In which Tauriel slays her demons, Thranduil wrestles with his, and they meet.

Sort of.

Life with Beorn is full of new experiences.

Tauriel has been a guard for most of her adult life, and even before that, she was training to be one. She has little experience with livestock, but Beorn's animals are gentle, even if she does also suspect they sometimes laugh at her.

Her first attempt to milk a goat is an utter disaster. She vaguely remembers her mother milking their cow when she was very small, but that is a long time ago. There's far more milk on the floor than in the bowl, and the goat gives her a look that is downright offended.

Beorn's eyes laugh, even if he doesn't give voice to it, and all she can do is smile ruefully. At least she knows how to clean up after herself.

Chopping wood is easier, though her convalescence has left her weaker than she likes, and she often has to stop to rest. Beorn tries to feed her far more than she can actually eat, but it's making her stronger. He never eats any meat – his diet seems to consist mainly of bread, fruit, and cream – but she doesn't miss it.

There are a surprising number of things she doesn't miss. Even with her grief, she's happier out here than she would have thought possible.

And then Huoriel arrives.

Beorn regards her with open curiosity as she sits at his vast table. She's obviously weary, and accepts a mug of warm milk and honey gratefully.

"The King told me I could bring you back, or consider myself banished," she says, loosening her scarf. "I chose banishment, and not only because I knew you would break both my legs if I chose otherwise."

Out of the corner of her eye, Tauriel sees Beorn tense. She knows he's not happy that his neighbor drove away one of his own people, for whatever unknown reason; knowing he's sent someone to drag that person back against their will can only be making that worse.

"You may stay here, for the winter," he says, and Tauriel hopes he's not going to wind up with even more guests. That will depend on how stubborn Thranduil decides to be.

"Thank you, Master Beorn," Huoriel says. "I find I would like to see the world outside our borders. Though strange things are happening within them, too."

"What do you mean?" Tauriel asks, staring down into her own mug.

"I ran across Faelon on my way," Huoriel says. "He had an entire party out, hunting and burning spider nests."

That is a surprise. "The King let him?"

"It was the King's idea. Faelon was not the only one, and apparently the King himself was with Sadronniel."

Poor Sadronniel. Tauriel really hopes she's not to be Thranduil's next victim. She gives a bitter laugh. "Of course he waits until I am gone to heed my suggestions. He probably hopes it will lure Legolas home."

"I do not know what he hopes," Huoriel says, draining her mug. "Faelon didn't know what to make of it, and I don't think anyone else did, either. You should have seen it, Tauriel – it wasn't just guards. He had cooks and kitchen maids, stable boys, two tanners, four councilors, and Lady Silwen."

To her own surprise, Tauriel bursts out laughing. That is a mental image she will never, ever get rid of. "Has everyone gone mad in my absence?"

"They just might have," Huoriel says, shaking her head. "I only wonder what will happen next. If the King does not keep on, others will. Things are changing."

"It's past time for that. I only wish it had started a century ago." Thought of what might have been has troubled her for twenty years – while she could hardly have refused Thranduil's summons, she could have refused him, and gone on to do far more good.

But that is in the past, and it sounds like come springtime, she might well see much changed in the forest, even if no one else will see her.

Well, no one but, perhaps, Huoriel. Tauriel is fairly sure the former lieutenant will want to continue out into the world, but perhaps she'll linger for a time. Tauriel wouldn't mind the company.

"Well, it has started now, with a vengeance. We might yet hear some more strange things, before the winter is over."

Beorn is actually glad he has two Elves to house.

On his own, he doesn't think he could have healed Tauriel so well, because he is not an Elf, and doesn't truly know what they need. Huoriel seems to be of an age with her, making her very young for one of their kind, and together they learn to live as he does.

He realizes in short order that Huoriel knows no more about why Tauriel left than he does. Whatever drove her to it hurts so much that she won't share it even with her own kin, and he finds himself growing ever angrier at the Elvenking. He has no use at all for people who harm innocent creatures, and Tauriel, even with all she has seen and endured and lost, is innocent. She knows next to nothing of the world beyond her borders.

Huoriel doesn't, either, so they are learning together. They laugh a great deal, and if Tauriel's laughter is more subdued…well. Spring is still months away.

He watches the air of them chop wood in the sunshine, chattering away in their own tongue. In the last weeks, Tauriel's strength has slowly returned, her face losing its bloodless pallor. She still disappears from time to time to cry, but she is in mourning – it's understandable. He no longer fears it will consume her.

The cat, Monren, wanders over to see what they're doing, bounding through the snow. He's taken an especial liking to Tauriel; on the nights that she sleeps, he'll lie curled up near (or on) her. She sets her axe aside and kneels to scratch his ears, and Beorn can hear him purring even at a distance.

He wonders if this is what it's like to have children. As the last of his kind, he'll never know for sure, but he would wager this is close. Yes, these two are centuries older than he is, but by the reckoning of their own people, they're both very young.

They are young, and King Thranduil drove them away – and severely wounded one, in spirit if not in body. Should any of his soldiers come in search of them, they will not find themselves welcome guests – not unless they too seek sanctuary.

And if he sees Thranduil himself, the Elvenking will sorely regret it.

The ellon wanders the wilderness without form or purpose, eating and drinking only when he remembers to, sleeping when he drops from exhaustion.

How long has he done so? He doesn't know. There is much he doesn't know – his name, his age, his family. Something in him will not search for any o those things, and he avoids all settlements, be they Elven, Edain, or Dwarven. The wilds are his home, inasmuch as he has a home, the sky his only roof. None but an Elf could survive the harshness of his life, which is one of the few reasons he knows that he is an Elf.

There is something out there, though, something he should see – if only he could remember what it is. Perhaps, one day, he will remember, and then he will hunt it down.

Winter passes, and slowly but surely the Woodland Realm wakes. The snow still lies heavy on the ground, but now it begins to soften and noon (and freeze into a sheet of solid ice at night).

The ordinary humdrum of past winters seems to have been permanently destroyed. Even those who have no task to bring them outside often go anyway, enjoying sunshine that is actually starting to have a little warmth in it. There is even occasional laughter, for all that most of them still mourn. The worst of their grief is fading, aided by the new life within their kingdom.

Thranduil watches, and wishes it would have some effect on him. There is nothing to be done for his grief, for it's so thoroughly of his own making. He drinks no less, and sleeps no more.

How long will Legolas stay away? Will he not return until the work is done? Thranduil isn't sure if he wants that or not – it might be good for his son to see the work in motion.

And Tauriel…oh, how he wishes he could know where she means to go, when the snow thaws. Logic would dictate Lothlórien, but she has to know that is the first place he would look for her. If she truly intends to sail, Imladris would be a better option, but that worries him. She has never traveled far from home, and unlike Legolas, will not have companions to guide her. Huoriel, if they have indeed found one another, knows no more of the world than she does. Both are more than capable warriors, and yet he worries anyway. He can't help it.

Late though it is, Tauriel can't sleep.

Huoriel has no such problem; she is dead to the world, and Beorn is out prowling in bear-form. Tauriel is alone, and restless.

Eventually she rises, bundling herself into her warmest clothes, and steps out into the frigid night.

The moon is full, lighting up the snow so that it's nearly bright as day, and the fog of her breath wreathes her like a frosty cloud. Though the days are warming, the nights remain icy, but just now she doesn't mind. The cold is bracing, and she needs to be braced, because it's time, she thinks, to confront her memory. That memory, the one that hurts so much she's buried it for twenty years. She can't give it power over her any longer.

Without her strange feeling of companionship, she probably couldn't do it, but that unseen presence has lingered all these weeks, warming her whenever the chill of despair threatens. She wishes she knew what it is, who to thank, but it remains nameless.

Nimbly, she leaps up the woodpile and onto the roof, feeling an abstract need to be closer to the stars. This is going to hurt, and they may aid her.

She'd been so happy that morning, she thinks, as she settles into the snow. Happier, really, that she could – and can – ever remember. Before Thranduil woke, before he opened his mouth and so indifferently torn her to pieces, she'd naively thought they'd shared something, their own secret, because oh, he had been such a very convincing liar. He'd called her lovely the night before, had looked at her like she was the sum of all that was good in the world, with something akin to reverence, which was why his dismissal had come as such a shock.

He'd known, she realizes in hindsight, that she would never have given herself to him if she hadn't thought he cared in some way. Ample entertainment, he'd called her, so cold and distant, and oh, how that had hurt. She would never have provided ample entertainment and nothing more, and he knew it, and knowing that everything he'd said, that everything she thought he had shown her was a lie…even with how much she's healed in the last weeks, in body, mind, and fëa, it still hurts.

She'd held Thranduil in high regard – had loved him, after a fashion – and he'd known it, and used it against her, not caring at all what it would do to her, how much it would hurt. And that, strangely, is what pains her the most: knowing that someone she cared about, someone whose supposed regard she cherished, thought her worth nothing.

The memory, the thought, is like a knife in her heart even now. Never in all her life had anyone or anything made her feel so worthless, so much like a…like a thing, to be used and discarded without thought or care. She wondered – and still wonders – how many there were before her, and how many have followed.

You provided ample entertainment, and I thank you for it.

Tauriel snorts, even as the knife twists. Such gratitude.

Do not presume above your station. I will not have you assuming such…familiarity.

That was rich – she was not the one who had assumed or encouraged any manner of familiarity. She never would have, had he not invited her.

You are fair enough, and capable, yes, and I wanted to have you, but surely you did not believe I desired anything more?

She still doesn't know how he had the gall to say that – he had to have known full well that she would not have gone to bed with him if there had not been something more. No, they obviously could never have had anything openly, but even if their night was never to be repeated, she wanted his regard. She wanted to know that he cared, that what she had given him actually meant something, and discovering how very wrong she was had been like a blow to the chest.

So she'd frozen. She'd had to, or she would have shattered, and she absolutely would not give him the satisfaction. She wouldn't disappear and allow him to forget her; he would face her loathing, her contempt, and realize that her presence would not be so easily dismissed. Tauriel would do her job and be a thorn in his side, would argue and confront and do her best to drive him to even more drink. He had made her life a misery; if she could not do the same to him, she would at least make it as uncomfortable as she could.

And if, in that first year, she sometimes cried at night – well, at least no one ever knew. In time, her tears froze with the rest of her heart, and thought of Thranduil brought only loathing, not pain. She took those memories and locked them away, never to be examined.

Until now.

She has to face it, to purge it, if she is ever truly to move on. Yes, she was betrayed, and terribly so, but it is in the past, and she is free. Thranduil has no hold on her life now, and no place in it. He is the worthless one, the lying king with a heart of stone who cares for nothing and no one. For she questions, and has for some time, how much he even loves his son. He's a pathetic creature, really, icy and loveless, and Eru knows Legolas is the only creature in all of Middle-Earth who loves him.

He is worthless, she decides, even as tears fall and freeze on her cheeks. She can never forget what he did to her, for Elven memories do not work that way, but it need haunt her no longer.

But still she weeps, for she must purge the last of the poison from her fëa. Once it is gone, her mind will be as free as the rest of her.

Yes, Thranduil lied, used, and betrayed her. Yes, it was terrible, but it was, not is. Though her heart has been buried with Kili, there are others out there she will love, in different ways, and others who will love her, who will value her for whatever she is worth. She's known long along that she's worth more than the little Thranduil thinks of her, but not until she left the halls has she truly believed it.

She is Tauriel, daughter of Amaniel, and she has worth. She is strong, and stubborn, and loyal to those who deserve her loyalty. Thranduil and his lies are the past; what her future holds, she doesn't know, but she can face it now with a clear mind and heart.

Having lived all her life in the sick forest of the Woodland Realm, Tauriel realizes that she didn't truly know what spring is until now.

Last year's dead, golden-brown grass is giving way to vivid green, and it seems like each morning, hundreds of new wildflowers have sprung up from the earth. Most places in the forest are too dark for wildflowers, so she's only really ever seen them when her patrols have taken her to the edge of the trees.

And the smell of things…even in high summer, the forest is never truly free of the scent of mildew. The air out here is clear, pure, and she decides that when she goes back, her first task will be to start thinning the canopy, and letting a little more light through.

And she's going, very soon. Huoriel has no plans to join her yet – in fact, thinks she's utterly mad – but she might, in time. If not, Tauriel will simply have to visit often. Huoriel, for now, seems content to stay in one spot, but Tauriel has been growing ever more restless. She does, after all, have a purpose to find.

With the arrival of spring, Thranduil's people lift their eyes and hearts skyward.

They are willing – eager, even – to go outside and get their hands dirty. On any given day, he can even see some of the nobility, clearing away the noxious, toxic weeds, and planting good things in their place. While there is little laughter, there's a great deal of song. His people are healing with their forest.

Thranduil himself is not. Somehow, the coming of spring has only made his heart heavier. He joins in their work, because he is King and he started this, but he has no smiles nor songs to offer. Instead, he sinks deeper into melancholy.

The people, he knows, pity him, but he can't summon enough energy to be angry about it. He also knows there have been whispers about sending someone to find Legolas and bring him home, but Legolas alone could not stem the tide of his depression. There are two people his heart aches for, and one of them is likely gone beyond his reach forever, now.

But he works, because he must. If he can know no peace, at least his kingdom can. He is too broken to be a good person, but he can try to be a good king.

He's not working among the trees today, however. Today he'll lead a party into the woods, to make certain the spider nests they burned are completely dead. So far there have been no reports of the creatures, but it is early yet. Any that survived will still be newly hatched.

In a fortnight, they will take on Dol Guldur.

He wishes they could have done it over the winter, but that ruinous fortress is too treacherous in the snow. Early spring is the best time, because the spiders won't be anything close to grown – poisonous, yes, but not nearly so huge or deadly. If they are lucky, they will lose no more Elven life.

But that is the future, and this is now.

He stands in the center of the path, facing the large assemblage of his people. Sunlight dapples them through the newly-opened leaves, sparking gold off hair and knives. He hopes they need not use the torches and pitch again; the forest isn't dry enough to burn, but he'd still rather not take any chances.

He knows he should say something, but he can find no words, so he merely beckons his people to follow. Most of them will return to the halls at nightfall, but he does not intend to; while being alone is of no help to him, perhaps a solitary night or two in the forest will be of greater benefit. Within the halls, he is alone even while surrounded by people, but he need keep up no pretense if there are none but the trees to witness him. He is healing his kingdom; perhaps it might try to return the favor.

They follow, his people, and though they're quiet, it's the quiet of people watchful of their surroundings, rather than fear to speak. A faint breeze whispers through the new leaves, still chilly from its passage over the distant, snow-capped mountains. It will only be a few weeks before it warms, though, and spring begins in earnest.

He can feel the life of the forest surging beneath his boots, the sum of all its disparate parts waking to the first realm warmth of the sun, and he feels…he feels…not lighter, exactly, but the heaviness he carries is easier to bear. A few nights spent in the arms of his realm really do seem like a good idea.

And strangely, as they walk, he sees things he has not seen in centuries. Soft green moss, quite different from the slimy sort endemic to the trees, and here and there a delicate deer-fern. It would seem that the wider forest is already healing.

It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize that these changes, these bits of new life, run directly along the path. It's as though someone has already gone ahead of them all, and begun healing things independently of them. Has someone been at work without informing him? He wouldn't be surprised; his people have shown remarkable initiative of late.

When they reach the first of the nests, they find it is indeed very dead; nothing has a chance of spawning from it. It's nothing but a blackened, pitch-filled pit, dark and cold.

Weirdly, though, there are moss and ferns here as well, and even a few tiny pink phlox. Surely no one would have ventured here, left seeds, and not told anyone they had done it. But now that he looks, some o the pitch is newer – someone was here, making full certain the job was done.

It is a mystery, and Thranduil doesn't like mysteries – not even helpful ones.

He says nothing, and if anyone else notices, they don't mention it. When he returns to the halls, he will question his captains – even if they do not know who has done this, they might have some idea.

The next nest is the same, and the one after, and now he's downright unnerved. It wouldn't be so bad if it was only the pitch, but the flowers…phlox, violas, creeping blue lobelia, none of them belong here. In some places, branches have been removed from the canopy, and golden shafts of sunlight pierce the gloom.

Someone has been very busy.

He looks at Sadronniel, who has come up beside him. "Captain, what do you know of this?"

"Nothing, my lord," she says, and indeed she looks as confused as he feels. "Whoever has done this, they did so without any of the Captains' knowledge. And I have no idea where they got the viola seeds." Violas are a sun-loving flower, and of no medicinal use, so the seeds aren't part of the customary stock.

"Question the guards, when you return tonight," he orders. "Tell them I do not intend to punish whoever has gone to such trouble – I merely wish to know who they are."

"Yes, my lord."

Tauriel has been busy.

Since she doesn't know just what her purpose is meant to be, she decides to make her own until she finds out. Huoriel was right; a number of spider-nests have been taken out, but Tauriel ensures they will stay out, and deals with those that were not found in the snow.

She doesn't notice the flowers at first, but when she starts to spot them, she'll scale the trees and lop away enough branches to give the poor things some light. The bark is rough beneath her hands and feet, for she's taken to going barefoot: now that the snow is gone, it feels more natural. It's not safe – in fact, it's downright foolish, but the urge to really feel the earth beneath her feet is irresistible.

And feel she does – not just the earth, but the warmth of the sun and the sigh of the wind over her skin are shockingly intense, as are the myriad scents of the forest. It's as though she's spent her entire life smothered by cotton wool, and only now been set free.

It's evening now, and she's been hard at work all day, leaping from branch to branch and severing the remains of last year's spiderwebs. At one point, a vivid blue butterfly came up and landed on her nose, and she stood patiently still until it fluttered on its way again. She's tired now, and hungry; it being too early to hunt, Beorn has provided her with crocks of dried fruit, sealed jars of honey, and bread that has stayed remarkably fresh this last week.

She is home, she thinks, as she heads toward her camp, still hopping from branch to branch. The halls, the Realm, they are not her home – the forest is. It has stood since long before there was a king, a realm, and she thinks it will outlast them all.

Her camp is up high in a tree, the better to remain undiscovered by any wayward travelers. She doesn't bother with a risky fire, though the nights are still rather cold; she bundles up in her cloak and three blankets, and watches the stars come out one by one, winking in the blue-black velvet of the sky.

Today, however, there is fire – on the ground, almost right below her tree, the red-orange glow so strange and out-of-place.

Someone is trespassing.

She creeps along her high branch – not silently, for silence would be noticed. Instead she moves with the sigh of the wind, letting the rustling of the leaves cover her movements. Carefully, and oh so slowly, she makes her way to a perch that allows her to see the ground without being seen herself.

It's a campfire, and unsurprisingly, obviously constructed by an Elf. This is well off the patrols' usual path, however, and only one person sits beside it, hooded and cloaked, head bowed. The figure radiates such an air of suffering she can practically taste it, but she dare not reveal herself. She won't risk being found.

This leaves her with something of a problem. She has her pick of other trees to sleep in, but all her blankets are in the one above the stranger's head, and she has no desire to spend the whole night shivering. The breeze is downright icy, but it will also continue to mask her movement, so she lets it, creeping her way along again.

Tauriel nearly falls off the branch in shock when the figure pushes its hood back, and reveals an unmistakable head of silvery hair. Only Thranduil and Legolas have such hair; Legolas keeps his braided away from his face, but there are no braids to be seen now.

Thranduil.

It's just her luck, she thinks. The last person in the world she wants to see, and he's picked the tree she lives in to camp under. What is he doing out here, all alone? Has he gone mad? Perhaps it's wrong of her, but she rather hopes so. She might have moved past her hatred, but that doesn't mean she can't wish a little misery on him.

She holds her breath for far too long, but he doesn't move, or look up. Eventually she inches her way along again, until she's safe in the bowl of branches she currently calls home. It is a bowl, too – or more accurately, a sort of basket, in which she's built a nest like an overgrown bird. He can't see her in here, and if he hears any of her movements – well, there are a lot of birds this year, far more so than normal.

Tauriel wraps herself in her blankets, grateful for the warmth on her feet, and peers through a tiny gap in the branches. She still has no idea what he's doing out here all by himself, and while she knows she should ignore him and go to sleep, she can't deny she is curious. It's so very unlike him, and she has no wish at all to contend with an unpredictable Elvenking.

For a long while, he does nothing save sit and stare into the fire, and she uses its crackle and the continuing breeze to mask the sounds of her eating bread. She's not surprised he is silent, as he has no one to speak to – nor is she surprised by the bottle of wine he removes from his pack.

Seeing him now is…strange. Lacking her long-held hatred, he seems somehow diminished. There's still power in him, even in the very set of his shoulders, but he has no power over her anymore. She can't quite bring herself to pity him, for all he sits alone and drinks – the healing of her long-nursed pain is still too new – but neither does she revel in his misery, as she would have done even a few months ago.

But why is he here? Perhaps even he does not know. Perhaps he really is mad.

He draws a knife, the blade glinting in the firelight, and stares at it for a long while. Eru, is he following her example, and intending to take his own life?

Part of Tauriel – a very large part – is tempted to let him get on with it. But Legolas, even though he's left, would mourn, and he's in no way ready to be king.

However, she's not willing to reveal herself, either, so she does the only thing she can think of: she takes her single empty pottery crock, aims, and drops it onto Thranduil's head.

It must be stronger than it looks, for it doesn't break, but it does knock him out cold, and she'd be lying if she said there wasn't a certain satisfaction to be had in it. She scales down the tree, takes the crock and his knife, and on impulse carves 'no' into the dirt, right where he'll see it when he wakes.

And then she's back in her tree, curled up in her blankets, quite at one with the world. She's saved Thranduil's life and hurt him at the same time.

In that, they are now even.

When Thranduil wakes, it is to a throbbing headache, and a lump the size of an egg on his brow.

Dawn has given way to morning, and the fire is long cold. Worryingly, his knife is missing – the question is not what knocked him out, but who – and why.

He sits up, wincing, and notices the 'no' carved very plainly into the earth. Someone wants him alive, but has no compunction about hurting him to achieve it. The mystery deepens, and he likes it less than ever.

He looks up, squinting in the sunlight, but isn't surprised when he sees nothing. His would-be savior, whoever he or she is, is likely long gone.

The fact that someone was watching him without his knowledge is chilling. A warrior experienced as he should have known better. Even another Elf shouldn't be able to track him without detection; certainly he can think of none in his halls or out of them stealthy enough for that.

There are more flowers, he sees, sprung up seemingly overnight, and he's almost disturbed to see that some of them are athelas plants. At least he has something for his headache.

He rebuilds the fire, and sets a small pot of water beside it, waiting for the coals to heat it. The warmth is welcoming in the still-chill morning air.

Thranduil glances at the trees while he waits. His watcher might be gone, but, as he was so thoroughly unaware of their presence last night, for all he knows, they watch him still. That thought is even more chilling, despite the fact that they obviously mean him no actual harm. Possibly a concussion, but a concussion given to prevent him from stabbing himself.

He hadn't actually been going to take his own life, but clearly his unseen companion had thought otherwise. It must be someone who has at least guessed the true depth of his melancholy, and he can think of few of those – and he can think of none who would risk his wrath by following him against orders, nor who has the skill to do so completely unnoticed. Not even Legolas could move so thoroughly unseen, and Thranduil had trained the boy himself.

"If you are still out there," he says, feeling a bit ridiculous, "I have no intention of taking my own life. I thank you for your somewhat painful concern, but I will not abandon my duty to my people."

Unsurprisingly, he receives no answer. He can't shake the sensation that he is being watched, but that could easily all be in his mind.

Even if he is, he must eat, and bathe the lump on his brow, so he does, while beams of gold pierce through holes that were not in the canopy yesterday. His companion has evidently been busy while he was unconscious.

When he breaks camp, all his senses are hyper-alert – if he is being followed now, he will know of it. There's no shadow in his mind, no moving patch of silence, no sound save that of breeze and birdsong. There can be absolutely nothing there, and yet he knows, knows he is being watched. It's the most unsettling thing he's felt in centuries, and it's almost enough to make him turn back.

Almost. If he does not drain out the worst of this despair here, he never will – and while he wouldn't take his own life, eventually he will Fade. That task is going to made infinitely more difficult by his watcher, however – his whole point in coming out here was to be alone, and he's so obviously not alone now.

Damn.

He does his best to ignore it, to focus on the forest itself, but even that unnerves him. Whoever has been at work on the spider-nests and planting the flowers has also been severing old webs, letting more light to the ground even where the canopy remains thick. There is someone else out there who cares for these woods, and cares deeply – and, when he pauses for lunch in a sudden bed of tiny pink daisies, he thinks he knows who.

There are no footprints, no sign that anyone has been here, but tangled on the spines of a gorse bush is a single, very long, very red hair.

Thranduil's breath catches in his throat. He's careful not to react, not to let on that he has found something, but only one person in his entire kingdom has hair of that length and hue.

Tauriel has not gone far after all.

It makes a certain amount of sense. It's him she hates, not the forest, and the Greenwood – Mirkwood, though he loathes the name – is vast. She could have lived here for centuries undetected, if not for her hair.

If she is here, she will have noticed his efforts, and he hopes she can take a measure of comfort in it, knowing that she is not the only one who cares. He hopes that she knows she set change in motion.

But if it is really Tauriel, why would she stop him, if she believed he meant to take his own life? Knocking him unconscious, that he can see, but she hates him. He would think she would happily watch him die.

But then, Legolas would have to come home, and perform a task he does not want. And things are changing – perhaps the work that has been done over the winter drove her to do what she thought was saving his life. Either way, he's oddly warmed by it. She might hate him, but at least she sees that he is doing something.

He picks a flower, and uses it to mask the action of grabbing the hair. While Tauriel left most of her personal effects, she left nothing of her; this strand, this thread of flame, is part of her, both infinitely more painful and more comforting than the box of lifeless jewels that still resides at the back of a cupboard.

Thank you, he thinks, tucking both hair and flower into his pocket. Le melin, Tauriel, though you will never know.

Okay, Thranduil, that was a tidbit creepy, but I'll forgive you. Tauriel might not; though she no longer hates you, she's a long, long way from forgiving you.

She is, of course, entirely wrong about him, but it's not like he's ever given her cause to know better. She's starting to get some evidence to the contrary, and will get more when they actually properly meet up again, though it won't be nearly enough to convince her yet. (And oh, just wait until he finds out everything she's thought all this time. The angst, the aaaangst. I love Thranduil, and yet I adore torturing the shit out of him far too much.)

Who is our mystery, amnesiac Elf? You'll find out soon enough. Thranduil's going to be utterly horrified to see him.