In which Thranduil and Tauriel head for Erebor, and meet with the one who is going to be a massive, massive thorn in both their sides.

The tree falls midmorning of the fifth day, landing with a very satisfying crash. Tauriel decides to leave it where it is, and goes for a quick, icy bath in the brook.

All her things, such as they are, are packed; spare clothes are rolled up into her blanket, and her pockets are filled with what food she can carry. Hopefully they'll get a least one good rain while she's away, or her platform garden will suffer.

She sets off into the sunshine for now, headed due north. If she keeps on this way for the next two days, she won't risk running into any patrols, so she needn't worry about lighting fires at night. No one will find her.

Perhaps, now that the spiders are gone, more people will move out here. She hopes that they don't, or at least, not for a long while. She likes having the majesty of the ancient trees all to herself.

And they are majestic, here at the center of the forest, some are the size of towers, wound about with new ivy and trailing moss. Though there is no path, the canopy was so heavy for so long that there is little undergrowth to impede her way – although strangely, it seems to have thinned itself a little without her interference, for the ground is dappled with bright spots of sunshine.

She still can't reconcile just how much life there suddenly is, after the forest was so sick for so very long. Clearly, Yavanna has been as busy as Tauriel, who now wonders why the Vala had chosen now to step in, when the forest has been poisoned for so long. Something else must have changed, something Tauriel is as yet unaware of.

Whatever it is, she's grateful for it. She couldn't have done nearly as much on her own, or as well.

Though Thranduil would rather pull all his teeth out, he makes arrangements for a state visit to Dale and Erebor.

Gifts are necessary, and easy enough for Bard and his people: summer though it is, they'll need more supplies to see them through until the harvest, but what in Eru's name can he give Dáin? He has no idea, but he must think of something. The Dwarf-king will not appreciate anything of Elven crafting. Perhaps he too would appreciate an addition to his larder, as his people have likely been eating the same things all winter. Even Dwarves can only eat so much cram, and hunting has likely been sparse in the former Desolation. Animals learned to avoid it long ago, and will be slow to return.

Part of him wonders why he bothers. His heart is too heavy for him to care much about alliances, and every time it lifts, he thinks of Tauriel's words, and Yavanna's. He does not deserve a lighter heart, and something in him will not allow him to have one. Yavanna is right; he punishes himself more effectively than anyone else could. He must learn to ease away from that for the good of his people. A broken King is of no use to anyone, including himself.

He leaves most of the packing to his servants, but puts two of Tauriel's hairs into a second glass bottle, to take with him on their trip – if something happens to it, he will still have the other two safe in his desk. That done, he sits to write her a letter.

Tauriel,

We depart for Dale in two days' time, and I wish you were here. The Dwarves might well listen to you as they never would to me, and I know that Bard's children will be asking after you. At least I can tell them that you live, and that you are happy in your work. I hope that someday you can visit them, and let them see you for themselves.

The changes in the forest no doubt you have seen already, so of them I will say little. This autumn, after the harvest but before the snow flies, we will begin dismantling Dol Guldur. It might take decades, but I will leave not even the foundation of that accursed place standing.

I do not know when you will find it, but I wish I could see your eyes when you do. I am afraid that once all is finished, the guards will find their jobs very dull, and I no longer have a captain of your caliber to keep them in line. Faelon, Menelwen, and Sadronniel are all capable, but they are not you – as even they will admit.

How I wish you would come home, even as I dread the very thought of seeing you again. I told Yavanna I have no right to even look upon you, and even the thought of your face pains me, and yet I crave it. I cannot say this enough, Tauriel, though I have no doubt you are sick of hearing it: I would give anything to undo that wretched morning. I would offer up my fëa, if only I could take back those terrible words, and erase the last twenty years.

Gi melin, Tauriel, though you will never know.

The journey is rather more fun than Tauriel expected – and swifter, two. In spite of five days of hard labor, she finds she needs little rest.

"What will I say to your mother, Kili?" she asks, fording a small stream. The icy water numbs her feet. "I cannot begin to imagine what it is like, losing a child, and she has lost not only you, but also your brother and her brother."

Tauriel remembers losing her mother, but she was very young; it's not the same at all. "Maybe she'll hate me, but I can give her your runestone, at the very least. And I would see her once, for myself, even if she never wishes to see me again. She probably would have hated the idea of an Elf as a daughter-by-marriage. At least I have no family we could have scandalized.

Although honestly, given that she'd herself been born out of wedlock, her mother might not have minded. For an unmarried elleth to have a child was vanishingly rare, and Tauriel wonders what her mother had been like – apart from even more impulsive than her daughter, apparently. Even Tauriel wouldn't have begat a child before she and Kili were wed.

She truly had to wonder about her mother. To take a lover was not unusual, even if it also wasn't spoken of in public, but Eldar are not like Edain, who restrict themselves because of how very easily they conceive when they don't want to; an elleth makes a conscious choice to beget a child. Tauriel's existence is no accident. Either her mother decided to drunkenly wed some stranger, or she wanted a child without the hassle of a husband. Either way, she'd been an unusual elleth, who might not have minded her daughter marrying a Dwarf.

Thranduil leaves the halls with a heavy heart, though the sunlight lifts it somewhat. The journey is only a matter of days, and he wishes it were longer, for thought of Dáin only makes his heart sink further.

And yet, he thinks, as they ride out under the open blue sky beyond the forest's edge, the Dwarf-king returned Anameleth's jewels to him. He had no reason at all to spare a messenger to do such a thing, and yet he did it anyway. Thranduil hopes that is a good sign. Certainly, it is unlikely to be a bad one.

Dáin can't deny that he's curious. He has no real wish to deal with the blasted sprite, and yet he can't forget the look in Thranduil's eyes as he held that dying girl. That sort of desperation only comes from love, and that is a thing that neither Dáin nor any other Dwarf would have thought him capable of.

Clearly, that love hadn't been returned, either, if the lass had been so set on Kili. For all the Elves like to think themselves above the rest of the world's mere mortals, they can get themselves embroiled in some fine messes of their own.

So he'd sent the Elven king his jewels, figuring they'd give him some comfort and get them out of the way. And as much as Dáin doesn't want to admit it, they'd have been buggered without the Elven army during the battle; sending those jewels was payment, of a sort. He'd rather not owe Thranduil any more debts than he had to.

At least the sprite and his people would be camping outside Dale, and not be in his hair for more than a few hours. Thranduil seems to get on with Bard well enough, and Bard is welcome to him. So many mortal Men have some inexplicable fascination with Elves that the whole arrangement ought to work just fine.

Still, Dáin can't help a niggling sense of foreboding. It's probably nothing, but he'll keep a weather eye out nonetheless.

Dale, Thranduil finds, is much improved – so much so that at first glance, one wouldn't guess that a battle had happened at all. Its banners and walls are mended quite skillfully, as are its houses, its people healthy and sun-browned. While he has never thought a great deal of Edain as a race, even he has to admire depth of their resilience.

Children watch in awe as they pass, either peering around their mother's skirts, or from lofty vantage points on various roofs. The adults are unreservedly pleased to see them, too, and he has to hand them this as well: they are not reserved or chary with their gratitude. The idea of such blatant openness is wholly alien to him, and yet he finds his heart lifting a little at the sight of them.

Bard, looking rather uncomfortable in formal robes of blue velvet, greets Thranduil just inside the gate. He seems a little careworn – but then, he had never expected to rule anything, let alone an entire city. Likely he's been making it up as he goes along. Well, the food will make his life easier, at least.

"King Thranduil," he says, inclining his head. "Welcome to Dale."

When Tauriel reaches the edge of the forest, she hesitates.

She doesn't know why; the sky is blue, the sun fierce and hot, and the scent of summer, of warm earth and baked grasses, hangs tempting in the air. She has to force herself to step beyond the border (her border), and make for the glittering line of the River Running's main forest tributary.

Anxiety flutters in her abdomen, but it eases some as she walks, the grass tickling her ankles. There is nothing for her to fear, no reason to be wary, nothing that can harm her, and yet she's nervous. Hopefully that will ease, or this journey will be no fun at all.

Dale throws the Elven delegation as much of a feast as they can, on their limited resources, and Thranduil finds himself strangely heartened by it.

They eat under the open sky, while the sun sets red and gold in the west. While most of the food is preserved, there are fresh berries and cream, and the first offerings of the various gardens grown from precious seeds gifted the previous winter. And if there is one truly good thing about the Edain, it is their children.

Eldar have few children, and with difficulty, but the Edain seem to produce them by the score. Hundreds of them run about, playing games while their parents eat and talk, seemingly unaffected by the nightmare they endured less than a year ago. Their town burned in dragonfire, and it's likely that most of them witnessed death during the battle, yet now they chase one another over the grass, seemingly unconcerned by anything.

How he envies them.

Tomorrow he must meet with Dáin, though thankfully the Dwarf-king is willing to come to Dale, so that they might meet, as it were, on somewhat neutral ground. It was in everyone's best interest that no one get mortally offended by some small slight, and in Dale, they would both be guests.

It is fortunate, and yet he is nervous. Thranduil lacks Elrond's foresight; he has no way of knowing what strange ill approaches, but he's sure that there is one. He can't imagine what it is, and he doesn't want to find out, but it's coming, whatever it is, and even as he watches the children, he can't fully suppress the formless dread that curdles in his stomach.

But then, he thinks, perhaps it will interrupt this wretched conference. Perhaps he will not have to deal with Dáin for very long after all.

He glances at Bard, who is watching his youngest run about. Edain could be incredibly vulnerable, but especially their children. Mad though it would surely sound, Thranduil needs to warn him.

"The air is uneasy," he says, sipping wine – that he brought, naturally. "I know not the cause, but keep your city's children near. I lack the foresight of other Eldar, but something is coming."

Bard pales. "Another dragon? Orc?" he whispers.

Thranduil shakes his head. "No, nothing like that. I think it may not be your problem at all, but nevertheless, be wary."

Bard doesn't look at all happy to hear that, but thanks him anyway.

At least Tauriel is safe in the forest, and Legolas is far away. Whatever approaches will not threaten either of them.

Well, now Bard is beyond disturbed. He's never seen King Thranduil worried before – not even when his army was massed outside Erebor.

But then, he's different in general. There's a sorrow to him now, that likely has a great deal to do with the absence of his son. The Prince survived the battle, but obviously must have decided to go abroad, and it's just as obviously affected his father deeply. It must not have been a happy parting.

The King's eyes keep traveling north, to Ravenhill, and Bard does think he knows the reason for that: the Elf-maid, Tauriel, apparently leapt to her death from it. He's kept that from the children, because they were so fond of her, but no doubt it troubles Thranduil deeply, having one of his people die by their own hand. Bard himself has been learning that to rule a people is to care for them like family, and losing even one is hard.

Thranduil does not sleep that night, for all he ought to. He also doesn't go to Ravenhill, though the temptation is very great.

Instead he sits outside his tent, and watches the stars, and wonders if he will ever feel whole again.

Coming here has reminded him starkly of his loss – of Legolas, of Tauriel, of so very many of his people, who perished for a box of soulless jewels. Yes, he has been actively working to better his kingdom, but how can he ever really atone for his betrayal? They died for his greed, and he can never change that. There are so many things he can never change…

He sits and stews until dawn, while the stars glitter mocking above him. When he rises to prepare for the day, the weight in his heart has returned, and his dread has grown. He almost wishes that whatever was coming would come already, and spare him the agony of waiting.

Thranduil, Dáin thinks, looks awful.

Not physically – Elves probably aren't capable of that – but there's an air of grief about him so strong it's palpable. Needling him in this state would just be cruel, and no fun at all.

They meet in a large tent pitched on a patch of green grass outside the city, the sides open to the air – the three leaders and all their assorted staff. Dáin left all the preparation to Balin, since he's the one who actually knows (and cares) about diplomacy. All Dáin himself has to do is show up and try not to throttle anyone.

While he might wind up tempted to throttle Thranduil soon, he knows already he won't be able to take pleasure in harassing him over it. And that just irritates him.

Poor Bard, on the other hand, just looks nervous. The man really doesn't know what he's doing, but he's a good sort, so Dáin hasn't taxed him over it. He means well, and he cares about his people, and he's the real reason Dáin has a kingdom at all, which means he's not to be unduly tormented.

Unfortunately, that's going to make for a very dull meeting.

He lets Balin get on with it, wishing he had a nice pitcher of ale, while the sun rises and the air warms. Poor Bard must have had quite a bit to drink last night, for he looks rather the worse for wear, his complexion tinged with grey and purple smudges beneath his eyes. His advisors really don't look much better, and that includes his son and eldest daughter; the lad in particular looks a bit green. Well, everyone's got to learn that lesson sometime when they're young.

Mostly, Dáin watches Thranduil, who looks tense, insofar as it's possible to read him at all. Worried, even, which does nothing for Dáin's peace of mind. Certainly he doesn't look at all surprised when a guard staggers in, telling Bard they have a…visitor.

"He's an Elf, my lord," the lad said, "only, and begging your pardon, King Thranduil, there's something wrong with him. I think he might be mad. All he'll say is he wants his daughter, and he looks – well. You'll have to see for yourself how he looks."

Thranduil shuts his eyes a moment before he rises. "If you will excuse me – I believe I must see to this."

As if Dáin – or anyone – was likely to stay put. The entire lot of them rise to follow him, probably all as grateful for a reprieve as Dáin himself.

This, whatever else it is, is bound to get interesting.

In a way, Thranduil is almost relieved to find his dread is not without cause. Almost. He has his fears about who this Elf might be, and while he hopes he is wrong, he's sure he's not. He isn't nearly lucky enough to be wrong.

He follows the guard across the sun-baked grass, through an uneasy crowd of Edain, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

But even if he is right, what can he do? He can hardly kill another Elf, but this Elf might have no qualms about killing him – or anyone else. Must he become a Kinslayer in defense of his allies? Eru, he hopes not. He has committed many sins in his life, but at least that is not among them.

He can practically taste the unease as he approaches the corner of the city's curtain-wall, sharp and dusty-bitter. Strangely, now that the source of his dread has arrived, he feels almost serene. Perhaps, if this is in fact who he suspects, he walks to his own death.

Thranduil cannot say he would mind.

He pushes through a crowd of unsettled Edain, and though he had suspected this, the actual sight shocks him to the core.

There, standing brazenly beneath the vivid sky, stands the last of the accursed sons of Fëanor.

Thranduil has never actually seen Maglor, but his appearance is well-known, even if he hasn't inherited his mother's telltale hair. Though still tall and strong, he looks terrible – his black hair is a mass of knots, his clothing ruinous and filthy, and his right hand is twisted and misshapen with burn-scars – the Silmaril's doing, Thranduil realizes.

But his eyes…his eyes are the worst of it. Blue as the sky, their pupils are mere pinpricks, as though his madness consumed the rest, and yet there is not only madness in them: there's purpose there, however warped, and it is chilling.

Well. Thranduil can hardly ask the Edain or the Dwarves to deal with this, though in reality he bears no more responsibility for Maglor than they do.

"Why have you come here, Maglor?" he demands, not bothering to waste civility on a Kinslayer.

Maglor blinks at him. "Is that my name?" he asks, his voice so cracked and hoarse that Thranduil wonders how many centuries it's been since he used it.

"Yes, Maglor, and you are unwelcome here." Incredibly, there's a sword on his belt, though he doesn't seem aware of it. Hopefully it will stay that way.

"Tauriel," Maglor says. "I seek Tauriel."

Thranduil feels Bard twitch behind him, and a sliver of ice works its way into his heart. He's long suspected Tauriel is some distant descendant of Fëanor, but surely, surely Maglor cannot be her father…. "Tauriel is not here," he says. "She made for Lothlórien at the start of spring. I would tell you to seek her there, but Galadriel would not welcome you, either."

Something sly enters those mad blue eyes. "You lie, Elvenking," he says, raising his uninjured left hand. In it, twined around his fingers, are several long, fiery hairs. "I've been following her since she left your forest. She is here, Elven king, and you will bring me to her. I want my daughter."

Wait, what? Tauriel, here? Why? Why, if she were going leave the forest at all, would she come to a place that held only pain for her?

"I know not where she is, Maglor," Thranduil says. "If she is here, I did not know of her coming. These people would welcome her, but they would not welcome you. Not if they knew who you were."

"Who is he?" Dáin asks from his left.

"Maglor, son of Fëanor," Thranduil spits. "Kinslayer. I would ask you for his head, if I didn't think he would take your own first."

"Kinslayer," Maglor laughs. "Kinslayer, as though that is all I have ever done. You know nothing, Elvenking."

"Something tells me you know little more," Thranduil says dryly, "given that I had to tell you your own name."

He is at something of a loss. Even crippled, Maglor could probably beat him in a fight; trying to take him into custody will only get someone killed, and that someone wouldn't be Maglor. If only Bard had his bow….

"King Bard," he said, still looking at Maglor, "I would be much obliged if one of your archers would shoot this…creature."

Maglor's eyebrows go up. Before Bard can speak, he says, "What's this, Elvenking – Kinslaying by proxy? If you want me dead, do it yourself. Do not force the task on some Edain."

"Bard is lord of the land you stand upon, Maglor. The man killed a dragon – I would not antagonize him."

To his despair, Maglor draws his sword, the madness in his eyes rising. "He is welcome to try to kill me. I will fell you both, if you do not bring me my daughter."

"Daughter?"

No. No.

Wretched girl, why has she left her forest? Much as he doesn't want to turn his back on Maglor, turn Thranduil does.

Tauriel, sun-browned, wild-haired, and barefoot, stands not far away, staring at the Elf who sired her. Her expression is almost impossible to read.

Before he can speak – before anyone can speak – she marches across the grass, halts before her father – and punches him.

Hard.

Thranduil should really know better than to think things can't get worse.

OH SNAP. Poor…everyone. Including Maglor. Tauriel hits hard.