Chapter 2: Drop

"Stop…Tauriel…Please…Stop...I can't…It hurts…I order you to stop…" Thranduil begged with every breath. The elk's gallop was excruciating on the uneven ground, each stride of a hoof causing a jolt of pain starting at his wound and stabbing all the way through him, cramps so forceful he'd lost all control over his muscles. Only his captain's grip and being tied to the saddle kept him in place, whimpers and small cries escaping his lips between intelligible fragments.

"You know I can't stop," Tauriel explained unwearyingly. The older elf wasn't in his right mind and needed the patronising. "Your life depends on whether we get you the needed care quickly enough," she substantiated, hoping that the goal would help Thranduil focus on something other than the pain as well.

Thranduil quietened for a little if the laboured breathing didn't count, his head lolling to the side as he gave into his fate. Tauriel took a glance at his pale face, wishing for recognition of her reasoning in his features, but all she found was a drained, suffering soul, unable to fight her. The silken feel of his robe under her fingers was lost, the clothing item was saturated with blood and became squelchy and too slick to the extent that the Sylvan started to worry she would lose her grip on him. His breath was erratic and he could no longer plead. That look she spared him, taking in the condition he was in, made her realise just how grave his injury was. It was her that started to beg this time, urging the elk to run, pleading with Thranduil to hang on. The journey was a complete blur, she had one thought that occupied her mind besides the instinctive directing and managing the animal on the right path, and that was the king most likely dying in her arms before she reached the caverns and it being the result of her culpability.

Mercifully, the watch system of the main elven settlement in Mirkwood worked-sentries spotted and heralded their arrival and so a small group of healer already awaited their appearance as soon as they have gotten under the cover of the elvenking's halls. She let them take her burden, numb and dazed, devastation screwing a bolt deep into her heart. The momentum of the hustle around her pulled her off the elk as well, but then she just stood there, shaken and distraught. It took a few shakes of her shoulders from the chief healer till she focussed on the older elf. "Looks like orc poison. Is there anything else we should know?" The mage specialised in healing pressed.

"It was deep. The wound is deep," she cried, "I thought he would hold on, why isn't he holding on?"

The elf in charge of the king's wellbeing grunted disapprovingly at her and thenceforward disregarded her, focussing on moving the king somewhere where they could treat him as Tauriel didn't seem cogent enough to be of any use anymore. A tall brunette approached her instead, one of the few other female members of the guard. "Are you injured?" The newcomer placed a hand on Tauriel's arm, concerned.

"No. No, I'm not injured, Nanthel," the captain shook her head, "none of this is my blood," she looked down at herself in panic. Everything from her boots to the leather straps of her quiver had been bathed in the red liquid.

The older guard brought her palm to her mouth, evidently shocked by the blood loss from the most likely source, "oh. Oh, our king," she cried compassionately, like possibly everyone in court would be when they found out.

Driven by astonishment at the turn of the events, the ginger one blurted out what shocked her the most, "he saved me. He saved me perchance at the cost of his life and yet he saved me," she repeated, uncomprehending, "why would he do that? Why sacrifice himself for a lowly Silvan elf?" She questioned, "not as much as parents to tell of my heritage."

Nanthel pressed her fingers to her mouth, unnerved. "You were never just a lowly Silvan elf," she stated after managing to compose herself enough, "not to our Lord Thranduil."

"On the contrary. You don't know how he talks to me. Skills and position doesn't truly make anyone not lowly," Tauriel argued, getting angry. Why did Thranduil need to stand in the way of a blade intended for her? She's rather he didn't. Who would want the burden of being responsible for killing the king?

"The king has never treated you like the rest of us, you are aware of that, aren't you?"

"I've earned my place," the redhead ascertained perplexed, though she wasn't quite sure who she was trying to convince with the firm statement. The king's words and actions sometimes contradicted each other.

"Your archery and tracking skills are exemplary that none other than our Prince Legolas can match, but you were held with regard before developing those skills. Everyone saw you as the king's ward, don't you know that? He'd personally found you in the forest and took to you immediately. You went everywhere where the prince went, were bequeathed with everything the prince had, shown all craft he had been taught as if you'd been his majesty's daughter."

"I was the same age as the prince. Kept for companionship. There weren't any other children round the same age." The archer stared for a moment, troubled. So did people think her skills came from being given an exceptional, princely education? All she had been getting from Thranduil over the last century was rejection and reminders of where her real place was. However, this was not the time to argue that, there were more important matters, "hand me the map of Mirkwood," she pointed towards Nanthel's side. Most guards would have a copy of that, bar Tauriel, who knew the forest better than most. She unrolled the chart and poited, "here. You must lead a rescue party for the rest of our injured." Then, she ran. There was no more of this conversation she could take with the king's blood on her, on her hands, she couldn't have that, it made her feel agitated and guilty. She had to get rid of it. In her room, Tauriel hurled off every bit of clothing she had on, in panic, and scrubbed at her skin with the water from the container they kept in living quarters for heating for particularly cold days. The redhead wanted every last particle gone, all reminders erased, the day's events forgotten. Her rattled mind did not calm, not until her skin was pink from rubbing and all the water spilled. Pausing due to the inability to scrub further, Tauriel's concentration broke , eyes brimming with tears. She could not change anything, bar finding out how the king fared. Robing into the simplest, one colour green dress resembling a servant's that she could find, the maiden rushed towards Thranduil's chambers. She slowed down as she got closer however, fearful of the news she might receive. There was a lot of commotion there, not so much the servants being useful, but everyone's curiosity and concern for their king getting the better of them and compelling them to gather round his green, wooden door. The warrior maiden had to slow down further to side-step courtiers and advisors and soldiers, all conversing in hushed tones as if being quiet would be of any help for the wounded.

"Tauriel!" A lady dressed in white and silver spotted her. She was generally serving in the Halls as the overseer of all servants.

"What happened?!" Asked a builder, now that people's attention was drawn to the new arrival.

"You were supposed to protect the king! Aren't you his guard!" The court's minstrel accused out and out.

"How could this happen!" A fellow musician joined in.

Tauriel froze, all her ginger feistiness draining out of her at the accusations. Cause they were right weren't they? The angry, stumped faces were justified. She found herself unable to form a sentence and defend herself, the quick, shallow breaths she was taking making her lightheaded. All she wanted to do was get through that door and know that the king would survive. But feeling cornered, she could not advance, just look from one to the other, contemplating whether she should draw her sword to make a point.

"His Highness is calling for you Captain Tauriel!" Galion stood in the wooden door everyone would've liked seeing behind. He added a hand gesture to wave her over at once. The ginger haired elf bowed her head, nodding and made her way bashfully through the crowd that hesitantly made room for her. It was the second time Thranduil saved her that day. The moment she disappeared, voices of incredulity swept through the gathering-the king clearly favoured the archer and they didn't even know the half of how his injury occurred.

Tbc