8.
The dwarves were divided on what to do with the dead elf. It was Balin who first saw him floating towards them, and most of his companions grumbled that they wished he hadn't, and what was a dead elf to them anyway? It was Bofur who pulled the body from the river before anyone could think to suggest perhaps they might just let it float on. Having done so, no one was quite certain what they should do next. It felt wrong to leave it lying by the river for wild animals (or worse) to savage. They hadn't the time or the strength or the means to dig a hole or set a pyre. It would likely be suicidal to seek out its kin to let them deal with it. Particularly when Bilbo exclaimed, "That's Prince Legolas!"
The hobbit sounded part shocked and horrified, and part just plain exhausted. To the dwarves, this elf was one of their jailors and the son of one of their enemies. He had ridiculed them, used their heads as a footpath in their fight against the orcs, and all in all had not inured himself to the dwarves. On the other hand, he hadn't outright injured any of them, and during their flight down the river he had saved his arrows for the orcs, when he could well have decided to turn them on the escaping prisoners.
To Bilbo, Legolas almost felt like a friend. It was hard to explain. They'd never met, exactly, but Bilbo had lived invisibly in the elf's home and he had observed the elves beyond the confines of the prison and the hobbit had found the elves to be a strange mix of playful and solemn, joyous and melancholy, fearless and…not fearful, but burdened, overshadowed by the darkness creeping within their forest. Legolas laughed and joked with his friends, and yes, some of that humor was at the dwarves' expense, but none of it was malicious, and Bilbo himself had gotten worse ridicule from the dwarves when he had first joined their quest.
Bilbo hadn't exactly followed the prince around; for one, the prince always seemed to sense Bilbo was there somehow, unless Legolas was always in the habit of spinning about in an empty (or seemingly empty) room and staring hard at nothing. But listening in on the prince, the captain, and the king had seemed the best bet to learn how to escape, so the hobbit had spent a good deal of time shadowing him. And Legolas had a different face for every companion. For his friends, he was playful. For his people, he was noble, cheerful and kind, always ready to listen or offer his help. For his father he was all these things at once, a noble warrior prince and a son. But when he was alone, or supposed himself to be, these expressions would fall away, like masks, and he'd be something else entirely. He didn't brood, exactly, but a look of sad longing would fill his expression and he would seek out high places, or leave the stronghold entirely to take to the trees. Sometimes he would sing, and the songs were always beautiful but also sorrowful.
Once, only once, Bilbo happened to catch the prince in such a mood and watched him climb from a balcony up into the high reaches of a tree, so high the hobbit wouldn't have known he was there, but for his voice. He didn't understand the words, but his song was sad. And as Bilbo stood there, looking up, the king came out on the balcony. The king always looked distant, like something beyond the world he stood in, which made him seem cold and heartless at times. But now he looked up at his son and his expression was just like his son's; full of sorrow and longing and shadowed. And all at once Bilbo understood what that expression really was. It was love; love for something that hurt to love it.
And now here was the king's son, a dark shaft piercing his back, his golden hair stained red where it sprawled across his wound, his pale lifeless face hidden beneath the bloodied strands. How would the king look when he saw his son as this? And would it be better or worse than the look he'd bear if he never saw his son at all, if they'd let the elf float on until it was lost?
Bilbo felt the weight of a sorrow that wasn't his own settle over his heart, and he listened to the dwarves squabble over what to do with the body, as if it belonged to an orc, and he couldn't stand for it.
"We've no time…" Thorin was insisting again, against Balin's quite wisdom of what was decent.
"Then we make time!" Bilbo exclaimed, startling the dwarves into silence with his shout. "Or you can go on your way without your burglar."
They stared at him. And he was the silly hobbit again, the strange little outsider who wanted things to be better than they were. Except he was also Bilbo the barrel rider, their burglar who saved them from their cells, whom they couldn't have escaped without. He would be heard by them, heard and listened to.
"This is Prince Legolas, not some orc to be tossed aside or burned and left. He fought those orcs at your side!"
"On my head," someone mumbled softly, but most of the dwarves now began to look ashamed.
"A father's son," Bilbo said. "He fought so you could have passage down the river, and now here he lies. If we haven't the decency to…to treat him decently then how can we think ourselves good?"
"We are not saying we wouldn't do something if we could," Thorin said, his voice kinder this time, "But what would you have us do?"
Bilbo hesitated there. There wasn't a good answer to give. Because all their limitations still applied. Still, there was right and there was wrong, and Bilbo would do right, even if it wasn't easy.
"The elves don't know me," he said. "I can return him to his people."
Thorin gave him that look, the one that said Bilbo was at once the most stupendous and brave but also the most stupid and foolhardy of beings he'd ever met. Others were more verbose in their response, the gist of it being that he wasn't to do anything of the kind and the elf king would likely kill him if he brought his son to him in that state.
It was Bofur who finally brought the argument to a halt by making a simple observation about the body he'd just fished from the river.
"He's not dead."
9.
They found Tauriel's bow beneath the carcass of a spider.
Thranduil didn't have his entire army searching for his son. He was still a king, as well as a father, and he would not put his people needlessly at risk. That said, he sent out scouting parties and made plans for war. The orcs were a threat he would not allow if at all possible. His people would be mobilized at a moment's notice if need be. He could protect and shield and hide, but if war was coming for them, then they would meet it.
Thranduil himself went with a large party to follow the river and find his son.
It felt like he walked in a dream trance. At any moment, there would be a body, and that body would be his Legolas, and that body would be either dead or it would be dying.
His Legolas could not be dead or dying. This could not be.
If it must be, and he found war to be too great a risk to his people, then he would appoint a new leader and he would go alone.
One way or another, he would join his son.
The scouts found Tauriel's bow but not Tauriel. They were masters of their craft and could easily read the battle.
"She was alone," they said. Legolas was not with her. Did she track him? Did she track him even as they now did? "She was surprised." Legolas was not there to watch her back. "She slew two and injured a third, but she herself fell and she was taken. I cannot say if she was dead or alive when they took her, but it is likely they took her alive, as is their habit."
The party following the river was a large one. Many more had wanted to come. They all loved their prince. They all loved their king.
"We will not leave her to the spiders," Thranduil said. "Take as many as you feel prudent and go after her."
Five left. twenty remained. Ten to surround the king and five to search ahead and behind to avoid surprises.
In the end, the river went on beyond the forest, calmer now, but the current still swift. The king mounted and rode. Wherever his son went, he would follow.
In the distance, there was the mountain. The dragon slept.
10.
Bard was wary of sneaking thirteen dwarves and one hobbit into Laketown. He was downright against smuggling in a half-dead elf prince.
"He really shouldn't be moved at all," Óin grumbled. He grumbled a lot, over the elf and over Kili. They hadn't exactly had a chance to stock up on healing supplies when they'd left the king's hospitality, and now he had two people with nasty arrow wounds.
He'd pulled the arrow from the prince's back, because if moving him about was a bad idea, then moving him about with an arrow shaft stuck in him was a death sentence. Now he bled, far too heavily, and there was something unclean about the wound, but by some otherworldly luck, the shaft that should have pierced vital organs somehow had managed to lodge between them.
The elf was as white as a wraith, and his heartbeat was far from strong or steady, and his lungs sounded like they may have breathed in more water than is healthy, but somehow he still lived. The dwarf had bound the wound as well as he could, but he needed someplace dry and warm and some kingsfoil would come in awfully handy right about then. Kili wasn't doing very well either, despite the young dwarf's loud insistence that he was fine. Those arrows had been poisoned, Óin was sure of it. And the elf had had hours to absorb that poison before he'd pulled out the arrow. The elf stayed unconscious, but not peaceful. His eyes were closed and his visage twisted from pain.
"I don't think he'll live," the dwarf said, his voice somewhat apologetic but mostly just factual. "But he'll definitely die if we leave him here. He'll only maybe die if we take him with us, even if the method of shifting him won't be good for him. The longer we take to decide, the closer to dying he'll be. And young Kili could use some help as well."
"I'm fine! Look to the elf!"
"You're all mad," was Bard's opinion, but he took them and their money all the same.
And if Thorin took some pleasure when he himself stuck the half-dead elf into a barrel soon to be covered in fish, well, that was for him to know and no one else. It's not like they could have left him to die. If for no other reason than to avoid making more of an enemy of the elven king than they already had. Besides, their burglar would have been displeased, and no one wanted to upset Bilbo. The scolding was bad enough, but if Thorin actually managed to make him cry…well. It was just better if they didn't upset their hobbit.
11.
Tauriel did not know how long she was held, helpless and alone while pain ran up and down her limbs and tight strands didn't let her move. She was aware when the spiders ran over her, occasionally prodding her with a leg or nipping her with stinging horrible bites that didn't kill or knock her unconscious but filled her head with dizziness and her limbs with new pains as the poison ran through her blood.
They did mean to kill her, of course, to kill her and to eat her, maybe in that order. They wanted her alive until then, though. They wanted her fresh. Likely, they wanted her for their young. This was a nest, after all, and newborn spiders needed fresh blood and fresh meat, and elf tasted very sweet.
Spiders very rarely got to eat elf, particularly as it was their habit to drag their prey back to the nest, giving the escaped elves time to rally and gather more warriors and rescue their kin. Still, it did happen, when a spider was hungry or hasty or if the elf was alone and no one realized what had happened before it was too late.
Tauriel thought herself very likely dead soon and she had never felt so afraid or so alone or so foolish. She should not have followed after the dwarves, at least not without telling someone first. She could likely have had Legolas at her side at the very least, for her prince never abandoned his kin when they had need of him.
Especially if she were the one who had need, a secret voice inside of her said. The voice, for some reason, filled her with guilt and so she pushed it away and never listened, and took the prince's friendship as friendship because that was all it was.
She hoped he would not feel guilt or pain when he learned of her fate. She knew that was an impossible hope. She was a stupid child and her death would bring pain to those she loved and there was nothing she could do to prevent it.
There was nothing she could do. She almost fancied she could already hear screams of sorrow.
No, those were screams of horror and pain and fear. Those were not elf screams either. The spiders were screaming. Had help come after all? Had she been found?
She had one pure moment of relief and hope before an enraged, spiteful spider stung her deep and painfully, and her mind was lost to the poison.
12.
Legolas awoke and found himself drowning.
That he awoke at all was amazing, for he had been bleeding non-stop for hours and poison tore at his insides and he was too weak even as his eyes fluttered to properly struggle against the hands holding him beneath the water.
It was cold water, icy cold, and perhaps that was what managed to rouse the elf, even through the fever that burned in his blood, even through the weakness in his body. Two dwarves dragged him beneath the water, not that he was aware enough to know this, only that he was cold, and in a sort of void and something was clamped over his nose and mouth that didn't allow him to breathe.
He struggled, weakly, and to no avail, and as his head broke above the water and he was pushed and pulled, he fell again back into the darkness.
Somewhere, around him, voices were calling back and forth.
"Is that an elf?"
"Breathe now, lad."
"Is it dead?"
"Is he dead?"
"How's Kili?"
"I told you I could do it on my own, stop fussing."
"We need weapons."
"You mean we need weapons. You got your sword back off the elf."
"Do you have any kingsfoil?"
"Should the elf's lips be turning blue like that?"
"I said breathe!"
There was pain, something slapped his back and it hurt and his lungs burned and he coughed and coughed and coughed and fell and he was alone in the void.
13.
They found the place where the dwarves left the river. There were smashed barrels and abandoned orc weapons and a ragged and empty purse.
There was also a couple of strands of long golden hair.
The hair had blood on it.
So did the remains of one of the barrels.
"Captain Tauriel is alive, my lord." The elf didn't know whether her king heard her or not. He was staring at the bloodstain upon the broken barrel. She didn't repeat herself. Either her king heard her or he did not; either way a repetition wouldn't make her better understood.
"They must have met with a boat. We believe they made for Laketown, but we can't be certain they didn't go directly for the mountain. Water doesn't leave trails."
Thranduil didn't react to this second elf either. With quiet grace, he moved to the barrel and retrieved from it a long strand of hair. He washed the strand in the water, then gently, reverently, he twisted it into a sort of bracelet about his wrist. No one spoke. All awaited for their king to make the next move.
"Captain Tauriel is being seen to?"
"She is very gravely injured. She has over twenty minor bites, and three major stings. The last is most severe, and she had bled heavily as well as being poisoned, but the healer is hopeful nonetheless. She is being taken care of."
"We will divide again. Ten to Laketown and ten to the mountain."
"And which party will you join, my lord?"
Again the king is silent. Almost, he seems to be listening for something. Perhaps he is. If there were any among them who could be guided to the prince through the will of his heart alone, it would be his father.
"I go to Laketown," he said. He sounded almost defiant, as though waiting for someone to suggest it might be better if he went elsewhere, perhaps back to his people where he could be kept safe and so better keep them safe.
No one made that suggestion. They divided and continued on. The night was dark and cold.
