In which Thranduil gets a chewing-out he richly deserves, Tauriel finds out everyone else has found out what happened to her, and she and Thranduil finally have a conversation. Sort of.
Tauriel is restless, jittery, frightened, and very annoyed.
The healers won't let her get up at all, not even to use the toilet – she's forced to make use of the pot. She hates sitting still under the best of circumstances, which these are emphatically not.
They are also giving her some very strange looks, which only aggravates her further. It's hardly her fault Maglor is her father, but if they have something to say about it, she wishes they'd just say it and have done with it.
Thranduil hasn't yet come to see her, which leaves her both relieved and jumpy. She knows he will eventually, and part of her wants to get that out of the way, too. If she hurts him enough – and not physically – he won't come back. And, thanks to those letters, she knows just how to do it. There is a strange justice to it, though she cannot now take the satisfaction in it she would have. It's a means to an end, but she no longer saw it as vengeance. Apparently she's been having that already, and had no idea.
It shouldn't please her, that he's been suffering, too, but it does. Maybe now he has some idea what he put her through for twenty years. He'll likely recover faster than she did – he's selfish like that – but he has some inkling, now. And that is justice.
The letter to Galadriel has been drafted, sealed, and sent, and Thranduil is once again in want of a distraction. What he receives, however, is not what he wants.
Lady Silwen appears at his door, looking quite serene, and not at all as though she worries about how he will react to being interrupted. She is a tall, immaculate, golden-haired doll of an elleth, formerly handmaid to his mother, possessed of a sharp tongue and a sharper mind. He's never asked her to keep an eye on what passes for court intrigue within his realm, but she does it anyway.
Usually, however, she sends him notes – he's rarely spoken to her in person outside of formal meetings, and he's curious enough now that he lets her in without comment.
No sooner has he shut the door behind her, however, than she says, in her usual blunt way, "My King, you are being a fool."
Thranduil is so shocked that his usual anger is slow in coming. "I beg your pardon?" he says, only a faint edge to his voice.
"This business with Tauriel," she says calmly, her deep blue eyes regarding him steadily. "It will not work. If you have any actual regard for the poor girl, you should never have seduced her. She will not forgive you, my lord, and you have started a number of very unflattering rumors about yourself."
He stares at her. "Explain," he orders, his voice soft and dangerous.
Silwen remains unperturbed. "Rumor flies fast in these halls, my lord," she says. "You took a lock of Tauriel's hair yesterday, in full sight of Ríniel. The news made it to the guards, who speculated that which I worked out twenty years ago: you seduced Tauriel and drove her away, which is why she hates you so. You are losing the respect of your subjects, my lord. They had all thought you better than that."
Thranduil has a sudden, violent, and thankfully transient urge to snap Silwen's slender white neck. "I have hidden what I feel for Tauriel long enough," he says. "The love and the remorse. I will hide it no longer."
"Well, you ought to," she retorts. "Your feelings are not the issue, my lord – it is your actions. There are those among the Guard who are considering desertion over this. They have worked alongside Tauriel, and wondered for twenty years who had damaged her so, and now that they know – she avoided you, my lord. You have never truly seen the results of your ill-thought seduction. You nearly destroyed that girl, who has been friend to all of them for centuries. They know now that it was your doing, and more of them than you would like are considering following Huoriel."
That – Thranduil did not think of that, not truly, but he should have. When will he learn that acting on impulse avails him nothing?
"Let them," he says. "Now that they know what it is that they serve, let them go. I would deserve it." He means it, too; he's lived a lie for twenty years, and it is high time that ended. And if his people cannot bear the truth…well, he deserves to be left.
Silwen actually looks a little mollified by that. Thranduil knows that he is delusional, in some things at least, but in others he is not. He knows what he deserves, but he cannot help but hope that things will be better anyway, that he can repair the damage he has done. He has to try.
"And what will you do," she asks, "when Tauriel is healed, and wishes to leave?"
He shuts his eyes. "I have no choice but to let her," he sighs, "though it may well kill me." He looks at Silwen. "Did you really think that I would hold her prisoner?"
"The thought had crossed my mind," she says dryly. "Where she is concerned, you are even more unpredictable than usual. I do not know what you were – and are – thinking, my lord."
"Tauriel will leave," he sighs. "My heart knows this, even thought my mind still dares hope. But before she goes, I want her to be sure of my regret, and that my love for her is true, however toxic it has been to us both. And she will never believe it if I keep it secret. If she knows the price I will pay for it, after she is gone – it may well give her some manner of satisfaction, knowing I will get what I deserve. If she knows that I will suffer even after she departs – she deserves that. I left her in such pain for far too long, and while I suffered myself, she would never believe it. It is – my turn, now. And that she needs to know, with surety."
He still holds what even he knows to be a vain hope that she will someday forgive him, even if she never tells him so. Elves do, after all, live forever; perhaps, in a thousand years, she might. And perhaps then his guilt and remorse will stop eating him alive.
Silwen regards him carefully, searching his face. "I still think this will end in disaster," she says, "but your motives are more pure than I expected. I will do what I can, to control the damage."
She bows, and leaves at his dismissive wave.
He has no doubt that she will. Unlike many of his nobles, her primary concern is the health of the Realm. She is far older than most – older even than him, and she is the only one left in Middle-Earth who has passed once through Mandos's Halls already. She actually reminds him a little of his mother, albeit far more acerbic.
He sinks into an armchair, head in his hands. Regardless of what he told her, he hopes for Tauriel's love, however certain he is that it is in vain. He must hope, or he will go mad – or Fade.
For Fading is not outside the realm of possibility. He too has been frozen for so very long, and now that he has stirred to help his kingdom, he is thawing. And with that thaw comes all the pain his internal ice has numbed for centuries.
Without that frail, tenuous hope, Fading is all but inevitable. And at this point, he cannot say he would mind.
Just when Tauriel can stand this room no longer, Sadronniel pays her a visit.
"Thank Eru," she sighs. "I have a very large favor to ask of you."
"What?" Sadronniel asks. Her expression is very strange – almost pitying – but Tauriel is too desperate to care why.
"I want to go speak to Maglor," she says, "but I cannot walk yet. The healers would allow me out if I went on a litter." The very thought galls her, but Tauriel is nothing if not a pragmatist. She knows she isn't capable of anything more yet, and even if she was, it is a long way to the dungeons. The healers would never allow it.
"I will see what I can do," Sadronniel says, and her expression is still quite odd. "How are you, Tauriel?"
"Sore," she grumbles, "and bored. And incredibly disturbed. I knew my father could not be any good, given that he abandoned my mother, but I never for a moment suspected he could be Maglor. I don't – I don't know what to do with that. I know he is mad, but I must speak with him anyway. I must hear what he has to say. He owes me that much."
"And what of the King?" Sadronniel asks carefully.
Tauriel snorts. "What of him? He is my problem no longer. Once I can walk with the aid of a stick, I will be gone."
Sadronniel sits on the chair beside the bed. "Why do you hate him so?"
"I have reasons," Tauriel says darkly, "and they are my own. But no longer do I hate him – I have learned much in the forest, and that includes how to let go. I am happy – or I was, until I had this revelation dumped in my lap."
Sadronniel is quiet a moment, her grey eyes grave. "When you go," she says, "there are some among the Guard who will go with you. We have had some revelations of our own, though I will say no more than that."
Warning bells clang in Tauriel's mind, and vague dread curdles in her stomach. Sadronniel was her lieutenant, before her promotion to captain; she's been trained for over a century to answer to Tauriel's commands, so Tauriel says, in her best Captain's voice, "Elaborate."
"We know what the King did, to make you loathe him so," Sadronniel says at once, and winces. "I worked it out yesterday."
Fury coils in Tauriel's chest, but it is buried under overwhelming shame. That was her secret, her mistake – no one else was ever supposed to know of it. She wants to deny it, to say that it's ridiculous, but she's always been a terrible liar. She tries anyway. "And what is it you think you have worked out?" It's a feeble attempt, for her face is burning with her shame.
"He tricked you," Sadronniel says evenly. "He lied, and took advantage of you, and that is why some of us – including myself – would leave. I cannot serve a King who would stoop so low."
"You do not – you do not blame me?" Tauriel asks, and hates how small her voice is. "I should never have fallen for it. I was so – so stupid."
Sadronniel takes her hand. "The King is nothing if not persuasive, Tauriel, and I know that you were fond of him, once. I have no doubt he led you to believe you were special to him in some way, that he considered what you would give him to be a gift."
"I did," Tauriel whispers, shutting her eyes. She's still so ashamed, but at the same time, it's almost a relief to speak of it. "I knew it was not love, that it could never lead to anything, but I thought – I should have seen through it. I should have realized he was incapable of appreciating anything. That gift or not, I was a warm body and nothing more. I was so naïve, but he truly is an accomplished liar."
And yet she can't forget what he said in the forest, when he thought there were none about to hear him – that the night was truth, and the morning was the lie. There was nothing but honesty in his words, and yet she cannot believe him. He's had twenty years to convince himself of all manner of things, to revise history in his own mind to assuage his guilt. She's sure he really does believe that he loves her, but now he's just lying to himself.
"I think you were more," Sadronniel says slowly, "but that does nothing at all to excuse his actions, then or since. He's had twenty years to apologize, to make reparation, and yet he was a statue until you were gone. He misses you, Tauriel, and terribly, but that absolves him of nothing."
She can well believe he does miss her, though she can't imagine why. All she's done for twenty years is loathe and avoid him. "Let him miss me. Let him drown in his own guilt and rot." She pauses. "How have you finally worked this out, after all this time?"
Sadronniel winces again. "You will not like this," she warns. "Yesterday, when you were asleep, Ríniel brought him to see you, and he took a lock of your hair."
Hot wrath and cold horror war within Tauriel's heart, such a terrible combination that she shudders, her skin crawling. "He. Did. What?" she demands, her words nearly a growl.
"He took a lock of your hair," Sadronniel says grimly. "Do not ask me why. Perhaps he wanted some sort of memento, for after you leave."
"At least he plans to let me leave," Tauriel snarls. "I had wondered. Sadronniel, from now on, if any can be spared, I want one of the guard in here with me when I sleep. Otherwise I think I may never sleep again."
"I will tell the others," Sadronniel says, releasing her hand and rising. "And I will get you a litter."
When she is gone, Tauriel pulls the shade from the lamp, burning her fingers in the process. She digs under the mattress and pulls out the little wooden box, fumbling it open. One by one she burns the letters, dropping them on the floor when the flames are nearly spent. The second-to-last she wraps around the two hairs, incinerating them as well.
But, for whatever reason, she can't bring herself to burn the last, which is the first one she read. Her hand simply will not move. Finally, exasperated, she tucks it into the pocket of her tunic, folded on the other table.
The box and the bottle she leave on the floor. Let him find them, and the ashes of his false, so-called love.
If he thinks he can be so unsettling – and in front of a witness, no less – he must be reminded of where he stands. He has his place, and it will never be what he thinks he wants.
Maybe, just maybe, this will cure him of his delusions.
When Sadronniel shuts the door behind her, she very nearly screams – for she very nearly runs into the King.
Oh, Eru, how long has he been listening? How much has he heard? Her heart nearly fails her at the thought of what he might do.
And yet it is not rage in his pale eyes, but weariness, and a sorrow so depthless it pulls at her very fëa. Never, ever has she seen such grief, not even after the battle.
He says nothing – merely turns and walks away, and only now does she dare breathe. Somehow, for all her disappointment and contempt, the sight of his grief and remorse shakes her. He deserves it, and yet…and yet. She should not pity him, for he has none but himself to blame, but that level of raw anguish would make her pity almost anyone.
Maybe Tauriel is wrong – maybe he truly does love her, and is simply too damaged to express it like a sane person. If that is the case, it only makes things so very, very much worse.
Yavanna is near to despair. And yet, Tauriel kept the one letter, without any divine urging. Yavanna has no more idea why than she does, but still. Hopefully it means something.
The pair of them are so very broken, and cannot be repaired until they have come to terms with each other. If Thranduil thinks sending Maglor to Galadriel will be a simple thing, he is very mistaken. The ellon might be completely mad, but he is one of the most formidable warriors left in Middle-Earth – even with only his damaged hand to work with.
And now Tauriel wishes to speak with him. Perhaps, if there is any luck in this universe, she might bring some part of him back. He is not evil, even now, for all he has fallen so very far. He was never as Curufin, as Celegorm – out of all the brothers, he most closely matched his mother in temperament. Thranduil and Tauriel might still be making a mess of things, but some good may yet come of this.
Thranduil waits until Tauriel has gone before returning to her room. He needs the woodsy scent of her, the ghost of her presence, or he will go mad
What he finds, however, nearly breaks him.
He had entirely forgotten there was anything in his pockets, when he gave Tauriel his robe for a blanket. He's only reminded now because the box and empty bottle are on the floor, surrounded by the ashes of his letters.
She read them. She read the letters, the pages that contained the words of his heart – and she burned them. From the scent of it, she also burned the hair.
Thranduil shuts the door behind him, sits on his bed, and weeps in silence. He cannot even find it in himself to care that he might well be found like this.
Sadronniel is silent and visibly disturbed as she bears one end of Tauriel's litter, but Tauriel lets her be. If she wants to say anything, she will; if not…well, she's no longer under Tauriel's command.
Still, something bothers her, something that's happened after she left the healing wards. Since Sadronniel is rather difficult to bother, that is not a good sign.
Unfortunately, her trip to the dungeons is aborted before she even gets there.
"Maglor is under sedation," Belegorn says apologetically. "He kept ripping open his wound pounding on the bars, so the healers have put him to sleep for now. Wherever his mind has gone, it is not here."
"Have someone tell me when he wakes," she says. "I must speak with him, even if he no longer knows who I am."
"I will, Captain," he assures her.
"I am not your Captain anymore, Belegorn," she points out. "I am Tauriel." She is Tauriel, but she cannot add 'and I am free', for she is patently not free at the moment – and not only because she cannot walk.
"Would you like to go to the guardroom?" Sadronniel asks.
Tauriel shakes her head. Now that everyone knows her shameful secret, she can't bear to see them all at once – even if, like Sadronniel, they blame Thranduil. She simply can't do it. "No," she says. "Take me back to my room. Perhaps I should sleep."
The trip back is easy enough – mercifully, there are none about to see her. She finds the bored healers playing chess, and it's all she can do not to laugh. Their job tends to be all or nothing, and she does not envy them at all.
When she reaches her room, however, she gets a very nasty shock.
The litter is too ungainly to move through the door very well; Sadronniel sets it down and picks her up before opening the door. It sends pain lancing through her leg, and she grits her teeth against a curse – a curse she lets fly when she realizes her room is already occupied.
Thranduil sits on her bed, head in his hands, and though he's completely silent, his shoulders are trembling slightly. If he knows they are there, he doesn't seem to care at all.
Tauriel looks at Sadronniel, completely at a loss. She had better deal with this, much as she doesn't want to. And her look must communicate that, for Sadronniel sets her carefully in the chair beside the bed, and silently leaves.
Eventually, after the most agonizingly awkward silence in the history of ever, Thranduil raises his head. His eyes are red, his cheeks shiny with tears, and it is so, so wrong. What made her think she could deal with this?
"You burned my letters," he says, and his voices is hoarse in a way she has never heard it. In this moment, he looks nothing at all like the King – this is Thranduil, the person, near as broken as she was for so long. And while he deserves every second of it, watching it is far more difficult than she ever could have anticipated.
"I did," she says, but there is no malice in her tone. "You stole my hair."
He shuts his eyes. "Yes, I did. I k now that you will leave as soon as you are able, never to return, and I…" He doesn't seem able to finish the sentence. "Why did you burn my letters?"
"Because they are lies," Tauriel says, almost gently. "Lies to yourself. You do not love me, Thranduil, and I do not know why you have convinced yourself that you do."
His eyes open, and there is frustration mingled with his pain. "How can you say that?" he demands, but it's fractured, not strident. "How can you think you know what is in my heart?"
She sighs. "Because people do not do what you did to me to someone they love," she says simply. "They are not so deliberately cruel. You knew exactly what would hurt me the most, and you used it. You've had twenty years to say something, and you said nothing. If not for the battle, things would have gone on as they were, until I finally grew fed up and left.
"What you feel is not love, Thranduil. It is sorrow, and remorse. What happened, happened, and there is no changing it. Stop writing letters, and throw away the hair. Move on. I have."
She can't help but marvel a little at how calm she is. She ought to be raging, screaming, but she cannot be cruel to one so obviously broken, no matter what he did to her. In a way, she does pity him, because it's impossible not to pity someone so wretched.
To her complete shock, Thranduil falls onto his knees before her, taking her hands in his. She's so stunned that she doesn't slap him away, because this, this is frightening. It's one thing to see him break down when he thought himself alone, but to let someone – to let her – actually see him like this…it's terrifying, and Tauriel has no idea at all what to do.
"I am sorry, Tauriel," he whispers, pressing his brow to the back of her right hand, and she can feel the heat of his tears on her fingers. "I know you do not believe me, and I know it changes nothing, but I am. You are wrong, Tauriel – I do love you, though it has been nothing but poison to us both."
She looks at him, so shattered on his knees before her, and tries to reconcile it with the cold creature who so deliberately wounded her with such precision. She can't do it, and the dissonance is almost more than she can bear.
"I do believe you are sorry," she says, trying to extricate her hands. "I've seen it, but you do not love me. I could never have done to Kili what you did to me."
His grip tightens, and a small, wounded sound leaves his throat. "You are not me," he says heavily. "You are good and pure. I have been a fractured wreck since before you were born. My live is just as fractured, but you cannot tell me it is not real." He raises his head. "I will prove it to you, though I know you will leave. I must."
Before she can say anything, he rises, and runs his fingers through her hair. "You are my woman in starlight, Tauriel," he says, "whose hair is a river of flame."
And then he is gone, and she's left wondering what in Eru's name just happened.
Well, that was a conversation it was high time they had, even if it was painful as hell.