find a new self to be."
"It is not my home," Tauriel says, much though it pains her. "It has not truly been in years."
"Do not let one person drive you from it, little forest daughter. The Greenwood is in your bones. Who says you must linger in the Elvenking's halls? There are those within them who love you, but they will keep. Help yourself, before you give thought to them."
She kisses Tauriel's brow, and then she is gone – and Tauriel wakes.
She feels…different. Her pain lingers, but it's much dulled, and not by poppy. She looks at her right hand, still bandaged, half expecting to see some drastic change. It is still hers, paler than normal, her wrist bony.
The true change is internal. Grief still weighs heavy in her heart, but no longer does it threaten to consume her whole. There is a strange clarity in her mind, a lightness, like a wound drained of poison. She is weak, and she is tired, but something – some nameless, elusive thing – wishes to live. To do as she was told, and go out into the forest.
The woman-creature was right: the Greenwood is in her bones. Tauriel is certain Lothlórien and Imladris are beautiful, but she was born in the Greenwood, even if it has not been green in centuries. It calls to her now, like the sirens of Edain legend, and she actually wants to answer.
She does not, however, want to be seen. Thranduil, she is certain, will not willingly let her leave, lest she harm herself once she is alone. Recovery will take some time, and in that time she must plot her escape. And then – then she will be free.
Thranduil might think nothing of her, might think that she is nothing, but now Tauriel knows better. She always knew better, really, but she truly feels it. She might not know who or what that woman was, but she's been blessed, somehow. With what, she isn't certain, but she'll find out soon enough.
The woman told her to find a new self. Tauriel wants the old one back.
Huoriel does not know what to make of the change in Tauriel. It's subtle, but nevertheless it is deep, far more than her simply willingness to eat again.
She still doesn't actually speak, but there is something in her eyes, something that has joined the pain and grief. Huoriel wants to call it purpose.
Her eyes themselves seem different, though they have not actually changed. There is something odd about them now – about her, really, odd and alien, in no way Huoriel can hope to define.
She sits now on her bed, eating soup. Her hair, still damp from recent washing, falls around her like liquid fire, coiling on the sheets, trailing over her still-bony arms. Her face remains too sharp, her eyes still sunken, but one thing is for certain: she no longer wishes to die.
Huoriel knows she should tell the King, but she hesitates to. Telling him would surely do him good – the battle and the Prince's departure seem to have frozen him, and this is heartening news – but Tauriel, she is sure, would not appreciate it.
No one knows just what happened, but it's very obvious that Tauriel utterly loathes the King, who apparently, according to those who actually see him, seems to carry a great weight of both pain and guilt. Whatever it was, Huoriel – and most of the Guard – speculate that its roots are some twenty years old. What it could be, she has no idea, and doesn't really want to speculate. And she doesn't dare ask Tauriel.
"The healers say you will soon be able to return to your room," she says, taking the empty bowl.
Surprisingly, Tauriel actually looks at her. "I am not going to my room," she says, her voice still hoarse. "I am leaving, and I need you to help me."
"Why?" Huoriel asks. That thing, that alien something in Tauriel's eyes has strengthened, and it's beyond unsettling.
"Because I do not wish anyone to know until I am gone. There are things I must do, and I don't wish to be followed."
"What things?" There's something almost hypnotic in her green gaze, something that seems to suck at Huoriel's very fëa.
"I do not know yet – only that I must do them. I can't stay here, Huoriel – I've lost too much. Part of me died on Ravenhill, and I cannot heal within these walls."
"Will you ever come back?"
Tauriel is quiet for several moments, her expression thoughtful. "Someday, perhaps. Once I have found what I am looking for."
Huoriel knows she shouldn't help – the King will be furious – but she finds she can't deny Tauriel this request. "Where will you go?"
"Not far, I think. Wherever my feet take me."
Huoriel is going to get demoted for this. She just knows it.
The healers insist Tauriel is recovering, but Thranduil wouldn't know it. Each time he tries to see her when she is awake, she lies facing away from him, and will not speak.
He wishes she would shout at him again, at least – that she would give him something, but she's done her best to ignore him for the last two decades. She's turned it into an art form by now.
"When you are well, I will have a party escort you to Lothlórien, if you wish," he says, and watches her bony shoulders tense. Still she says nothing, however. "She will know best how to help you."
"I need no help," Tauriel says, though she still won't look at him. "I will go where I wish, when I wish, and with whom. Once I am well, I will decide my own course. Now go away – I am tired."
There is strength in her voice, at least, even if it remains hoarse. "The healers tell me you must begin walking again," he says. "When you wake, walk with me."
She gives an indelicate snort, but otherwise doesn't dignify that with a response.
In the days that follow, what Thranduil doesn't know – what none but Huoriel know – is that Tauriel does walk. She paces her tiny room, back and forth, regaining her strength in secret.
Her steps are wobbly at first, uncertain, her legs unused to actually working, but each day they grow stronger. And while she paces, she plans.
"Winter is upon us, Tauriel," Huoriel says, watching her pace. "You cannot survive in the forest on your own. There is nothing to eat."
"I will go to Beorn." Thranduil, should he prove mad enough to actually look for her, will assume she's gone to Erebor. He would never think to ask the skinchanger. Huoriel doesn't need to know she plans to return to the forest in the spring, either. That she would rather not get around, not yet. "He often takes in lost creatures."
And Tauriel is lost, still – it is only that she finally has a way of trying to find herself again, now. She hadn't realized how very hopeless she had become, but now that she has hope again, she knows. She will mourn, of course, but she does not need to hate.
If only Thranduil wouldn't keep making that hatred so easy. Tauriel has no idea why he continues to visit her, but she devoutly wishes he would stop. Each time he does, it sets her back, and she must climb out of the hole of hatred all over again.
Perhaps she will speak to Ríniel. Healers have the right to overrule the King, if it is to the benefit of their patients, and not having to deal with Thranduil would certainly be of great benefit to Tauriel.
She had not realized, until now, just how much power her hatred gives – gave – him over her. For so long, she's wasted energy on him. Her stubborn refusal to let him win has only cost her.
Technically, he's succeeding now, but she's hurt him and she knows it, so he can have his hollow victory. She only pities the next poor guard he tricks and lies to – perhaps, in time, she will have company in the forest, someone else who needs healing. Tauriel has little doubt he'll do it again, once she's gone.
And she's nearly ready. Huoriel has been putting together a pack for her – one more week and she will be free, off into the forest. She only hopes Huoriel will not pay too dearly for aiding her – she's asked the elleth to go with her, multiple times, but always Huoriel refuses. The halls are yet her home, and Tauriel cannot tell her why she should leave.
At least, if she gets banished, she knows where to go. Tauriel ought to patrol the forest regularly, just in case. Perhaps Beorn will have two lost creatures to house for the winter.
Who visited Tauriel, you ask? None other than Yavanna. Something had to give her some hope. There's no way Thranduil and Tauriel can ever reconcile so long as such a massive power imbalance exists between them. She's got a lot of shit to work through, and she'll never manage it in the halls.
Anonymous Fan: Thank you so much. :) You have no idea how happy it makes me, to hear that. I love putting the two of them into creepy and/or uncomfortable situation, so I love it when it's enjoyed. Thank you for the comment and the kudos. :)