In which Thranduil has what he hopes is a good idea, Yavanna wants to strangle him, and rumor spreads.

Thranduil paces, restless, his robes whispering across the floor.

A half-finished letter to Lady Galadriel sits on his desk, but he can't focus enough to complete it. He can't focus on anything. The tiny bottle containing Tauriel's hairs is clenched in his left hand, the glass warmed by his fingers.

Tauriel is here. She is here, and he wishes to see her, but he cannot – he does not deserve to, and he doesn't want to imagine what she would do if he were to try. She needs to rest and heal, and she can do neither in his presence.

And yet…this may well be the last time he will ever truly see her. Let her rail at him – let her throw things – let her hit him until she's satisfied. At least he will see her, the fire in her eyes and the fire of her hair. He can burn the beauty of her face into his mind forever. It will be cold comfort, once he loses her again, but it will be better than nothing.

Yes, he will see her, one last time. Then, perhaps, he can finish this blasted letter, and tell Galadriel she needs to get his cousin out of his hair, before he chops off Maglor's other hand.

Late though it is, there are still many people about as he makes his way to the healing wards, all whispering about the newest acquisition. Thranduil cannot blame them; it is not every day one finds the (supposedly) last of the Fëanorians in the dungeons. And while still none know the circumstances of Tauriel's leaving, he bears a rather spectacular bruise on his chin where she punched him. It's clear evidence that her ire with him has not faded.

Except, in a strange way, it seems it has – or at least, it has shifted form. In their last two interactions, she has been very annoyed with him, but that frigid hatred is gone. He tries not to take heart in it for himself – it means only that she is healing, not that that she has any regard for him. He has been nothing to her for decades, and nothing he remains, and will always remain.

But she is here now, and here she will remain, until her leg heals. For this last, brief amount of time, she is his, even if she will never see it that way.

He finds Ríniel cataloging herbs in the healing wards. At the moment, Tauriel is the only patient, and doubtless the healers are bored.

"My lord," she says, bowing her dark head.

"How is Tauriel?" he asks, without preamble.

"She is resting, for now," she says. "She woke earlier, and ate a bowl of soup, but she seems…well, my lord, she seems afraid. I have never known Tauriel to fear anything."

That is odd. He was expecting rage from her – at him, at Maglor, at the world. She must know that her so-called father is locked up; she has nothing to fear from him, and she's never been afraid of Thranduil himself. "Have you asked her why?"

"I did not think it wise, my lord," Ríniel says frankly. "I did not wish to enrage her."

Well, that's a fair point. "If she says anything of it, tell me," he says. "And do not tell her I asked. Take me to her."

The healer hesitates. "So long as you do not wake her, my lord. I think we would all rather not repeat the last time she stayed in the wards."

"No," he says blandly, "we would not." He knows his people still speculate about that – and with Maglor here, that will only grow. He ought to be grateful they suspect him of offering her insult over her supposed heritage, rather than the truth, but now that that supposition has been confirmed, the truth would almost be better. Yes, he would be dishonored in the eyes of his people, but it might deflect attention from the revelation of her parentage.

Thranduil follows Ríniel to Tauriel's room, an comes to a decision. He has suffered over this in silence long enough – this is a secret he will keep no longer. He will give his people something else to talk about.

Tauriel is indeed deeply asleep, her fiery hair spread out over her pillow. Without so much as a glance at Ríniel, he takes out his boot-knife and severs a red lock, coiling it around his fingers before putting it in his pocket.

The burn of the healer's shocked eyes follows him while he leaves, and he smiles, his heart suddenly lighter. Doubtless word of his bewildering behavior will spread like wildfire. Perhaps it will be easier to convince Tauriel of his feelings if everyone else knows of them first.

This will more than likely end in utter catastrophe, but he finds he no longer cares. No more does he sit idle in the running of his kingdom; it is high time his own life ceased languishing as well.

Yavanna covers her face with her hand. Thranduil, Thranduil, what is she to do with him? The ellon is a walking disaster.

And yet, just maybe, it will not be utterly terrible. Tauriel is right about his obsession, but wrong about the nature of his feelings. Left to her own devices, she will never believe otherwise, nor will she allow herself to recognize any sign of them for what they are. If everyone else does, however…that might help.

That Thranduil loves her would be obvious, if only he let it be – and it seems that is his intent. It is not, however, a healthy love, for he is not a healthy person, but nor is Tauriel. On her own, she'll never trust Thranduil again, and she has great reason not to. But if others come to trust his sincerity, perhaps she will, too.

It is a hope, anyway.

Meanwhile, Maglor languishes in the dungeons, his mind far away once more. At least Thranduil is keeping him well-tended – his injury is cared for, and he is decently fed, with a comfortable mattress. Still Yavanna grieves the loss of his hand, and still she cannot blame Thranduil at all.

Really, she doesn't know why so many of the Firstborn look down on the other races of Middle-Earth. They're perfectly capable of making all sorts of fine messes of their very own.

Ríniel wastes no time at all telling the other healers of the King's strange behavior.

They are all very bored, given their lack of patients, and often meet up in one of the distilleries for a glass or two of wine. It's a large room, but crowded with kettles and cauldrons, the shelves lined with bottles of all colors and sizes, glittering like jewels in the lamplight.

"Why in Eru's name would he take a lock of her hair?" Iólel asks, her blue eyes wide. She's perched on the edge of the long counter, wedged between stacks of iron pots.

Ríniel thinks back on all of the interactions she's witnessed – all the way to the tent on the battlefield, when the King so desperately ordered her to save Tauriel. That had been extremely…personal.

"I think he's in love with her," she says. "And she, for whatever reason, very obviously doesn't reciprocate. Something must have happened between them, at some point.

Iólel looks incredibly dubious; Amaniel does not. She's been closer to many of the Guard than the other healers for several hundred years. "If something did, it happened twenty years ago," she says. "Tauriel changed, abruptly and drastically. I do not know what it could be, but she went from being fond of the King to holding him in total contempt, though I don't believe she ever said anything aloud of it. She did not need to. Somehow, he hurt her immensely."

"Then she tried to kill herself, attacked him, and snuck away as soon as soon as she was able," Iólel muses. "I do not foresee this ending well. Especially not now that her…father…is here." That story made the rounds as soon as the delegation returned – including Tauriel's reaction to that…revelation. Tauriel will want out of here as soon as possible, whether she's healed or not. Someone is going to have to watch over her – someone she cannot overpower, and who will not aid her escape, as Huoriel did.

The problem is that the guards are all very loyal to their captain – too loyal for her own good. It must be impressed upon them that sneaking her out before she is fully healed would be very dangerous to her. Even without the spiders, the forest is too dangerous for her to wander about it partially crippled.

And the King…oh, that worries Ríniel. In these last months he has been so different, so active. No one wants to see him return to his former state, but if Tauriel continues to freeze him out, that is all but inevitable.

Ríniel needs to discover what happened between them. As things stand, she wants to encourage Tauriel to forgive him, but that want might not remain once she knows what he actually did. Whatever it was, it must have been very bad, to change Tauriel so much.

But the King – when he'd taken that lock of hair, he'd looked so very sad. Whatever happened, he heartily regrets it. But if it was as bad as Ríniel fears, that might not be enough. As a healer, she knows that some hurts never truly heal.

Sadronniel is weary, but not too weary for gossip.

She sits in the crowded guardroom, which is bright and over-warm from the presence of so many people, cleaning her boots and listening.

Having been at Erebor, she already knew about Tauriel's father, and related that juicy tale to all and sundry. This, however, is news to her, and nearly as shocking.

She wishes she could say she does not believe it, but, as she chips dried mud from leather, she can't. For all the King has been much more active, she's also seen flashes of sorrow in his eyes since Tauriel left. She never would have made the connection, give how frosty their relationship has been on both sides for twenty years, but Faelon insists it's true.

"You didn't see him in the tent, after she'd tried to kill herself," he says. He sits not on a bench, but on a table, mending a rend in his brown cloak. "I did not think him capable of such desperation, but desperate he was. He told her that she had to live, and he would help her to Imladris or Lothlórien, where she need never think on him again. He said or did something twenty years ago. Before that, I had always thought her rather fond of him, but after that – well, you all saw how much she hated him, for all she never spoke of it. Or him."

That Sadronniel has to concede. Whenever anyone mentioned the King, frigid loathing flashed through Tauriel's eyes – at first. After five years or so, it shifted to vicious, icy contempt. No, she never said anything, but Faelon is right – she didn't need to. She was never anything less than professional, but there was an edge, a hardness, that had never been there before.

But the King – if there had ever been any manner of regard there since then, he's hidden it very, very well. Why be so obvious – well, obvious by his standards – about it now?

"I wonder what he did," Belegorn says, and drains his cup of wine. "After the battle, in the healing wards, she was very intent on finishing what she started. She'd all but knocked me out, but I heard her say that he had taken everything from her, and he would not take her death as well."

Icy suspicion works its way into Sadronniel's gut. That wording…an ellon would not see the significance of it, but she does. "I think he seduced her," she says, half incredulous, "and must have been very cold to her afterward."

The entire room stares at her. "What?" Aegnor says. "Why in Eru's name would you think that?"

"It's what she said, isn't it?" Menelwen asks, from her seat in the corner. She's gripping an entire jug of wine, as possessively as though it is a child.

"Yes.'You took everything from me' – Tauriel has always had few material possessions. There is only one thing she had to give that she would not have desired wasted."

The rest of them look deeply disturbed. Yes, the King has been ill-tempered as long as a number of them have been alive, but none would have thought him capable of sinking so low. He must have spun a web of pretty lies, for Tauriel would not have casually given herself to him. No wonder she has hated him so much – and no wonder she finally left.

"Well, he obviously regrets it now," Faelon says, breaking the shocked silence.

"Yes, twenty years too late," Menelwen snorts. "You know Tauriel – the world could end and she wouldn't forgive him. And honestly, I don't think she should. I had thought the King better than that."

So has Sadronniel. Tauriel must have, too. That poor girl – she must have felt so very alone, too ashamed to confide in anyone. "We have to get her away," she says. "As soon as she can stand, we must take her elsewhere. Between the King and Maglor, if she stays, I fear she'll try to take her own life again."

"We would be banished," Faelon points out.

"I am uncertain I care," Sadronniel retorts. "I do not know that I want to serve a King who could do such a thing, and show no remorse until the one he betrayed is gone."

"He's changed, though," Belegorn says. "I think he is trying to atone for his misdeeds."

Belegorn is likely right, but still. Sadronniel might not agree with some of the King's policies, but she's always respected him. Now, though…if she's right – and she's sure she is – how can she serve him? That – that is something some base Edain monarch would do.

Poor Tauriel. That really would explain so very much. Yes, they must get her away, as soon as they possibly can.

Word of the King's strange actions reach Lady Silwen through her handmaid, Idríniel. Idríniel's brother is a guard, and is all too happy to report the guards' speculations.

They might be surprised, but Silwen is not. She mastered the art of watching much and saying little millennia ago, and what she does not actually know of the goings-on in the halls, she can usually guess.

The King has always looked at Tauriel with a subtle fondness few would notice. While one wouldn't think him the sort to engage in anything as risky as seducing one of his subjects, even he could have moments of weakness – a moment that Silwen at least has been able to see he has regretted for twenty years, though she realizes now she was wrong about the nature of it. All this time she's thought him angry that he betrayed the Queen, that he had given into weakness and debased himself with a Silvan elleth, for he is the sort who would see it as such.

Now, though…well, this is much worse. That Tauriel loathes him, and has loathed him, is no secret, for all she's been silent about it. Silwen rather dreads how this will end.

She wonders what Thranduil said or did – both to get her into his bed, and to drive her off after the fact. If the wretched ellon wished companionship of that nature, there are many who would give it without persuasion, but no – he had to pick Tauriel, a girl so young she would not understand she was being used. Someone older, more experienced, would know how that manner of game was played, but Tauriel had been so open and innocent and so very, very naïve, and doubtless the King had preyed on that.

And yet, now it seems Silwen has been wrong in her estimation of his regret, and that will get…messy. Why, if he loves – or thinks he loves – the poor girl, would he have done whatever he did to make her hate him so? And why did he let it fester for twenty years? She's very much afraid she knows where this is going, and she could slap Thranduil. There are some things from which there is no going back, and a broken heart is one of them. If he thinks he can earn Tauriel's forgiveness, let alone her love, he is destined to be disappointed.

And perhaps someone needs to tell him so, before he makes an incurable mess. Silwen has never feared Thranduil, nor his temper, and should he give in to it and banish her – well, she has kin in Lothlórien. Someone needs to knock some sense into him, and if she doesn't do it metaphorically, Tauriel will do it literally. That poor girl has suffered enough already, and Thranduil has been a fool for far too long.

When Tauriel wakes, there is dull, throbbing pain in her leg, and she's desperately thirsty. A jug and a glass sit on the nightstand, and she pours herself some water and drains the glass in three long swallows.

She's queasy with fear, too, though at first she can't remember why. When the lingering fuzziness of the poppy clears, she wishes she still didn't remember.

What do I have to fear, really? she asks herself, trying to tamp down her unease as she pours another glass of water. Thranduil is unlikely to directly lock her up, or so she hopes. If his letters are at all sincere, he would not deliberately cause her misery – and while he is obsessed, he is neither insane nor delusional. At least, he does not seem to be, and just now, she has to trust that appearance, or she will go mad.

She gropes under the mattress, and finds her stolen good still there. Sooner or later he will realize they are missing – but she can't let herself think of that right now, either.

Oh, what is she to do? Just now, Thranduil doesn't need to lock her up – she doubts her leg would bear her weight if she tried standing, let alone walking.

"Yavanna, help me," she says aloud, and drains her glass again. For once in her life, Tauriel is well and truly stuck – she literally cannot get out of this on her own, and the mere thought is suffocating. For twenty years, she could have left any time she liked, but now? Now she is trapped. Such a wound will take at least a fortnight to heal enough to allow her to walk even with the aid of a stick.

What is she going to do?

Heal. Heal, and hope Thranduil is too busy with Maglor to spare time – or thought – for her.

Somehow, she doubts she will be that lucky.

Yeah, Thranduil, you've just opened up one massive jar of bees, and you have no idea yet just how massive. Meanwhile, Tauriel is not, in fact, that lucky – and there's still Maglor, who we will see again soon.