In which Galadriel draws near, Tauriel and Thranduil are both freaked out (for different reasons), and the Lady herself is incredibly curious.
The next three weeks pass in this fashion – Thranduil is wise enough to limit the frequency of his visits, because even when he doesn't anger Tauriel, their interactions are so agonizingly awkward. There are, after all, only so many neutral topics of conversation.
Maglor, ironically, is far easier to deal with. Though his memory doesn't improve, he is docile, and quite talkative about what he does remember. It often makes little sense, but Tauriel listens anyway, because, angry as she is at him for stabbing her, she's curious, too.
At the end of the third week the healers clear her to walk short distances with the aid of a stick, which she celebrates by limping about in the forest with her friends, soaking up the sunshine. Autumn, unfortunately, is on its way; while the leaves have not yet begun to turn, they'll start any day now.
When she returns to her room that evening, she finds Thranduil waiting for her, which is…strange. Until now, he's always given her warning of his visits, and formless dread curls in her stomach – he wouldn't come unannounced for no reason. Though he doesn't wear his crown, he's otherwise dressed for court, his flowing robes pure silver.
"Should I be worried?" Tauriel asks, limping over to her bed.
"No," he says, carefully sitting on the chair, "but I thought it best to warn you that Lady Galadriel will be arriving in three days to collect Maglor. She wishes to speak with you."
Tauriel's heart lurches. Galadriel, Lady of the Golden Wood – her second cousin – wants to speak with her. With her.
Tauriel thinks she might be sick, her nerves are so shot.
"Why?" she asks helplessly. Yes, technically they're family, but she's a guard, not a noble, the blood in her veins notwithstanding.
Thranduil actually hesitates before he speaks. "Technically, Tauriel, you are a princess," he says carefully – very carefully, for how must know the singular lack of enthusiasm she'll have for that piece of information. "Maedhros abdicated his title, yes, but you are still a direct descendent of the High King of the Noldor in Valinor."
Panic claws at Tauriel's chest, all but squeezing the breath from her lungs. "She doesn't want me to – to do anything with that, does she?" she asks, dropping her walking-stick. It hits the floor with a clatter.
"I do not know what she wants," he says. "She will not try to force you into anything. As much as I dislike her, she is the only Noldo I have ever met with any common sense, which is likely why she is the only one still in Middle-Earth who is both alive and sane. I still cannot fathom how Maglor has survived all this time."
"In that you are not alone," Tauriel says dryly, trying to calm her thundering heart. "Wherever his mind dwells, it is not here." She pinches the bridge of her nose. "I hope Lady Galadriel knows that I am a guard," she adds. "I don't know the first thing about high court manners. I would make an utter fool of myself if I tried." Is she going to have to wear something special? She has no fine clothes, and would feel terribly ill at ease in anything she might borrow.
"She will understand," he promises, and she hopes it's a promise he can keep. Lady Galadriel is fabled for her wisdom, but still.
And she is Tauriel's cousin. Second cousin. Still too close for comfort. What in Eru's name will they even talk about? Of Tauriel's life there is little to tell; she has been a guard for most of it, and has never wanted to seek anything grander. Whatever blood might flow in her veins, she is Silvan at heart.
She looks down at her callused, sun-browned hands, her nails square and blunt. They are not a lady's hands, nor will they ever be, even should she want them to – which she doesn't. The idea that Finwë is her great-grandfather – it's dizzying, literally. While she is not scholar, she's well aware of some of the history of the Elves in Middle-Earth, and the thought that she is related to some of the key figures is still almost more than she can comprehend.
"Damn Maglor," she grumbles, half to herself. "I have always wanted family, but this is not what I meant."
Thranduil actually laughs a little, and she shoots him a dirty look.
"I'm sure this is terribly hilarious, but look at it from my perspective," she says sourly. "I have spent my entire life happily being nobody. Finding out I am somebody by dint of bloodline is not precisely comfortable."
"Goheno nin, Tauriel," he says. "You need not fear anything from Lady Galadriel. She will want to know you, but she will not judge you."
Tauriel isn't so sure of that. She has heard tales of the powers of Lady Galadriel's mind, and there is much in her own she does not wish to share. The mess with Thranduil is far from the only thing – she is a guard, a commoner, and has done many silly, stupid things throughout her life that someone more dignified would judge her for.
"This is going to be a disaster," she groans.
Tauriel spends the next three days wracked with nerves, and quite cross with herself for feeling them. But then, she thinks she can be forgiven; Lady Galadriel is famed and revered throughout Middle-Earth for a reason, and Tauriel, whatever her parentage, is simply Tauriel. She's young and inexperienced and really quite foolish at times
She's rather shorter than most of the guards, but Sadronniel is near enough in size that one of her dresses can be altered to fit without too much fuss. Fortunately, it's a simple garment of deep green cashmere – not something Tauriel will feel uncomfortably alien in, with only minimal embroidery on the neck and sleeves.
She stands now on a stool in Sadronniel's small, warm apartment, trying to hold still. Guards might not have the same level of skill as seamstresses and tailors, but all are competent with needle and thread, for they repair their own clothes. That doesn't mean Tauriel hasn't been stabbed with a few pins, however.
Sadronniel's apartment is so much homier than Tauriel's room in the healing wards. The mantle above the fireplace is crowded with little souvenirs from the forest – pretty stones, and dried flowers – with a wreath of walnuts hanging above it. It's bright with lantern-light, smelling of dried lavender, leather, and a touch of smoke – it's small and humble, yes, but it is a home, well-loved by its occupant.
Tauriel wonders if anyone is in her old rooms. Not that she could bear to return to them, even if they're empty; that phase of her life is over now, and she doesn't need the memories. Her room in the wards might not be a home, but it's sufficient. She's never needed much.
Her leg is beginning to ache from standing, though, and she hopes Sadronniel is nearly done. The actual sewing she can do herself – it will give her something to do – and from the sheer number of glittering pins on the garment, she'll have her work cut out for her.
"Do you think Lady Galadriel will invite you to Lothlórien?" Sadronniel asks, around a mouthful of pins.
"I don't know." The idea is at once appealing and terrifying. She's heard tales of the beauty of the Golden Wood, but as she told Thranduil, her manners are those of a commoner. She could all too easily embarrass herself.
For now, the point is moot anyway; there's still her promise to Yavanna. She can go nowhere until it is fulfilled, so she need not make a decision right away. Eru knows how long she'll have to think.
Not that she minds quite so much anymore. Being mobile, more or less, has helped a great deal, and she's fallen into a routine of sorts. She can't say she enjoys Thranduil's company, but it's been a fortnight since she's wanted to hit him with anything. Her life is, if not pleasant, at least no longer actively unpleasant. It's something to be grateful for, she tells herself, as Sadronniel jabs her with another pin. Things could, on the whole, be much worse.
Tauriel refuses to leave the dress with Sadronniel, despite the latter's protests. Sadronniel has too much to do to work on it, and Tauriel not enough to take her mind off things. She sits in the chair beside her bed, leg propped up on the mattress, and stitches away.
There's something vaguely soothing about sewing, although she'd hang herself rather than become an actual seamstress. Simple stitchwork takes care and precision, but fashioning an entire garment is another matter altogether.
The needle flashes in the lamplight, the thread making a faint swooshing sound as it passes through the material. The stitches will be easy to remove, when she gives the dress back. It will need ironing when she's through, but she doubts she can accomplish that with her bad leg. One of the healers will have to help with that.
Does she want to go to Lothlórien one day? Lack of fine graces notwithstanding, she thinks she does, provided everything doesn't go disastrously wrong with Lady Galadriel. She can always return to her own forest. It is not as though it is going anywhere.
Unfortunately, the Lady is almost certainly going to hear about certain…things, thanks to Thranduil's idiotic lack of discretion. That is not a conversation Tauriel looks forward to, but it probably can't be avoided. She still doesn't know what he was thinking, because if the halls at large know about…that…then Legolas will find out sooner or later, too, and he probably won't forgive either one of them. As if the relationship between father and son wasn't already shaky enough.
For all her problems with Thranduil, she doesn't wish strife upon him and Legolas. Tauriel lost her mother so very young, and while Thranduil has been a poor example of a father, he does genuinely love his son. If – when – Legolas discovers this mess, it will break whatever remains of Thranduil's heart. That she could not wish on him, or anyone.
Tauriel understands full well why Legolas left. Time abroad will do him good, she's sure, but all that good will be undone whenever he comes home and hears all the gossip. He and Thranduil will be right back where they started.
As much as she doesn't want to, Tauriel thinks she must ask Galadriel's help. She's quite sure Legolas will be furious with her as well – she needs Galadriel's wisdom. For all her annoyance with Thranduil, she can't leave him to what she knows will be a nightmare, but this is something she can't do on her own.
She stitches a knot and bites off the thread, and grabs the spool off her end-table. Forgiveness might not be within her power, but she will do what she can to make certain Thranduil need not suffer any more for his past foolishness than he absolutely has to. While the pain he's endured is of his own devising, he's still had a sufficient amount of it by now. Eight months ago she would have happily destroyed him, but he's been through enough.
She only hopes Yavanna can keep him from doing some other, equally stupid thing. Then again, she can't think of anything more foolish than giving gossip that particular sort of fuel.
Though Thranduil would die before he admits it to anyone, thought of facing Galadriel unnerves him. She will disapprove, and she will do it in no uncertain terms.
At least she will also take Maglor off his hands, or so he hopes. She might well leave him with the wretch, as some sort of penance. Should she decide to, he can't exactly argue with her. After all, he rather deserves it.
He chooses his clothes with care – the black tunic shot with silver, and the finest of his autumn-rusty velvet robes. He's wise enough not to offer Tauriel anything; her friends will take care of her. Yes, she's a princess by birth, but not at heart. In truly fine clothes, she would feel unbearably awkward, and tomorrow will be awkward enough as it is, at least for everyone who isn't Galadriel. Thranduil doesn't think she's capable of awkwardness.
She will be kind to Tauriel, at least. Of that he's certain. She'll see just how very bewildered the poor elleth is – and possibly take her away. Yes, Tauriel has made a promise to Yavanna, but Galadriel can be dauntingly persuasive.
But then, Tauriel is nothing if not dutiful. She made a promise, and she'll keep it – which is both a blessing and a curse.
She has not been unkind to him. She strives to avoid awkward silences, and the little family of foxes he has carved her lives in the bird's nest on her end table. Indeed, she's been remarkably patient with him, for her, but while there is no malice nor anger in her eyes, neither is there forgiveness. She speaks to him of Maglor, of the doings of her friends, and asks after his days, but she says nothing of the past, so neither does he.
But it is very early days yet. Just now she still has no reason whatsoever to trust him – that will have to come with time, once he's proven to her that she can. The fact that she's willing to be so patient surely has to be a good sign, and at least she no longer seems miserable now that she can walk, after a fashion. And that in turn helps Thranduil sleep, on the rare nights that he chooses to.
He knows he won't tonight, however much he ought to. Much rides upon tomorrow, and he must be prepared for it.
Tauriel tries to sleep, and fails. She can't calm the nerves fluttering in her gut, and for some reason she can't get her leg comfortable, in spite of the low dose of poppy she took. She stares into the darkness, hands laced behind her head, enveloped by the scent of lavender.
Whatever happens tomorrow, it will change her life, for good or ill. Of that, she's certain. Part of her can't help but be excited by the idea, for all it unsettles her.
Even in the woods, she's still been dwelling in Thranduil's shadow. This – this is truly new, something with no connection at all to her old life. And unlike Maglor, it could be a good thing.
She's bound here by her promise to Yavanna, but that might well be easier to carry out with something of her own to focus on, something that has no ties to anything that's gone before. Always provided she doesn't somehow offend Lady Galadriel, anyway. Tauriel knows perfectly well how to behave herself around other Wood-Elves, but Galadriel is not a Wood-Elf. She's a great Lady among the Noldor, a queen in all but name. In fact, Tauriel wonders why she doesn't claim a royal title. She has a right to one, being Finwë's descendant. Indeed, she might have a better right than Thranduil, who for better or worse is very conscious of his own station.
Although he has seemed far less so of late, at least to Tauriel. He never even wears his crown in her presence, and she wonders why. At least he also seems less broken, less on the cusp of Fading. She's fulfilling her promise – which is good, because if her presence wasn't enough, she doesn't know what she'd do.
Surely Lady Galadriel can help. Surely.
There is not much in this world that can shock Galadriel anymore, but Thranduil's messenger managed it and then some.
Maglor. Alive, after all these millennia. And with a daughter. A daughter who shot him, and who he then stabbed.
Some things, apparently, really are in the blood.
The last dawn of her journey is cool and crystal-pure, the forest lighter than she has felt it in centuries. No webs mar the trees, and there is no stink of death and rot – just the clean scent of dew-damp earth, of things green and growing. The Wood-Elves have been very busy in not very much time.
She wonders why.
Thranduil has ever been an enigma to her. Embittered by many things – some which he has done, and some which have been done to him. He resents his lack of one of the Three, and she doesn't blame him. Cirdan must have his reasons for gifting the third to Mithrandir, but that will not comfort Thranduil at all.
Losing his wife was a terrible blow to him, yet unlike her son-by-marriage, he froze upon her loss, and would accept aid from no one.. He sat in his halls while his forest perished by inches, yet now he has, for some reason, stirred himself.
Galadriel is rather more curious than she has been in a very long time.
"The battle gave us all some perspective, my lady," one of her guides says, when she remarks upon it. He is a younger ellon, dark-haired and dark-eyed, and clearly – amusingly – awed by her presence. He says no more, though she's quite certain that there is much more to say.
Well. She'll find out soon enough. She will see whatever remains of her poor cousin's mind, and meet his daughter. She only hopes Thranduil has not been too hard on the poor girl.
Oh, Galadriel, if you only knew. This will be an interesting meeting, even if both Tauriel and Thranduil find it rather uncomfortable. And hey, the pair of them managed to have a conversation that wasn't strained beyond belief – even if it was because they're both too nervous.