In which Tauriel is off to find peace, Thranduil realizes a few things, and change is in the air.
Sneaking out of the halls is appallingly easy.
The healers, once they knew she was mending, had stopped hovering, and evading them is simple, once she has her own clothes back. Anyone who half-sees her will see an exiting guard and nothing more, for she ties a scarf over her distinctive hair.
Huoriel has stashed he pack in an alcove near the front gates, along with her winter cloak. Tauriel already wears several layers – three pairs of leggings, and a wool tunic between her three lighter ones. The only article of her Guard uniform she brings are her boots, which are warmer and sturdier than any of her personal footwear. The cloak was her mother's, heavy and warm, though the dark green will stand out like a beacon in the snow. She must get as far from the halls as she can before nightfall, lest someone pursue her.
Faelon and Menelwen open the gates for her without question – Huoriel must have spoken with them – and then she is free, in the clean, frigid winter air.
Fortunately, the sky is clear, the dawn pearl-grey. She can't see the sunrise through the trees, but it won't be long before golden shafts pierce the skeletal canopy of the forest. The snow has to be a good two feet deep, unmarred by footprints of any sort, muffling whatever sound there might be in the dead of winter, and Tauriel smiles.
It is a good beginning.
And then she is of, her footsteps light upon the snow, her pack heavy on her back. She has enough food to see her to Beorn's and then some, in case she gets snowbound along her way. This time of year, that's almost a certainty.
The snow crunches and squeaks under her boots, and she marvels at the calm she feels. It's not precisely peace, not yet, but she feels warm in a way that has nothing to do with all her clothing. It has been long, so very long, since she truly felt loved, but that woman, that being, seems to have planted love within her. Though none walk with her, Tauriel knows she's not alone.
It's a nice feeling. She'd like to keep it.
Not until nightfall does anyone realizes Tauriel is missing.
Huoriel has been bringing her meals, so the healers had not thought to check on her. Evidently no one else did, either.
Thranduil, his heart gripped in a fist of panic and fury, summons the guard in question, who is maddeningly unapologetic. She stands before his throne like a guard ought to, hands folded behind her back, hazel eyes meeting his steadily.
"She wished to leave, my lord," she says. "As far as I am aware, she was not a prisoner. I put together a pack for her, gathered her warmest clothes, and let her."
"You let her," he says flatly, "in her condition."
"She is far more healed in body than the healers know," Huoriel says evenly, though she pales at his tone. "She told me she cannot fully heal within these walls, so I sent her on her way. She will not try to harm herself again."
"She told you so, did she?" Thranduil asks caustically.
"Yes, my lord. In more than mere words. She allowed me to see the change in her, even if she allowed it of no one else."
He finds his nails digging into his palms. "And did she happen to tell you where she was going?"
Huoriel hesitates. "To Beorn," she says, "for the winter. After that, she does not know." She pauses. "There is no point sending anyone after her, my lord. She will not return, and few know this forest as well as Tauriel. You likely will not even find her."
Rage spikes through him, and he is tempted to snap this impertinent little elleth's neck. He has to draw a deep breath to calm himself. "You will find her," he says, soft, and not a little deadly, "and you will bring her home, or you may consider yourself banished."
Resignation enters her eyes. "Yes, my lord."
"Good. Now go." He dismisses her with a wave of his hand.
He's known all along that Tauriel would not willingly linger within his halls, but he did not expect her to go haring off into the forest in the dead of winter. The spiders might be dormant, but there are still far too many ways she can get herself killed. If she wants to leave him, she can do it in the spring, with an escort. At least that way he will know where she goes.
That is why she left now, he thinks, as he rises from his throne and stalks down the dais. She does not want you to know where she's going.
The thought is unwelcome, and all the more so because he knows it is right. Tauriel would prefer to vanish like a thief in the night, and not give him anything more than he's already taken.
His mood grows ever fouler as he makes for his rooms, and his people scatter out of his way like chickens. She will not thank him for bringing her back, but he can't let her get herself killed out of stubbornness. Let her stab him with her hatred – at least she'll be safe.
Thought of that hate, of the loathing in her eyes, twists his heart. He remembers how she looked at him that night, how, for the first time in what seemed like forever, she made him feel loved, and now – now Thranduil is quite certain that no one has ever hated him as she does.
That too is unwelcome, and he tries to shove it to the back of his mind while he pours himself a very large glass of wine. It really is somehow fitting that it is his lies she believes, and has always believed. He deserves her contempt, her loathing, yet that makes it no easier to bear. She will heal – somehow, he is sure of that – but he will not. He can't – not while he is so very alone.
He downs the glass in three long swallows, staring into the fire. The burn of the alcohol helps, but only so much.
A very large part of him wants to seek her himself, but he knows how poorly that would end.
Perhaps he will follow her anyway – not to confront her, but merely to see her. Huoriel is right; Tauriel will not willingly return, and he ought to observe, even from a distance, how well or poorly her encounter with her fellow guards goes. In the depths of winter, there is little else to occupy his time, and – well, he wants to see her while she cannot see him, wants to observe with his own eyes what she is truly like.
He suspects Huoriel was honest about Tauriel's mental state, but that is merely what she knows about that state. Tauriel could easily have lied.
Tauriel cannot lie. And it's true, more or less. Until twenty years ago, she was the sort to wear her heart on her sleeve. Even afterward, she hasn't lied – she's merely shut everything and everyone out. Everyone but that accursed Dwarf – a Dwarf.
And yet, he thinks, as he all but collapses into an armchair, it makes sense. Even in the dark, a Dwarf would never remind her of him. From what little he saw, and from all he has gathered, Oakenshield's nephew was the complete antithesis of Thranduil himself, and not just physically. He was much like Tauriel used to be – warm, open, and caring. As Thranduil was that night, in truth. Of course Tauriel's heart would only thaw for someone so wholly unlike him.
Part of him – some twisted, dark, desperate part of his fëa – has hoped, all these years, that somewhere beneath her ice, some lingering trace of her regard for him might remain. Consciously, he's always known that idea rank foolishness, yet being so thoroughly proven wrong hurts. It's no less than he deserves, but even so, the pain in his heart only grows heavier.
He should find her – but he cannot. He is King, and he has duties. He will meet with her when she returns. What he will say, he doesn't yet know, but surely he will think of something. He has to.
For all that Thranduil has wrecked for Tauriel, at least he did not ruin the stars.
There are millions of them now, massed in the sky like spilled diamonds, visible through the bare, snow-laden branches, and there's something warm in their light, something calming.
The moon, half-full, grants her more than enough light to navigate by, glittering on the snow. Though the sun set hours ago, Tauriel presses on, wanting to put as much distance between her and the halls as she can. Though she doubts Thranduil will send anyone after her, she would still rather not risk it. She can't be sure if he will be angry or relieved that she has slipped away; if it is the former, she would not put it past him to drag her back and lock her up, so she simply won't let him find her.
It's possible, albeit unlikely, that Beorn will not take her in, but in that case, there is always Radagast. Someone will give her shelter, and come springtime, she will wander the forest. She knows where and when the patrols go, and so can easily evade them.
She still isn't quite sure what she is meant to do then, beyond heal herself, but she is sure it will become clear when the time comes. There is a purpose for her, even if she does not yet know what it is.
Meanwhile, she walks, the fog of her breath leaving a cloudy trail in her wake. She's still staggered by how very light she feels, now that the weight of hatred and contempt and regret has been lifted from her heart. There is still pain, for the loss of Kili is like an open wound, but, though it will scar terribly, she will heal from it eventually. He would not wish her to drown in grief forever.
She wonders where Dwarves go when they die. The fate of the Edain is unknown to anyone, but surely Aulë provides for his children. Wherever he is, she takes comfort in the knowledge that he is with his family. He is not alone, and now, neither is she, though she still cannot see what accompanies her. It is enough that she knows it is there.
In her modest rooms, Huoriel makes ready.
She has no intention whatsoever of trying to bring Tauriel back to the halls, and not just because she physically couldn't do it. She has little doubt that returning would undo whatever strange progress Tauriel has made. Failing to do so means exile, though, so exiled she will be.
And really, that is not so great a hardship as it would have once been. Until the battle, she'd never been away from the Woodland Realm, and now she is not the only one who wonders what lies beyond its borders. Within the next decade, she predicts she will also be far from the only one who leaves, curious to see a land not blighted by evil.
Such were their losses in the battle that few are really pleased with the King right now. Even few are willing to voice their displeasure, even to their friends, but that does not mean it isn't there. And it is the young, she is sure, who will leave, who will venture out into the world.
Perhaps they will find Tauriel. Perhaps they will form their own little society, Elven nomads. They can travel to Lothlórien, or Imladris, or turn south to explore the various lands of the Edain. Middle-Earth is large, and there is much to see, even for people who live forever. To Huoriel, it sounds rather nice.
Thranduil drinks himself into a stupor, and in the morning wakes with a truly impressive headache. He cannot keep doing this – cannot let his mind be so consumed by an elleth who certainly seems not to want to think of him at all. He is a King, and he has his duties.
The problem is that all his duties have been seen to: the laments are sung each night, the families of the fallen well cared-for. In the depths of winter, they are all of them often at loose ends. It is why the most beautiful things are crafted in winter, why songs are written and families planned for. Under normal circumstances, his people would sing and dance, but the shadow of their losses still casts a pall over everything, and will for some time yet.
Normally, Thranduil would have Legolas to keep him company, if irregularly. Though there's little to guard against in the winter, the guards still nevertheless spend much time outdoors – playing, more or less, and getting some work in while they do it. But Legolas is far beyond his reach now, and is unlikely to return for years. There is little for him to do but think, and that he does not want.
He watches Huoriel leave at dawn, and then he wanders the forest himself, trying to find peace in the snow. It does not really work.
His land is sick, and has been growing sicker by the year. Tauriel is not the only one who has spoken of it to him. Always has he dismissed them, for he's perfectly aware of it himself, but no more. Come spring, he will do what he should have done years ago. Perhaps he will join in the spider hunts; too long has he sat behind the doors of his halls. He is alone, and it hurts, but he is still King. Tauriel might not be here to see him finally heed her words, but perhaps she will hear of it, wherever she is.
Thranduil cannot have her, ever. He knows this, and knows that someday he must accept it. Perhaps, in time, he will, but not if he sits and broods.
A thought occurs to him, while he watches the rising sun paint sparkling patches of gold on the snow. Spider-nests are nearly impossible to find in winter, but the guards usually have a rough idea of where they will spawn. Once all have recovered, he will lead a squadron to hunt them out – surely he would not be the only one grateful for a distraction. They will hunt, and kill, and not think, and when spring comes, they will have more time to devote to healing.
And perhaps, Thranduil thinks, when Legolas returns, his son might forgive him.
Somehow, Tauriel manages to walk all through the night. Even though she's more healed than anyone but Huoriel knows, she still shouldn't be able to do that. Somehow, she has far more energy than she rightly ought to.
If she keeps on like this, she'll be out of the forest in less than a week. She's not quite sure what she'll tell Beorn, but it has to be the truth. He'll smell a lie on her. Hopefully he will let her get away with simply saying that Thranduil has wronged her, and she cannot stay in the halls anymore. It is true, after all – just a vast simplification. She's met Beorn several times; he seems the sort who would respect a person's privacy. And if not...well. She'll cross that bridge if she comes to it.
"I wish you were here, Kili," she sighed. She can see it all too clearly – the pair of them walking through the forest, him floundering through the snow as they make their way out into the world, to forge their own life somewhere. He wouldn't mind the floundering, she's sure; he'd probably laugh about it.
Tauriel touches her pocket. His runestone resides within it, her talisman against the worst of her grief. Amrâlimê, he'd said, and oh, if only she'd returned the sentiment aloud. She hopes that, wherever he is, he knows that she loves him.
"What would we have called our daughter?" she asks the frigid air. A child of two races would need two names, Elven and Dwarven. She knows nothing of how Dwarves name their children, but she would call a girl Eruantiel – a gift from Eru.
She will never be a mother now, but she doesn't actually mind. She would only want a child if it was Kili's; she only feels deprived because she is also deprived of him.
And it hurts – oh, it hurts, but she doesn't fight the pain. She lets it mingle with her odd sense of peace, lets it work through her. Her grief is a pure thing, and she does not want to deny it, to suppress it. A trace of it will always remain, so she may as well get used to it. If it is going to be a part of her, she has to find room for it, somewhere, and Eru knows she has time. If there is one thing she has in abundance, it is time.
When the sun is directly overhead, she finally pauses to eat. The branches cast veins of blue shadow over the snow, and a very faint puff of breeze sends fine white crystals into the air. They glitter like stars, like diamonds, and Tauriel smiles.
She is free. She is truly free, and not just physically. The mental chains she imposed upon herself have snapped, the malignant ties to a cold, distant creature she should not have wasted the last two decades of her life on. How foolish and stubborn she was. She is stubborn still, but not nearly so foolish. Yes, she let herself be tricked, she believed Thranduil's pretty lies, but she has no more need for self-recrimination. That was then, and this is now.
She still can't let herself think on it yet, cannot face the memory, but in time, she is sure, she will be able to. In time, she will be able to truly put it behind her, and then think on it – and him – no more. She does, after all, have eternity to make new and better memories, to build a life untainted by his presence, by any reminders.
She will be Tauriel again. And she will remain free.
Thranduil sits in his study, drawing up a roster for his planned spider-hunt, when Galion interrupts him. The butler bears a small wooden box and an envelope, holding each as though uncertain he actually wants to touch either.
"These were delivered from Erebor by courier, my lord," he says. "The messenger would not say what is in them, nor would he linger."
That is unsurprising – what is surprising is that Dain would allow him to be sent anything at all. "Thank you, Galion. You are dismissed."
The butler leaves, and he sets the box on his desk, undeniably curious. It's old and scratched, but very finely crafted. When he opens the envelope, he finds a piece of parchment that says only, in a blocky, Dwarven hand, Found this among the mess. It belongs to you.
A mingling of excitement and dread stirs in his heart, for he thinks he knows now what the box contains. He opens it slowly, reverently, and finds that he is right: within it, glittering like starlight, lie Anameleth's jewels. The White Gems of Lasgalen.
His elation lasts only a moment. They are not as he recalls – they glitter, but their light is cold, remote. Nothing of Anameleth lingers within them; they are beautiful, but impersonal, merely a handful of stones.
He sinks into his chair and shudders, pierced to the heart. For this, he sacrificed hundreds of his people. For this, are his halls now home to widows and widowers, to children who have lost a mother or a father. His people mourn and lament, and all for a box whose contents are now bereft of meaning.
Thranduil slams the lid shut, and very nearly flings the box into the fire. He stalks out of his study and into his room, flinging open the doors to his balcony.
The air is bitterly cold, knifing straight through his clothes. Overhead, the real stars shine, and he thinks of what Tauriel said on that wretched morning, before he ruined everything. She is right: starlight is memory, but just now, memory is the last thing he wants.
What would Anameleth think, if she knew he had wasted their people's lives for a box of jewels? He does not even want to contemplate it.
He has been a terrible king, as well as a terrible person. He must at least try to redress that. The spiders can only be the beginning, the first stepping-stone. He was a good king, once, and a good person; he owes it to his people, to try to regain some measure of both. And he owes it to himself – he hates what he has become, isolated and frozen. He became this out of grief, but, though he still grieves, he must change, or try to. Otherwise, he fears he will Fade, and he has no wish to leave his kingdom and his people in such a state.
Thranduil has much to atone for, so very, very much, but he will start tomorrow. It means he cannot do what he would most like to do right now, that being drink himself into a stupor again; come morning, he will need a clear head.
Sleep, however, is not to be found – he knows that without even trying. The patrol rosters are nearly finished, however, which will leave him with a great deal of time on his hands before dawn, time he has to fill somehow.
He returns to his room, shutting the doors behind him. The box on his desk seems to mock him, so he shuts it away at the back of a cupboard, out of his sight. Taking out a fresh sheet of parchment, he sits at the desk, and he begins to write. He has much to say, even if the person he would say it to can't stand the sight of him.
Thranduil too has a lot of shit to work through – some of it the same shit as Tauriel. The pair of them will meet up again, once both have had time to adjust to their changes in perception. Each still has a lot of thinking to do, and a lot of self-analysis. (Which isn't to say their next meeting will be pleasant, but at least it will be a hell of a lot better than their last few interactions. Hell, it might even actually be productive.)
Reviews are my lifeblood, guys. Let me know if I'm on track, or if I should be ashamed of myself and have my keyboard smashed.
geekend: Thank you so much. Thranduil does indeed deserve every ounce of the misery that's found him, and fortunately Tauriel now has a chance to heal.
rosslyn67: Galadriel doesn't give Thranduil a scolding, but Yavanna soon will. You know you've messed up when you've got a Vala chewing you out.