In which Thranduil is busy, Yavanna interferes, and he and Tauriel properly meet.
Knowing Tauriel lingers in the forest helps Thranduil immensely, as does that single strand of hair. It resides in a bottle in his desk, where none can find it, and he's wise enough now to put a lock on his box of letters.
The worst of his melancholy lifts, and when it threatens to descend again, he thinks of her running among the trees, planting flowers and killing spiders.
He could, of course, give orders for her to be caught, but he finds he doesn't want to – and not only because it wouldn't work. Tauriel has been miserable in the halls, and would be miserable again, but she must be enjoying herself in the forest, or she wouldn't linger. He cannot see her, but at least he knows she's there.
And then there is the assault on Dol Guldur.
He musters not just the Guard, but those of his soldiers capable of so long a march. None of them know just what they will find there, but there is a reason he has never let any of the Guard venture into it, and it is not because the crumbling fortress lies beyond their borders. Even lingers there, of a sort none of them have ever known, and he would not subject them to it.
Now, though, they have done so much work killing the spiders that he has to destroy the source, and with enough people, he thinks they can manage it. A full thousand march silently behind him, and have for the last two days, but they can't assault the fortress until tomorrow morning, when they will have full daylight.
He sees yet more evidence of Tauriel's handiwork along the way. In many places the canopy has been drastically thinned, and the sunny spaces beneath it are carpeted with wildflowers. Ivy and pale morning-glories creep up the ancient trunks, and everywhere, everywhere there is athelas.
Of course he's far from the only one who notices, though he seems to be the only one who knows the source. The guards and soldiers whispered to one another, and he doesn't wonder why – it has been many a century since any manner of good surprise has been found in the forest.
And yet it is more than that, more merely than flowers and sunlight. Even on the morning they face Dol Guldur, the air feels…lighter, somehow.
His first sight of the fortress itself sours his stomach. He ought to have torn it down long before the Necromancer had settled in it, but it was beyond his borders, and for far too long, all that was beyond his borders had seemed none of his concern.
But no more.
And yet, he sees vines are growing on the old walls, again, living vines, the green vivid against the worn grey stone. There is the scent of decay, and of spider, but the vines grow, and seemingly thrive.
"Captain Faelon, Captain Sadronniel, take the western walls," he orders. "Captain Menelwen and I will take the east."
Their torches ignite with a whoosh and sudden burst of flame, the heat of them hitting his face like a solid force. Those unfortunate enough to bear the buckets of pitch move forward, guarded on all sides by bowmen.
The ruins are eerily quiet as they creep into them, but it isn't a watchful quiet – Tauriel is not here, which is almost a disappointment. She would have liked to witness it, after pushing for it for so long.
It doesn't take long at all for them to find the master nest, and the sight of it gives even Thranduil pause. The webs in the forest can be thick, but nothing like this; these stretch hundreds of feet in the air, some as solid as walls, filled with wrapped lumps that are likely orc corpses.
It's sickening, and anymore, it takes a great deal to sicken him. And buckets aren't going to be efficient. Not at all.
"Archers, forward," he orders. "Dip your arrows in the pitch and ignite them. I want a line across the path, and another before it. I do not know what we might flush out, but you are our first defense."
They move as ordered, with fluid Elven grace, and those behind them ready blades and bows. In a nest this size, several adults might well have survived the winter.
The line of arrows ignites, one by one, flickering bright. The scent of the burning pitch is much more pleasant than the decay wafting from the webs – which is only going to get worse once the arrows fly.
"Fire," he commands, knowing it's best to get this over with.
Dozens of flames trail overhead, striking all along the nearest web – the only one that can be reached just yet. It goes up like a torch itself, desiccated as it is by the dry, frigid winter air, and the heat of it nearly makes him grimace. Thranduil has no love of fire, nor is he likely to ever again, but he concedes that it has its uses – even if the stench of the burning web is so potent he can taste it.
Behind it, he can hear the wakened hatchlings screeching – hundreds of them. Even if there are no adults, his people will have their work cut out for them.
Naturally, they cannot be so lucky. The biggest spider he has ever seen in his life comes bursting through the flaming web, and doesn't even seem to feel the volley of arrows that find homes in its underbelly. The sound it lets out is so loud it's very nearly deafening, and he is not the only one who flinches – it reminds him a little too much of a Nazgûl's cry.
Another volley of arrows looses before he can give the order – aflame this time, and while a few sail beyond the foul thing, most find their mark.
It screeches again, lumbering toward them, and Thranduil realizes they have to take out its legs or it will not go down. His swords whisper as he draws them, adrenaline surging through him. This isn't precisely battle, but it's near enough, and it makes him feel, for the first time in what seems like forever, alive. The battle before Erebor had been very different, his people's involvement the result of his selfishness and nothing more, but this, this is good, is pure.
He neatly severs a foreleg, and swipes off one toxic mandible when the thing lurches downward. He'd swear its shrieking nearly ruptures his eardrums, but someone takes out its other foreleg, and down its front crashes, the stink of its burning hide nearly intolerable.
The thing is simply too fat for arrows to kill it; someone is going to have to slash its belly from beneath, and pray they don't get stung in the process.
At his height, he's hardly an ideal candidate, but he won't ask anyone else to risk their life in such a manner. Drawing a deep breath, he dives and rolls, bringing both his blades up to slash at the creature's leathery hide. Black, stinking blood sprays from the wound, though mercifully, most of it misses him.
What does not miss, however, is the stinger, which stabs into his left thigh so hard it actually snaps off the spider's body, sending an instantaneous wave of burning agony all through him.
How he doesn't scream, he never will know. He manages to roll clear of the thing before it can crush him, but only barely. He wrenches the stinger out, but he knows it might already be too late – a spider of that size would have enough venom to kill ten Elves, not one. And indeed his vision is already blurring, his consciousness tunneling into darkness. He's dimly aware of hands grabbing him, dragging him away, and then there is nothing.
Menelwen curses as they drag the King away. King he might be, but that was amazingly stupid – it is always the smaller guards who kill the spiders from beneath, precisely because taller Elves are at greater risk of being stung. She ought to see to him, but she can't; while that might have been the only adult spider, there are still hundreds of spawn to be dealt with. The healers will have to tend him, and hope to Eru he didn't just get himself killed.
Greenwood, the Elf thinks. He knows the name, though he doesn't know how or why. It's not important – there is something important in it – but what and why still escape him.
No matter. Perhaps, by the time he arrives, he will know.
Thranduil dreams, incoherent and vague and filled with pain. He dreams of Tauriel.
She was so small when first he saw her, a tiny thing standing guard over her mother's corpse with a blade far too big for her, her hair a fiery tangle, her face and clothes splashed and smeared with blood both red and black. Overlaying the heartbreak in her green eyes is a burning ferocity, and she meets his gaze squarely even as her chin trembles. So small, and yet so very, very strong.
She didn't answer, when first he asked her name – her throat worked, but no sound emerged. A faint purples mark, shaped like a handprint, explained it; someone had tried to throttle her – someone whose corpse, he suspected, he would find nearby.
She wouldn't go near any of the others in his party, and hesitated even when he beckoned her, looking instead at the ruin of her mother's body. Eventually she took his hand, and he led her away from the ashes of her entire world.
He took her to the healers, who tended her hurts, bathed her, and handed her back to him. It worried him that she didn't cry, until it occurred to him that she didn't feel safe doing so. On a whim, he took her to Legolas, who knew all too well what it was like to lose a mother.
"You are safe here, little one," he said, as he carried her through the halls. "No harm will come to you. My son has also lost his mother. He will help you."
She still couldn't speak, but he felt her nod against his shoulder. She trusted him already, and when he looked at her green eyes, too big in her small face, he thought that he would die before he betrayed that trust.
He dreams of her eyes that night, that wonderful night before the wretched morning, looking at him with such light and reverence and innocence, dreams of the exact moment he watched that innocence crack, watched the light fade. It hadn't gone out, but after that it was so cold and sharp, a knife of ice. So long has he spent trying to forget, but Elven memories are perfect; always he will see that look, that betrayal. He'd shattered her trust, and all because he was afraid – afraid of what it was to feel again.
She is in the forest still, but out of his reach, and oh, how he wants to grab her, to hold her and beg forgiveness he doesn't deserve. He wants her warmth, the woodsy smell of her, the softness of her flaming hair, wants it so much it hurts as much as his wound.
Tauriel, Tauriel…what is the point of all he is doing, if he must forever do it alone? He does not wish to Fade, and yet he fears that when he wakes, if he wakes, he will.
"Oh no, you do not."
The voice isn't his, but he cannot place it. A woman's, smoky and rich.
"I have plans for you, Thranduil Oropherion. You are not allowed to die and unmake them."
Who are you, he thinks, but cannot ask.
"One who has already done much to heal the damage you have caused. I will not allow you to die before my work is through. Your song has not yet ended, nor has your part to play. You will understand, in time."
When Thranduil wakes, there is no pain, but only because he has been dosed with a massive amount of poppy. It takes him a moment to realize he is outside – a fire crackles to his left, the only light against the blackness of the night. He cannot have been unconscious for very long, or they would be back at the halls. Someone has removed his armor, and he's wrapped in many cloaks, with several folded beneath his head as a pillow. His mouth is dry as ashes – a side effect of the poppy – and his leg itches terribly.
"My lord, thank Eru you are awake." It's Menelwen's voice, unspeakably relieved. Her pale face and grey eyes swim into view, though his vision is still blurred. "We thought you dead at first, and then we thought you would never wake. Such a sting should have killed a troll."
He rather wishes it had killed him. "Lucky," he croaks.
She and Captain Faelon help him sit so he can drink some water. "Status?" he rasps.
"Burned, all of them," Faelon says jubilantly. "We will have to send a patrol back in a fortnight or so, just to be sure, but I doubt anything will help rise from those ashes."
"Good." Thranduil wishes he could say more, but it isn't as if he could find the words even if his voice would allow it. It is good.
"The Valar must truly favor you, my lord," Menelwen says, and he goes cold. Yes, it would take a Vala to heal him from such a wound. He thinks of the flowers, of how Tauriel can track him unobserved, when by all rights that should be impossible.
Yavanna.
The thought fills him with dread. Those directly touched by the Valar rarely come to happy endings. His forest is already the better for it, and his people, but Thranduil himself? He doubts it.
At least Tauriel seems to have benefited from it. She still has her home, yet she is free. He can take comfort in that, if nothing else.
Even seated, his head is spinning. He's always hated poppy, the way it slows and dulls the senses, but he's not fool enough to go without, after a wound like that. Even with Yavanna's aid, he knows already that he'll be all but useless for weeks to come.
Which is a crying shame. He had hoped to search the woods for more traces of Tauriel, though he doubts he will find any. That single hair is likely all he will have, but it is far better than nothing.
And he will need it, when he is home. Eru knows he has more letters to write.
Yavanna reminds herself that the Eldar are long-lived, and that her work will not come to fruition overnight. Still, peril approaches; Thranduil will have need of Tauriel's aid soon enough, and Tauriel is not yet ready to give it. Just now, she could easily flee out into the wide world – could, and will, as things currently stand.
Her father is looking for her. And Eru help them if he finds her.
In that, Yavanna cannot interfere. She's doing more than she ought already, but Thranduil made such a mess of what would have been wonderful for them both, and she could not bear to see Tauriel suffer so.
Yavanna is not, however, Eru; her foresight is imperfect. As a result, she didn't see Tauriel's father's involvement at all. But then, even with that, perhaps her interference is a good thing. Had Tauriel still been in the halls and still so wounded in heart and fëa, it would have been a disaster, for Thranduil would not have let her leave.
Not once he knew who her father is.
For now, all Yavanna can do is watch the pair of them – Tauriel, who sleeps peacefully, and Thranduil, who does not. The Valar are not supposed to play favorites, but she really is rather irritated with him. He threw something lovely badly off course, and now, when Tauriel's father finds them, Yavanna fears many will suffer for it.
The pair of them need to meet, if only briefly. A lengthy meeting would prove disastrous, but they need to see, with their own eyes, how the other has changed – especially Thranduil. Tauriel must know with certainty that he's not longer the cold creature who broke her heart. It will not make her forgive him – it's far too soon for that – but it is a step in the right direction. Actual forgiveness might well take centuries, but she must be able to at least tolerate him without wanting to throttle him.
Yes, Yavanna thinks, when next Thranduil wanders into the woods alone, he will meet with Tauriel, and they will see what happens. She won't lie – she laughed a little at Tauriel's solution to what she thought was Thranduil's intention to take his own life. Simple, yet effective. At least Yavanna made sure he had some athelas for his headache the next day.
Thranduil's convalescence is every bit as aggravating as he expects. He is used to being busy from dawn until dusk, but for another fortnight, he can do little save deal with paperwork and the Council. The healers have been adamant that he stay off his leg as much as possible, and he knows he would do be a fool to ignore them.
His councilors – and everyone else – tiptoe around him, for his mood is foul, and he's every bit as irascible as his old self. As soon as the healers give approval, he takes the elk and rides out into the forest.
The first thing that strikes him is how very clear the air is – clear, and pure. He hasn't felt it thus in centuries. It's warm, too; summer is well on the way, and the warmth of the sun draws out the scent of clean earth.
The canopy above is greener than normal, too, and as he rides deeper into the trees, he finds many of them wound about with creeping vines dotted with small, starry flowers of all colors. He's never seen the plant before, and he has no idea what it is.
Tauriel, he is sure, will not have ventured this close to the halls yet – if he wants to find any lingering sign of her, he must go further. Of course, finding anything is likely a fool's hope; the forest is vast, and she has no reason to linger so near the path. Still, she's done much work along it, and there is always a chance he'll find another hair, so that the one in his desk is not lonely.
There are more flowers, so many more, even well off the path. Can he safely call his forest the Greenwood again? Certainly it cannot accurately be called Mirkwood anymore. Perhaps it needs a new name, if he can but find one.
He's so distracted by the thought that he has no sensation of being watched – he has no idea he isn't alone until a branch comes crashing down right across the path, spooking the elk into staggering backward.
It spooks Thranduil, too, right up until he hears the cursing. His heart lurches, eyes widening – he knows that voice, and never thought he would hear it again.
Tauriel emerges from the wreck, scratched and dusty, her red hair filled with leaves. Still she swears, until she looks up and catches sight of him. Then she freezes, her eyes huge in her sun-browned face.
"Namo mae'n," she sighs.
Of all the ill luck in the world – Tauriel's never yet had a branch give out under her, and one that large certainly shouldn't have. She stares at Thranduil, who stares at her, and looks as though he's seeing a ghost.
He looks…well, actually, he looks rather terrible, as though he's been ill. His cheekbones are too sharp, his eyes ringed with faint shadows. Eldar do not sicken like other races; only some manner of poison could have done this. Perhaps she missed a spider after all, and he found it – or it found him.
"Tauriel," he breathes, her name like a prayer, and it's all she can do not to roll her eyes. The sound of his voice no longer enrages her, but it is irritating. Now that he knows she's here, she's going to have to move to the other end of the blasted forest.
"Yes, that is my name," she says flatly. "What are you doing out here, Thranduil? The spring work is done. Go back to the halls where you belong." Of course, of course he would take to venturing forth exactly when she doesn't want him to.
"You – you've seen that?" he asks, and there's something hopeful and almost hesitant in his voice.
"I've watched you all," she says, and then, because she simply can't help it, she arches an eyebrow and adds, "You've provided ample entertainment, and I thank you for it, but do not presume to rise above your station. You are a king, of haughty Sindar stock, and your place is within the halls, not this Silvan forest. It was ours before it was yours. Return to your duties, King."
He flinches as though she's struck him, but she's surprised to find she can take little satisfaction from it. Before he can so much as open his mouth, she's gone, back up into the trees, racing through the boughs with the agility of a squirrel.
All right, perhaps that was a bit cruel, but he does need reminding of his place. His father only became king because her people allowed it; for a thousand years, the forest had been theirs. Technically, the Sindar are interlopers. They might think themselves high and mighty, but without the leave of his 'lowly Silvan stock subjects (thank you, Thranduil), he would be king of nothing. The thought comforts her, when she thinks of how he's been so ready to insult her heritage.
She feels a little twinge of guilt when she thinks on his expression, though. It's very little, but it's there. Oh well. It isn't like he doesn't deserve it. Meanwhile, how she has to move, and move far, because she's certain, without knowing why, that he'll hunt her now.
Well. This is her forest, and she knows it far better than he does. He can hunt all he likes, but he won't catch her.
That, Yavanna thinks, could have gone better, though it could also have gone a great deal worse. At least Tauriel no longer hates Thranduil, even if she's not above slinging pointed barbs. It's a start, if not by much.
Thranduil feels like he's been stabbed in the chest, for of course he recognizes her words far too well. They're so very little different from what he said to her that wretched morning, calculated so efficiently to drive her away. And he understands now how much they must have hurt. He'd meant them to hurt, but no, he had not considered just how effective it would be.
And it's worse, somehow, that there was so little malice in them. If anything, Tauriel sounded amused.
It's no less than her due, he knows, and no less than he deserves, but that doesn't help. He sits still for a long while, and wonders how many times his cruel words made her cry.
Thranduil shudders, feeling as though he's going to be sick, and dismounts the elk almost without knowing what he's doing. He strides to the fallen branch, searching, and sure enough, there are three more hairs tangled in it.
He kneels, freeing them, and stares at the way they twine around his fingers like strands of liquid fire. His throat closes and his eyes burn, but he can't weep, no matter how much he wishes he could.
He's known all along that he hurt her terribly, but not until now has he given real thought as to just how terribly. And she had none to confide in, none to share her burden. Tauriel, so social and loving a creature, had been alone. It's little wonder she had gone so cold; she'd had no other choice.
And she'd spent all this time believing he'd wished her to leave. What else was she wrong about, that he has never given her cause to believe otherwise?
"Do you really wish to know, Thranduil Oropherion?"
Yavanna.
In truth, no, he doesn't. He doesn't think he can bear any more pain, but he deserves it as punishment. And he can't imagine that knowledge is worse than what his imagination can concoct.
"Yes," he whispers aloud, still staring at those three hairs.
"She believes that everything you said and did that night was a lie calculated to get her into your bed, because you knew she would never simply allow herself to be used. She believes that you think her so worthless that you did not care that it would break her heart."
Thranduil thinks he can pinpoint the moment his own shatters. Did she really think – but then, why would she not? He really has never given her any evidence to the contrary.
And that, that is finally enough to break him. For the first time in centuries, he finds himself weeping, hot and bitter. It is not wonder at all that she's hated him all this time – he'd had no idea, none at all, that she'd felt so very used and degraded. Tauriel, Tauriel who he loves – what has he done to her?
His fingers clench around the hairs, and his tears are like poison. Why did you not let me die of that? I deserve it.
"Because you are already proving you are not beyond redemption, little Thranduil. You have much left to do."
Just now, he does not feel as though he can do anything.
Tauriel doesn't know what compels her to return, but compelled she is, and return she does, creeping silent along the boughs. And what she finds nearly shocks her into falling.
Thranduil kneels beside the fallen branch, several strands of her hair clenched in his hand, and he's – is he crying? He is. It's utterly silent, but she can smell the salt of his tears, and his shoulders shake almost imperceptibly.
Not so very long ago, she would have taken truly vicious satisfaction in the sight. Now, though…now she's merely stunned. She hadn't thought Thranduil capable of tears.
"I'm sorry, Tauriel," he whispers, and that almost makes her fall again, for surely he cannot know that she is here? No, she thinks, he doesn't know – he's speaking into the air.
It sobers her immensely. His words are a litany of apologies, sometimes indecipherable save for her name. Did her impulsive words really break him so very badly? She can't imagine that's the only reason. He looks and sounds…well, rather like she felt, in those first few weeks after that horrible mistake of a night.
She wants to feel satisfied, wants to be glad he suffers so, but she can't. She cannot bring herself to pity him, because he really does deserve it, but she takes no joy in it. All this time, she's wanted him to understand what he did to her, and it seems he understands now, with a vengeance.
"That night was real, all of it," he whispers, his voice hoarse. "The morning, that, that was a lie, because I was guilty, and I was afraid, and I was so, so, stupid, and it excuses nothing at all, but I did not set out to use you, Tauriel – not like that, not like anything, because you are Tauriel, you were my Tauriel and I am so, so, sorry. Le melin, Tauriel, though you will never know."
He means it, too; she can hear the ring of truth in every word, and his last sentence has the sound of a prayer, oft repeated.
Tauriel sits very, very still, shocked as she has not been since, well, that morning. He's right – it's no excuse, and it doesn't change the aftermath at all, and yet…she doesn't know what to do with this, and especially not that last sentence. There's simply no way Thranduil actually loves her, but perhaps, in the grip of his guilt, he thinks he does.
His odd, unwitting confession doesn't change things – the past twenty years are the past twenty years, and always will be – but she feels…lighter, somehow. Thranduil was still a bastard that morning, and has remained a bastard until very recently, but it's…nice…knowing that she was wrong about some things.
Maybe, in five hundred years or so, she might actually forgive him.
She feels like a voyeur, watching Thranduil in his agony, but she finds she can't leave. It's not that she revels in his suffering, for she doesn't; she just feels as though she should stay.
How strange it is, that they have both changed so much in little more than half a year. For Tauriel, it has been good; for Thranduil…well, she has no idea. Nor does she have any intent of lingering much longer. By nightfall, she will be far away.
Poor Thranduil. At least he's cleared up some misconceptions for Tauriel, who has food for thought. Yavanna's still got her work cut out for her, though.
What Tauriel says is "damn it" in Welsh. I can't find much in the way of cursing in Sindarin, but Sindarin is partly based on Welsh, so I cribbed it.