In which Tauriel reaches her destination, Beorn wonders what the hell is actually going on in the Woodland Realm, and Thranduil is quite productive (if not happy).

The sun has only just risen when Tauriel reaches the edge of the forest, and the sky is clear as diamond, a smear of rose and gold and salmon-pink. It's so cold that her lungs burn, yet it makes her feel so very alive.

She looks out at the horizon, the Misty Mountains in the distance, and has a sudden urge to keep going, to climb the snow-frosted peaks and see what lays among them. That, however, she cannot do; she's nearly out of food, and in any event the mountains are perilous in the winter, even for an Elf.

If she moves at a brisk walk, she should reach Beorn's home by sundown. Anxiety flutters a little in her gut; Beorn is a solitary person, and she realizes she's asking much of him. Winter in this part of the world is, after all, rather long. Still, she won't know if he will house her until she asks, and she cannot ask until she is at his house.

She steps out into the sunshine, adjusting her now much lighter pack. Her strange combination of peace and grief has held, to her relief, though she can't say she's surprised, either. Not when she still feels that unseen presence walking with her. Sometimes it is so strong that she half expects to see another set of footprints in the snow. Tauriel has felt alone for so very long that she had forgotten what it is like to have true companionship, and she is glad beyond words for it now.

It would be no understatement to say that every single person in the halls is shocked when Thranduil announces the spider-hunt. Save for the battle, he's rarely left the halls since the dragon first took Erebor.

As he'd hoped, it enervates his people, lifting them from the worst of their despair. It is not only the guards who wish to go; he has servants, commoners, even nobility clamoring to accompany him. At this rate, he won't have a party – he'll have a small army.

He himself feels somewhat reinvigorated, even though he's had little sleep in the last week. Every time he closes his eyes without the aid of large amounts of wine, his dreams are terrible – of the battle, of Anameleth's death. Of Tauriel, and her pain and hate-filled eyes.

He has kept on writing letters to her, keeping them in a wooden box on the mantelpiece. In them he pours out all that he seems incapable of saying aloud, his honesty helped by the fact that she will never actually read them. Saving them is dangerous – he doesn't want to think about what would happen if anyone found them – but he finds he cannot bring himself to destroy any of them. And so they accumulate. Perhaps, if he writes enough of them, he will be able to sleep without drinking himself unconscious.

For now, he settles for fastening his cloak. It's bitterly cold out, but movement will keep them all warm enough. He knows that a certain number will likely turn back out of frustration, but he doubts there will be many – this is a better distraction than anything else they are likely to find before spring.

Thranduil strides down to the gates, where he finds his people waiting. If there are fewer than five hundred of them, he would be very surprised, all well bundled against the cold. The Guard all bear unlit torches and boxes of pitch – the only way to kill a nest is to burn it.

His three captains wait at the head of the group, and he feels a momentary pang that Tauriel is not one of them. While he doubts they will find her, perhaps they will find some sign of her. Huoriel left and never returned, evidently preferring banishment to dragging Tauriel home; perhaps they have found one another. He hopes so, for he doesn't like the thought of her being alone.

But he cannot think about them now. He has his task, and it is both simple and straightforward. And his people, it seems, are actually looking forward to it.

"We will split into teams of three," he says, handing a roster to each captain. "You of the Guard know best where to look. Captain Sadronniel, I will go with you."

The elleth looks briefly terrified, but nods. "Yes, my lord."

It grieves him a little, that the thought of having her King at her back would frighten her, but at the same time, he can hardly blame her. It is not as though any could have called him personable since he lost Anameleth, and it has only been worse since he made such a mess of things with Tauriel.

"You need not fear I will eat you, Captain," he says, a little dryly. "I am not a spider."

Now she looks badly startled, probably because it's the closest thing to a joke she would have heard him make in her lifetime. "Yes, my lord," she repeats, but she does not sound nearly so unnerved.

He lets the captains divide their companies, having to improvise quite a bit to accommodate all the civilians. Strangely, he finds he is actually looking forward to this himself – he'd meant it an exercise to unite his people, as a distraction, but the thought does more than distract him. This might, dare he say it, prove something close to fun.

Sadronniel has absolutely no idea what to make of her King, and she knows she isn't the only one. Up until two days ago, he's spent all the time since the battle drinking and brooding; this is entirely unexpected. And now, on top of that, he's actually made what she'd swear was a joke. She wonders if he is ill, or has hit his head very hard. And she doubts she's alone in that.

Still, it is a nice change, and makes her far less nervous about having him in her party. He remains watchful, and quiet unless he absolutely needs to speak, but there is something marginally less frigid about him. He also doesn't seem as distant, and she can't be the only one who wonders about that, too.

He doesn't interfere as she leads them through the snow-laden trees. She's fairly sure that she knows where a nest is, for her squadron had burned out the beginnings of it last fall. Spiders aren't bright; there is a very good chance they've re-built it.

The air is so cold that it stings on her face, but they're moving swiftly enough that she's mostly warm. If anyone in her party isn't, they don't complain – which is surprising, given the number of nobility in it. But then, most of them rarely go outside in the winter, and the beauty of the snow masks the forest's sickness.

It is nearly noon when they reach the potential nest, and then there is the arduous task of actually digging down to it. With the snow so deep, it can't be a swift process.

Except, to her surprise, it's not so arduous after all. Normally, the King's presence would keep chatter to a minimum, but he's less forbidding today, so speech and song seem less like a crime. He doesn't join in, but neither does he scowl.

As she shovels, Sadronniel watches him out of the corner of her eye. That there is sorrow about him is unsurprising, given their very recent losses, but she thinks it's more than that. She's heard stories about his fight with Tauriel in the healing wards, and that when he would visit her afterward, she always refused to speak to him. Something happened between them, something that grieves him as much as it infuriates her, but Sadronniel can scarcely imagine what it might be.

Oh, they've argued frequently over the years, but so much pain and rage could not come from a mere argument. Not unless he offered here very grave insult – which, the King being the way he is, is not only possible, but likely. Tauriel is – or was – an easygoing sort, but there are a few lines you simply do not cross with her, and the King likely leapt right over one. And, him being elitist as he is, Sadronniel thinks she can guess which one.

It's common knowledge that Tauriel does not know who her father is. Her mother died when she was very young, but she always refused to speak of him. Which would not seem especially strange – Eldar can fall in battle like anyone else, and often leave children behind – but it's the red of her hair that makes people wonder. Only one known family has produced hair of that shade, and it is not one anybody would wish to lay kinship to. So far as Sadronniel knows, no one ever actually confronted Tauriel about it, but the King would, and probably did. And seems to have regretted it ever since.

If that is truly what it is – and Sadronniel can't imagine it could be anything else – hopefully Tauriel will return in a century or two, when her temper has run its course. And if the King keeps on – if he keeps actually heeding the arguments she's made over the years – perhaps she might forgive him. Few in the world can hold a grudge like Tauriel, but if she sees that she's been listened to, even belatedly, it might soften her a little.

Sadronniel certainly hopes so. None of the captains like trying to deal with things without her.

Night has fallen by the time Tauriel reaches Beorn's house.

She's only ever seen it once, sixty years ago, but it hasn't changed. The high wooden fence is mounded with snow, as is the roof, and though she can't see the windows from this side of the fence, the glow of lantern-light shines over it.

Strangely, she finds the gate open – surely he can't always leave it so. His animals might not wander, but far worse things than her could pass through it.

Butterflies flutter in her gut again as she approaches the massive door. This had seemed like such a good idea in the healing wards, but now that she's here, she feels like a fool. She raises her gloved hand, but hesitates to knock.

The door opens before she can change her mind, and she finds herself confronted with its owner. Beorn is as massive as she remembers, nearly a full foot taller than the King, and bear-like even in this for. His eyes, though, are golden like an owl's, and they do not look at all surprised to see her.

"I thought you would be here yesterday," he says, his voice gruff. "Come in."

Tauriel blinks, but does as bidden. The warmth of his home is more than welcome, and his array of animals – goats, hedgehogs, and mice – watch her curiously. With all these creatures, one would expect his house to smell, yet there is only the scent of smoke from the fire.

"How did you know I was coming, Master Beorn?" she asks, as he shuts and bolts the door behind him.

"I have been tracking you for three days," he says. "The deer told me of a lone Elf headed this way. Your people do not go to the mountains in the dead of winter."

That…is actually rather chilling, for she had had no idea at all she was being tracked. "I wasn't going to the mountains," she says softly. "I was hoping I might beg a very great boon of you, and stay here until spring. I can work to earn my keep."

Beorn gestures to his massive table, and she feels unusually petite as she sits on one of the benches – her feet dangle well off the floor. Her pack she puts behind her, where she can easily grab it again, if need be. "Were you banished?"

"I was," she said honestly, "but then I was…injured, and it was revoked, though I do not know if it was temporary or permanent. I left as soon as I was healed enough, because…I could not stay. There is nothing for me there save pain and hate."

He inclines his head. "Go on."

Tauriel sighs. "King Thranduil wronged me very greatly twenty years ago," she says. "I should have left then, but I would not give him the satisfaction. I can stay no longer. Other things have happened, things I cannot heal from within the halls."

"The Dwarf," he says.

She really shouldn't be surprised he knows. He was somewhere in the battle – she saw his bear form, albeit briefly. "Yes," she says, closing her eyes. "Kili. I lost him after I had only just found him. I would have left with him – I would have wandered the whole of Middle-Earth with him. But he is gone, and just now I have no home. I can never return to the halls. They have not truly been my home in twenty years."

She dreads that he will ask more, that he will want to know just what Thranduil did, and nearly sags with relief when he does not. "You may stay as long as you like," he says instead. "I care for many lost creatures. One more is no hardship."

"Thank you, Master Beorn," she says, her voice surprisingly hoarse.

"What is your name, child?"

"Tauriel," she says. "My name is Tauriel, and I am free."

Beorn really doesn't know what to make of his new guest.

That something in her is broken is plain to see. At no point as he smelled a lie on her, but he knows she has not told him the whole truth. He suspects, however, that she does not hide it out of deviousness, but of pain. Whatever wrong the Elvenking has done her hurt her, and not physically.

She is beginning to heal, though – that too he can see. She will not fade from this world as her kind sometimes do. Wintering here will make her strong, and then she will forge a new life somewhere. He has healed many wounded creatures over the centuries; as he told her, one more is no burden.

Though her kind rarely sleep, she must be exhausted, for she curls up in the straw with the goats and is fast asleep within moments. He guesses she is young for an Elf, though likely several hundred years older than him.

She will heal, and she will grow, and perhaps, in time, she will tell him the whole of her story. Only then will he know just how angry he should be at the Elvenking.

There really is something beautiful about the sight of a burning spider-nest.

They've found more today than Thranduil had hoped, and while he could do without the smell, the sight of the flames licking skyward is lovely. It is cleansing, burning away the infection in his forest.

The stars are out in force now, the waxing moon sailing between them, and he is, if not happy, at least satisfied.

He cannot be happy – not without Legolas and Tauriel beside him. He can picture his son's satisfaction, and her smile, all too clearly. They should be here to witness this, but Legolas wanders the world, and Tauriel is likely with Beorn, waiting out the winter so she can leave Thranduil forever. The pain of that thought precludes happiness, but at least he is doing something.

His people are happy, at least. Work has lifted some of the sorrow of their loss, reminded them that there is still something worth working for. Yes, they have lost loved ones, but their home stands still, and can be healed. It will take decades or even centuries, but for the first time in far too long, they can actually, truly do something about it.

All day he's felt their curious stares, heard their whispers: unsurprisingly, they wonder at the change that has come over him, that he should stir himself now after so very long. How terrible a king has he been, that his own people marvel at the fact that he should do physical work outside of battle or training? He doesn't want an answer to that, because he already knows. He has hardly been an inactive king – he's simply done most of it from afar, a step or three removed from the majority of his people.

But no more. Such a change is not easy, and will not be effected overnight, because he's been solitary for so long that trying to break that habit all at once would drive him mad. When his son returns – if Tauriel returns – they will not find the kingdom as they left it.

Tauriel. The dancing fire reminds him of her – the woman in the starlight, whose hair is a river of flame. Where is she now? Is she safe with Beorn, or does she wander these deadly woods with nothing but moonlight to guide her way? Oh, Huoriel is right – few know this forest as well as Tauriel – but there is still so very much that could go wrong. Perhaps, as Huoriel said, she has healed more than most know, but mere weeks ago she very nearly died.

The itch to go after her is nearly unendurable. No, she would not willingly return with him, but at the very least he could see her safely to Beorn's home – could see her, one last time, but that would still be a terrible idea, and he still knows it. How can she hope to heal, if he will not let her go? He has done her not a whit of good in twenty years; she's far better off without him.

Thranduil knows this, and yet a selfish part of him doesn't care. It whispers that she could be better off with him, if he could but earn her forgiveness, but that is entirely impossible. Another part of him, a darker part, doesn't want her to forgive him, because it knows that he does not deserve it, and likely never will. That sadistic inner voices revels in his torment, twists the knife in his heart at unexpected moments.

But for now, he must force all of that aside. He cannot let his people see him mourn – not right now. He will grieve later, in the privacy of his rooms, and perhaps write Tauriel another letter.

Tauriel,

Even yet, I do not know how to address you, for I am certain you would slaughter me if I called you 'dearest'. I could hardly blame you for it.

It is far too late for you to see the fruits of your arguments, but finally I have heeded them. Come spring, the forest will be, if not cleared of spiders, at least spawning far fewer of the things.

And come spring, I will do as you have so long implored (and shouted). I will take a party with me to Dol Guldur, and burn out the heart of them. I should have listened to you centuries ago, but I was and remain a fool.

I swear that I saw the form of you in the fire. Never can I see a flame without thinking of you – not only of your hair, but of your fëa. You shine more brightly than anyone or anything else in this kingdom, and I spoke truth when I said it is a darker place without you. I am not the only one who has noticed, though I think that as yet I am the only one who can articulate it.

I miss you. I know that you hate me, and that you have every right to, but even when you avoided the very sight of me, I always knew you were there. I never, ever meant for you to leave, Tauriel – I would never have wished to drive you away. When I sought you that night, it was because you reminded me of my wife, but not in body or, in truth, in temperament – you and Anameleth are night and day. Your fëa, that is the resemblance; both of you burn like the heart of a star, like the light of Eärendil. I wish I could tell you, I wish that you would believe that my regard for you that night was pure.

The next morning, I was guilty, and I was angry, but not at you. What we had done was wrong, or so I thought, but it was not your fault. I knew it then, and yet I was a fool, and I was afraid, afraid of what I felt, after being alone for so very long. When you smiled at me, I wanted to smile back. I wanted so much that I knew – know – I do not deserve, and I drove you away because I did not know what else to do.

I do not deserve your forgiveness, Tauriel, and I am not mad enough to ever expect it, but I wish I had not hurt you so. You did not deserve what I gave you, what I know I made you feel, and oh, how I wish you could believe it. I have watched your hatred for me poison you, and I would have it do so no longer. I hope that you can find peace this winter, and wherever you go when spring arrives. I would not have you suffer because of my idiotic cruelty any longer.

I know you will never believe me, Tauriel, so I will do the only thing that I can. I will do what you would do, had you my power. What I should have done long ago. And I hope that, wherever you go, you might hear of it, and know that your old home does not continue to fall into darkness.

Le melin, Tauriel, though you will never know.

When Tauriel wakes the next morning, the sun is well up, and there is a goat snuggled against her back.

Well. That's new.

It is a warm goat, and it seems to be quite content, so she lets it be for a moment. She hasn't slept since she left the halls, so it's no real wonder she slept so very long last night.

When she rises, she finds a note on the table, along with a loaf of bread, pat of butter, and a small jar of honey. The note says only, I will return at nightfall. The bathing tub is out back.

In spite of herself, she laughs. After a week on the road, she could use a bath. She eats her breakfast faster than she probably ought to, quite suddenly ravenous, and fills the huge kettle over the fire with water. The sunlight that streams through the windows is golden, dust motes floating hazily in the air, and she thinks that there is much to be said for actually living under the sky. However cold or hot it might be, it could not trap a person.

The biggest cat she's ever seen wanders up and rubs its head against her legs. It really is huge – its back is level with her knees, and seems all the bigger because its ginger fur is incredibly fluffy. She kneels down to scratch behind its ears, and it purrs so loudly she can feel it buzzing in her teeth.

Yes, she will heal here. Anything could heal here.

Well, the guards had to speculate something, and they're hardly going to guess the real thing. Thranduil insulting Tauriel by accusing her of being some descendant of Fëanor would certainly piss her off to no end, and explain her two-decade grudge.

Meanwhile, Thranduil doesn't know it yet, but he might be dealing with a severely pissed-off Beorn in the not so distant future – Beorn, after all, does not take kindly to people who hurt innocent creatures, and Tauriel just now seems even younger than she already is.

'the woman in the starlight, whose hair is a river of flame' is from The Same Night Sky, and is going to haunt Thranduil for ages more.

As for Huoriel, I have not forgotten her – she'll turn up next chapter, with news about just what Thranduil's been doing in the forest. (She doesn't have Yavanna feeding her energy; the trip is taking her longer.) Reviews give me life, and let me know how well or poorly I'm doing.