In which Tauriel and Maglor have a conversation, she gets some time with her friends, and Thranduil might have a way to make Tauriel a little less actively hostile to him.
Having nothing better to do, Tauriel sleeps again, and wakes completely nonplussed.
What had she just agreed to? She's going to be stuck inside, dealing with someone she very much wants to hit when face-to-face with. Eru knows long it will be before she can even walk. She would be going stir-crazing even without the added complication of Thranduil. Never has she been one to sit still, and now she had no choice.
She longs to feel the sun on her face, the wind in her hair. Perhaps this whole mess would be easier to bear, if she could but have a sight of the sky.
The guard would take her out, if she asks. True, she can do nothing but sit, but it will still be far better than being stuck in here. She is beginning to feel like she's suffocating. Her injury, her inactivity, Thranduil, Maglor – it's all too much. And Maglor doesn't even have the grace to wake and speak with her – assuming he wakes with anything like sanity still in his mind.
She sighs, sitting up and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. If nothing else, she wants her clothes back; she really does feel vulnerable in her hospital shift. With her wound, she might not be able to wear her trousers, but at least she wants her tunic.
Tauriel is wondering how to get to the door when it opens, admitting a very pale Sadronniel.
"Maglor is awake," she says. "He wishes to speak with you."
"He remembers who I am?" Tauriel asks, uncertain if she thinks that a good thing, or an ill one.
"Yes," Sadronniel says grimly, "but no longer who he is. He keeps asking for you, over and over, and will say little else."
Tauriel frowns. If he doesn't know who he is, he can answer none of her questions. Still, seeing him would get her out of this room. "Very well," she says. "I will need your help to get there, though."
Sadronniel went to fetch a litter – and Eru, wasn't it embarrassing to need one – leaving Tauriel to stare at her bare feet.
How has this become her life? Is there anyone – anyone at all – who wants to give her for her own sake? Thranduil wants absolution, Eru knows what Maglor wants with her, but she knows already it is for his sake, not hers.
Sadronniel. Sadronniel and the other guards – they care. And they might well be the only ones who can see her through this, if she can bring herself to face them. Even how she's ashamed, for all Sadronniel assures her she has no reason to ne. It's been her shameful secret for so long that moving past thought emotion will not be easy.
She doesn't know what to do about Thranduil, so she shoves the thought aside. The fact that she must deal with him to keep him from Fading, regardless of the cost to herself – it makes her blood boil. What has she done, to make Eru hate her so? What grave sin has she committed, all unknowing?
But then, perhaps she did nothing. All Elves know that the line of Fëanor was cursed, and she's had the misfortune of being born his granddaughter. That in itself might be enough, however unfair it is.
And it is unfair. She is no Kinslayer; she could not have actually shot Thranduil, no matter how much she wanted to. The worst mistake she's ever made was letting Thranduil talk her into his bed, and that harmed none but herself. Whatever pain it caused him is his own damn fault. All she's ever done in her life is try to be the best guard that she can, and this is how life repays her.
By the time Sadronniel returns with Faelon and a litter, Tauriel is deeply depressed. She feels she has a right to be, too; her father is Maglor, her former king broke her heart and now has the gall to think he can fix it, and she's lost the only person she will ever truly love. Really, if she wasn't depressed, something would be extremely wrong with her.
The real question is how to lift herself out of it.
"After this…conversation," she says, "I want to go to the guardroom. Something tells me I am going to need to get very, very drunk."
Sadronniel gives her a smile. "Yes, Captain."
Tauriel doesn't bother correcting her as she struggles onto the litter. In a way, it's nice that they still think of her as their captain. For so much of her life, being a guard defined her identity.
They bear her out through the healing wards, and when they are alone in the corridor, Sadronniel says quietly, "We have been plotting to get you to Beorn, as soon as you can put weight on your leg."
It's tempting. Oh, it is tempting. "I can't," Tauriel sighs. "I promised Yavanna I would stay. It is a long story, and I do not yet have the energy to tell it," she adds, forestalling their questions. "Suffice it to say, I cannot leave yet."
"Yavanna?" Faelon asks, turning his head to look at her.
"As I said, it is a long story, and it has much to do with Maglor." She doesn't want them knowing of the mess with Thranduil – not yet. She simply can't speak of it. She can hardly stand to think of it.
The rest of the trip is quiet until they reach the dungeon, and set down the litter outside one of the small cells. "We will not be far," Sadronniel says. "Yell if you need us."
Finding a comfortable way to sit proves impossible, so eventually she gives up. Maglor, she finds, is sitting too – on the floor, very near the bars.
He looks terrible. His hair cannot have seen a brush in days, and the hollowness of his cheeks suggests he has been refusing food even while awake. The stump where his hand had been is well-bandaged, but Tauriel winces at the sight anyway. She cannot precisely blame Thranduil – she would have been tempted to do the same, if she could have – but she winces nonetheless. His other hand, the one burned by the Silmaril, still does not look overly dexterous.
"You are Tauriel," he says, his voice a gravelly rasp. There is, unsurprisingly, madness in his blue eyes, but there is also a strange sort of desperation.
"Yes," she says, and doesn't know what else to say. She's not sure just yet what he wants from her.
He wraps his hand around one of the bars, and she has a better view of the scar tissue. It looks as though he stuck it directly into a fire and held it there, the skin unnaturally ridged and twisted. "Who am I?"
She looks at him carefully. There is no artifice, no lie in his eyes; he is too mad for that. "You are Maglor, son of Fëanor," she says evenly. "You are my sire." She can't bring herself to call him her father, for he is not, and never will be. "You are here because you tried to kill me." Though she's not certain that's strictly true; given how accurately he'd impaled her leg, she suspected that if he wanted her dead, she'd be dead. Given his madness, however, she can't be certain.
His brow furrows. "If you are my daughter," he says, sounding genuinely bewildered, "why did I try to kill you?"
"A question only you can answer," she sighs. "It was the first time I had ever met you. You abandoned my mother."
She's startled by the level of grief in his mad eyes. "I…?" He doesn't seem able to finish the sentence, but she knows what he would ask.
For the first time, she wonders what he was like before – in Valinor, before the Kinslayings. Nothing is born evil – not even Sauron. How could he let himself fall so far?
How could anyone?
His father and all his brothers had profaned themselves and died for three pretty jewels. He'd profaned himself, too, and lost his mind. How could anything, no matter how pretty, drive Eldar to kill one another? She can't imagine any material object being worth that.
But then, from all she knows of history, most of the Elves of the First Age seem to have been slightly mad. It's likely why most of them are dead.
"I do not know," he said, more than a little brokenly. "I do not remember. I do not remember anything."
You would not want to. "Perhaps that is for the best," she says. "Find a new self to be. We live forever, after all. You at least can start over." No, she's not bitter about her own situation. Of course not.
But if she can do nothing for herself, perhaps she can give him some manner of aid. He deserves it even less than Thranduil, but he has caused her far less internal pain. And perhaps aiding him will take away some of the irritation she knows her former King will stir in her.
Tauriel can be selfish, too.
In spite of her wish to go to the guardroom, Tauriel can't help a feeling of hesitation. Perhaps they do not fault her naiveté, but she remains ashamed nonetheless. Getting over that will likely take some time.
Though it helps a little knowing that night was not a lie. She can't help but believe Thranduil, now. To know she had not been taken for a fool makes it easier to bear in one way, but in another, it is harder: he did care, and yet the next morning happened anyway.
She gives herself a mental shake. Now is not the time to dwell on it. She wants to drink herself silly, and hear all that has gone on in her months of absence – every little, insignificant detail.
The room, she finds, is crowded as ever – someone is always either going on shift or coming off of it, so there are rarely less than a score of people, and very often more. While she feels like a complete fool, having to be carried in like an invalid, it's still good to see everyone, to smell the familiar, comforting scent of leather-oil and forest, of smoke, and the very strong aroma of wine, sharp and fruity in equal measure.
Nerves twist in her stomach, but she's welcomed with a cacophony of greetings and many very careful open arms. For all she's been happy in the forest, this gives her an undeniable sense of homecoming.
"How long are you back for, Captain?" Belegorn asked, pouring her a very large flagon of wine.
Tauriel winces as Sadronniel helps her sit at a table. "I don't know," she says. "As long as Maglor lingers here, so must I. Yavanna's orders – and before you ask, I may say little more than that. In truth, I do not know what I am meant to do." And it really was true; it seems, for now, that all she has to do is exist.
"I tried to talk to him," she adds, taking the wine from Belegorn. The burn of the alcohol is beyond welcome. "Just now, his mind is not even half there, but he is coherent. He knew my name, but not his own. Monster though he's been, I find I can't help but pity him. And to be entirely honest, I am actually rather glad he abandoned my mother. I do not want to imagine what my life would have been like, with him as my father."
She isn't the only one who shivers at the thought. They would have been barred from every remaining Elven settlement in Middle-Earth. It would have been a terrible existence.
Silence follows, and she dreads any further questions – anything that might pertain to Thranduil – so she cuts them off before they can start. "What have I missed in my absence? I have seen your handiwork in the forest. You have made my own much easier."
Faelon and Menelwen share a knowing look – they're obviously aware of what she's doing, but mercifully, they let her do it. "There is little to tell, really, beyond what you have seen for yourself. We all miss you, of course."
"Myself included," Sadronniel grumbles, pouring herself some wine. "You made being Captain look rather easier than it actually is. I rather had the job forced upon me."
"It will grow easier, once you are used to it," Tauriel assured her, draining half her goblet at one go. The wine warmed her, sending her head spinning in a way that was quite pleasant, actually. "Someday, when this mess with Maglor is over, you must come to my treehouse. We will have our own Feast of Starlight, under the actual stars. Though I suppose my garden will be dead by then, without me there to water it," she sighs.
"How can you stand living out there, all alone?" Falathiel asks.
"I am not alone," she says. "I have the trees, and the animals." She isn't about to mention Yavanna. Not yet. "Without the spiders, it is very peaceful. I wish I had never made that ill-fated trip to Erebor. I wanted to see Kili's mother, and it earned me an unwanted father and a knife through the though." She sounds so sour that even she has to laugh.
"Well, you have us, until it is over," Faelon says stoutly, as he too raids the wine. "If you still have trouble walking, we will help you to Beorn. Is Huoriel there?"
"When last I saw her, yes. I doubt she would travel far on her own. Either you or I would have found her, if she had come back to the forest." Tauriel hopes she has stayed, as she herself would need to winter with Beorn. The more the merrier, as the Edain say.
After living so long away from wine, it's not long before she is completely, gloriously drunk, all discomfort from her leg forgotten, enveloped in the hazy warmth of alcohol. For now, she's quite at one with the world – and quite sleepy. It isn't long before she nods off, truly pleased in a way she has not been since she left the forest for Erebor.
Thranduil hesitates to visit Tauriel, but visit he does – or tries to. An extraordinarily disapproving Ríniel informs him she got royally drunk with the guards, who ought to have known better.
Thranduil very nearly laughs. Tauriel will likely be quite unhappy tomorrow, but she deserves a little fun. "I would see her anyway," he says. He has something for her, and it actually might be best if he not be around when she finds it.
"Very well, my lord," Ríniel sighs. "I would not suggest trying to wake her, though."
"I will not," he assures her. "Nor will I be long."
When he reaches Tauriel's room, he finds she is deeply asleep indeed. Thankfully, someone has swept up the ashes of his letters; he doesn't think he could bear that sight again.
He pulls something from his pocket, eying it before setting it on the end-table. One of Thranduil's lesser-known hobbies is wood carving; he uses it as a distraction, when his mind won't cease racing. This little carving is a red-tailed fox, worked from a lump of cedar, as beautifully detailed as his considerable skill would allow. It's curled up, as if in sleep, nose touching the very end of its bushy tail.
He has never told Tauriel, but she reminds him of such foxes – bright, inquisitive, and fearsome if cornered, for all their small size. While she is unlikely to accept many gifts from him, this is a beautiful little thing, made with care, and he thinks she might not reject it. It's small, it's personal, but most importantly, it's very obviously the result of time and effort. It's not a letter, not something she can view as dashed off in a hurry.
Thranduil doesn't dare kiss her brow, much though he'd like to. Just now she sleeps the sleep of the deeply inebriated, sprawled loose-limbed on the bed amid a tangle of her own hair. He does not envy her the headache she will have when she wakes, and thinks it prudent to refrain from visiting for another few days. She will need them to get over the alcoholic consequences of this day.
So he kisses her brow in spirit, if not in truth, and leaves her with her new gift, wondering what he ought to make her next.
Tauriel,
It seems strange, writing to you when you once again dwell in the halls, however temporarily, but I know it is unwise to speak to you yet, so write I must.
I gave you the little fox today, and I am planning a mate for it. While you may well scorn my gift, you will not, I think, destroy it; you have too great an appreciate for craftsmanship, no matter the craftsman's identity.
I know I have a very, very long way to go, but I hope that I can begin to prove myself with small things. Literally. There is little I might give you that you would not see as me trying to buy your affection – I cannot furnish you with weapons, though I would like to, and you would never have any use for fine clothes. You have never cared for them anyway. Nor would you appreciate any manner of jewelry.
But things like the foxes – crafted with love and care, from wood of the forest that is so much more yours than mine – those, perhaps, you can appreciate. You are Silvan at heart, no matter your parentage, and there is not, nor has there ever been, anything lowly about you.
Do you know why the Sindar stopped in the Greenwood, Tauriel? You would never believe it now, I know, but we wanted to be more like your kin. We had seen where pride and folly led – in ourselves as well as the Noldor. Someday, if you will allow it, I will tell you the story of King Thingol. He makes me look positively reasonable.
The Silvan folk live – and have lived – simply. You largely escaped the Kinslayings and the War of Wrath because you were not blinded by your own superiority. And I would have seen that, were I not blind myself.
You have woken me, Tauriel. It is not too late for my kingdom, and I pray that it is not too late for myself. Gi melin, Tauriel. Now you know. Now I must make you believe.
You might be onto something there, Thranduil. Maybe. Just take it as slowly as you possibly can.