In which Tauriel finds out more about Maglor, and Thranduil actually manage to have a civil conversation (even if she's got to be drunk to do it.)
When Tauriel wakes the next morning, it is to a thumping headache, and a stomach that threatens mutiny.
A glass filled with creamy liquid sits on the nightstand, smelling of cinnamon and vanilla – the Wood-Elves' hangover cure. She sat up, wincing at the pain in her head and in her leg, and sipped it slowly.
It sets to work almost immediately, and she sighs with relief. Yesterday had actually been enjoyable – it was nice to truly know she need not expect judgment form her friends. Staying here might not be so bad, if only she can do that on a regular basis.
Her hair is a nightmare, but when her free hand reached for her brush, she sees there is something on the table that hadn't been there yesterday. She picks it up, turning it over in her fingers while she sips.
It's a little fox, so beautifully carved she can see each strand of its fur. The reddish wood was so sanded and polished that it feels like silk under her fingertips.
Who could have given it to her? No one she knows has this level of woodworking skill. It has to have taken ages, too – even the tiny ears had each strand of hair visible. It must have been started before she even ran into Maglor and his unfortunate aim.
An unpleasant thought niggles in her brain. Surely this can't be Thranduil's doing, can it? How would he, a king, have any knowledge of woodworking? Surely not.
Well. Even if it was him, the little fox is beautiful, and can no more control who had created him than she could control her own sire. It is not to blame, so she decides to let it live on her nightstand.
By the time she's finished with her drink, she feels much better – and is immediately bored. Sooner or later, she really needs to learn how to sit still. Eru knows she's going to have to do it for a while yet.
Will anyone be willing to take her outside? Obviously she can't walk around, but a sight of the sky would help her immensely. While she can hardly say she's happy right now, being around her friends has helped, too. Sooner or later Thranduil will visit her again, and she would like to be as sanguine as possible before then. If she's meant to keep him from Fading, shouting at him will not help. At all.
Tauriel gets her time outdoors, since there is no shortage of people willing to take her on their off-hours. No, she can't walk, but she can bask in the dappling sunlight, can breathe the fresh air. It's not at all musty in the caves, but she's grown so accustomed to feeling the breeze that she almost feels she can't breathe without it.
Her inner tension eases as she lies on the grass with her hands laced behind her head. She can do this. She can deal with Maglor, and Thranduil, and when it's all over, she'll go home. This is something that must be endured, but it's finite – even if she doesn't yet know when it will end.
This she tells herself, over and over, while she watches the leaves flutter above her. She is Tauriel, and while she isn't free at the moment, she will be. She is Tauriel, and she is strong.
Menelwen, who won't be on-shift until nightfall, sits beside her. They've said very little, content to merely share one another's company. Tauriel hasn't let herself be truly relaxed around someone like this since before the mess with Thranduil – who, mercifully, no one has asked her about.
"Has Maglor said anything?" Menelwen asks, plaiting three long grass-stems.
"Nothing that makes sense," Tauriel sighs. "His mind, I think, is truly broken. Eru knows how long it has been that way."
"He raised Lord Elrond, you know," Menelwen says.
No, Tauriel didn't know. "He did?" She has a very hard time fathoming Maglor being capable of raising anyone, let alone the Lord of Imladris.
"He did," Menelwen affirms. "After, of course, he and Maedhros slew most of Sirion, and Elwing chose to dive off a cliff with the Silmaril rather than protect her sons."
That Tauriel did know. She's always wondered how anyone could choose a jewel over their own children. Given the actions of Fëanor's children before then, Elwing had to have been certain the twins would be slaughtered without her, yet she had jumped anyway. "Poor Lord Elrond." It is well-known that his brother had chosen mortality, too. The thought rather puts her own troubles into somewhat harsh perspective. At least she wasn't raised by the orcs who wiped out her village. With a foster-parent like Maglor, she wonders how he didn't turn out like, well, Thranduil.
She wonders when Thranduil himself will visit her again. It will likely be soon, and she hopes he gives her a little warning, so she can mentally prepare herself. If she's not prepared, she might say something Yavanna would regret.
Tauriel spends the next four days outside, and starts a collection of things to brighten up her room – bunches of flowers hung up to dry off ceiling, pretty stones from the river, and an empty bird's nest in which she puts her little fox. If she is to be stuck in this room, she might as well make it hers.
The healers' shifts also become a thing of the past. While the healers won't let her wear her leggings, she feels much more herself in her tunics, and discovers that some of her irritation really had come from feeling so vulnerable without them. It makes her medical captivity easier to bear.
Unfortunately, on the fifth day, Ríniel tells her Thranduil will bring her dinner tonight.
At least Tauriel has some warning, even if it's not much. She runs through several of the deep breathing exercises the healers taught her to shut out pain, hoping they will ward off her irritation. It doesn't really work.
I can do this, she tells herself. For Yavanna, I can do this. Yavanna saved her; without the Vala's silent, invisible aid, Tauriel would surely have Faded. She can never truly repay what she owes Yavanna, but she can do this. Yes, even now aiding Thranduil irks her, but if she looks at it as aiding Yavanna, it's easier to bear.
She spends the morning outside again, soaking up the sun, and has Faelon sneak her a flask of wine. While she can't afford to get drunk before her meeting with Thranduil, a sip or three will take the edge off. At the very least, it will keep her from throwing something at him.
When she returns to her room in the evening, she has four sips, and is feeling quite warm and rosy by the time Thranduil comes in, bearing a tray with stew and a jug of water. He's dressed surprisingly plainly, his black tunic without pattern or ornamentation, his head bare.
"The healers would not allow me to bring you wine," he says. The tray has legs, so that she can eat without the bother of trying to get up. Thranduil himself has only a round of fresh-baked bread, and she wonders if he always eats so sparely now.
She holds up he flask. "Fortunately, I have my own resources," she says, a little dryly. "The healers must know that I drink while out with my friends, but thus far they have said nothing of it. I think they know they cannot stop me."
He actually smiles a little as he sits in the chair beside her bed, and Tauriel has a (thankfully transient) urge to hit him. She's dismayed by it, dismayed that even now, she thinks he does not deserve to smile. She takes a fifth sip of the flask before picking up her spoon. Alcohol. Alcohol will get her through this.
"Have the healers told you yet when you may begin testing your leg?" Thranduil asks, picking at his bread.
"No," she sighs. "I do not know if they delay out of sheer malice, or if they truly believe I should not try it yet. I've never had such a wound, so I have no way of judging it myself."
"They would not keep you off of it if they did not feel there was a need," he says. "Living in the forest, even with the spiders gone, you cannot afford a limp."
When she takes a bite of the stew, she finds it delicious – venison and onion. "As if it would not heal, in time," she says, a little irritably.
"Not all wounds fully heal," Thranduil says quietly, not looking at her. His tone is extremely strange, and she can't help but wonder why.
"What do you mean?" she asks.
"I will not show you while you are eating," he says. "You would be ill."
Tauriel has no idea what he could be talking about. She has, after all, seen him without any clothes on; his robes conceal no grotesque injury. "I do not understand."
"You will," he says. "You will understand a very great deal."
She has no idea what to say to that, so she says nothing. The ensuing silence would likely be a great deal more awkward without the wine, and even as it is, she keeps sipping while she eats. Only when her head begins to spin does she stop, and switch to the water.
Thranduil is still picking at his bread when she's finished, and she wonders how in Eru's name he's still alive, if he always eats like this. His face does look a little on the thin side, she notices.
"All right," she says, setting down her spoon. "Show me." Tauriel can't help but feel a little insulted that he would think any manner of wound would sicken her. Eru knows she's seen more than enough of them, even long before the battle.
She doesn't think she's ever seen Thranduil look truly nervous before, but he does now. He shuts his eyes, and Tauriel finds herself holding her breath.
The smooth flesh on the entire left side of his face melts away, exposing the raw, red muscle and even bone in places. When he opens his eyes, the left is a blind-milky-white, and she thinks of this whispered tales of Gorthir, and how many were lost in the battle that killed him.
That was so very long ago – how can this burn not have healed, even a little?
She doesn't realize she's asked the question aloud until he says, "No one knows. Galadriel suspects that even Gorthir's fire was cursed." The wound vanishes, replaced by what she now knows to be an illusion. "It, and by association, me. It is not wonder I poison all that I touch. I did not lie when I told you I was broken, Tauriel."
"Does it hurt?" she asks.
He sighs. "Let us just say that there is more than one reason I drink so much. Legolas does not know of it – whenever you see him again, you must not tell him."
"Why not?" she asks, genuinely bewildered. This explains a very great deal about him, and while she can understand why he wouldn't want the kingdom at large to know, Legolas is his son.
"Because it is a secret," Thranduil says. "My secret."
"You have too many secrets," Tauriel mutters. "I think you would be quite a bit happier if you kept fewer. Legolas certainly would have been. He will come back eventually, and you need to talk to him. He feels he does not even know you."
"He doesn't," Thranduil says, not a little bitterly. "He shouldn't."
Tauriel actually rolls her eyes. "Will you stop," she sighs. "You have endured a great deal in your life, Thranduil, and most of the ills that have befallen you have been beyond your power to control, but you can control your own actions. You have done so with the kingdom, and you can damn well do so with your son. You can, and you will, or I swear to Eru I will slap you senseless."
He looks so shocked that she almost has to laugh. She doubts many have ever dared speak to him like that, and it makes her rather happier than it probably ought to.
"And what of your secrets, Tauriel?" he asks quietly.
She snorts. "I only ever had one, and it is evidently common knowledge now. And before you ask, I have no intent at all of telling him about our…mistake…and I'll make certain the guards don't, either."
His flinch at the word 'mistake' is infinitesimal, but she sees it anyway. Why can Yavanna not help him move past it already, as she had with Tauriel? Is he actually beyond help?
Probably.
"Do you truly think that night was a mistake?" Thranduil asks, not looking at her.
Tauriel stares at him, stunned that he would even ask such a stupid question. "Of course I do," she says, appalled. "How can you think it wasn't? Look at the last twenty years, Thranduil. Look at now. None of this would have happened if not for that…that. Are you as mad as Maglor?"
"I do not regret the night," he says, his eyes finding hers. "Only the morning after."
"Well, I regret all of it," she snaps, "and if you do not talk about something else, I'm very afraid I'll hit you with something." She drains the flask, and give it a despairing look. She's not nearly drunk enough.
It's clear by Thranduil's expression that he believes her – wise Elf – but it's just as clear that he wants to press on anyway, so she holds up a hand, forestalling him.
"Thranduil," she says, "there is no point at all in dwelling on it. The past cannot be changed, or undone. All you, me, or anyone else can do is move forward." Why, oh why does she not have more wine? She doesn't actually want to be angry, yet angry she is. "Now either change the subject, or get more wine."
He shuts his eyes, and yes, she feels sorry for him, but that does little to cool her ire. Thranduil has suffered far more than she's ever imagined, but that doesn't mitigate or excuse what he did to her. Pity and fury are not mutually exclusive.
He's silent a moment, for which she is thankful. It gives her time to do a silent breathing exercise. "I will soon have a mate for your little fox," he says, and she's immensely relieved when he rises, picking up her dinner tray. "And when I speak to you next, I will bring more wine."
Tauriel watches Thranduil go, and reflects that, while this was no fun at all, it could have been a great deal worse. So long as he brings wine with him, she can probably endure future conversations.
She wonders about his face, about that burn. She wonders what else it might have done to him, on a deeper level. Mostly, she wonders why he was willing to show it to her.
Well, it's a start. At least they didn't give Yavanna any excuse to facepalm.