T.A. 2940

The eaves of the forest cast long and dark shadows. The paths of Mirkwood are treacherous even to those who built them in the elder days. All feel the effects of the insidious Necromancer from Dol Guldur but none more so than King Thranduil.

He has grown colder, harsher. It is like his soul is carved in two—one half mutely watches the other as it drives him to speak soft and cruel words to those he loves. Legolas only comes to him to deliver his reports about patrols. His son is the Captain of the royal guard—a prestigious assignment that went without dispute to the heir apparent.

The Elvenking's subjects make great efforts to appease him. They pander and obfuscate to avoid his wrath. He should not enjoy the way speech in a room dies upon his entry. He should not be proud that he is a vicious force to be reckoned with. It is better that his word is obeyed without question and there is no greater motivator than fear. It means his people will endure.

Seasons have come and gone. Ennui might have once spurred him on a westward journey. Now he knows he cannot shirk his duties so easily. How reckless he had been, all for a little sea-nymph who gave him a string of raw pearls. No matter how much he now disdains them he cannot get rid of them. They lay undisturbed in his bedchamber at the bottom of some drawer…the sea-song no longer haunts his dreams.

The cadence of life in the Woodland Realm is rudely interrupted by a rag-tag band of Dwarves. It is autumn, the boughs of oak and beech swathed in red and gold. Even the trees rebel against the darkness. Their solemn beauty is marred by the presence of outsiders. As it turns out, kin of the very outsiders who mocked their own creation. Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, asks him for help in reclaiming the kingdom 'neath the Mountain.

The dialogue plays out how Thranduil predicts. Thorin hurls insults in Khuzdul and the common tongue, Thranduil sends the Dwarven prince to the dungeons where the rest of them are locked up. He sits upon his throne in raiment glimmering. None who enter his kingdom without permission go unpunished.

What he does not foresee is his son and guards returning from a patrol bearing another prisoner. It seems his dungeons will have a new addition not a few days after the Dwarves' arrival.

"She was found on the banks of the Forest River. Says she was making a voyage this way to visit an old friend. She had nothing with her, not even clothes on her back," Legolas's voice is hot with suspicion. The fine cloak covering the maiden's shoulders belongs to the prince. Her face is hidden by the billowing hood. "There was no boat to be found."

Thranduil stares impassively down at all of them. He sees the guards shift nervously. Only Legolas is unperturbed by his stillness.

"Explain your trespass to the king and he will show you mercy." The prince urges.

When both of the guards release her, they expect her to step forward to face the Elvenking. She stumbles and falls to the floor. It is not a sign of deference. Her legs cannot support her weight, they are pale and atrophied where the hem of the cloak has risen to reveal them.

The sleeves of the cloak slide backward as her hands come up to push back the hood.

Time comes to a halt.

His face is utterly changed. Something has broken cleanly through the king's carapace of icy intimidation.

"Ni veren an dhe ngovaned, Thranduil." Tauriel says. Her voice echoes and floats up toward the dais where he sits. He blindly grasps at the armrests of his throne. Her glorious mane of red is tucked inside the cloak and where once her beautiful fin was were now two legs. He cannot reconcile this present image of her with the one he's harbored in his mind for thousands of years.

Only when he realizes Legolas and the guards are staring, thunderstruck, at the familiarity of her tone does Thranduil slam his façade back into its rightful place. His eyes narrow. His lip curls with contempt.

"You will answer for your trespass. A cell awaits you in the dungeon below should you refuse to." Thranduil says brusquely. He watches the tender smile on her lips fade. Tauriel's eyes flash in that way he remembers—he will hurt her anyway and the foresight pains him—and if they were at sea, the look on her face would mean a death sentence for him.

Several long moments pass. The longer the silence drags on, the more unquiet the guards become.

Tauriel grits her teeth. She draws her legs under her and presses her palms to the ground on either side of her. He sees her shaking. She bites her lip with the effort but she succeeds in rising to her feet.

"You no longer deign to come to the sea, so the sea has come to you with all its fury."

Belatedly, Thranduil notices how her lips are dry and cracked, her skin is deathly pale. Her words are potent but her body weak from going too long without water. He is off his throne and rushing toward her as her eyes roll back. He catches her before she falls again and all who see this are shocked beyond comprehension.

Thranduil says nothing as he carries her limp form to his chambers. He knows what he must do.

He peels his son's cloak off of her to find she is all fair skin and lithe limbs. The sight of legs still unnerves him. She is unresponsive as he lowers her into the generously sized bath. Thranduil watches as her auburn hair darkens to the shade he remembers.

Thranduil waits with bated breath. She is fully submerged now, her eyes still shut and lips slightly parted. Soon enough her pale legs join and the alabaster flesh of her thighs knits together. The skin is gradually overtaken by bright green scales. They appear in a mesmerizing ripple from her hip down. He watches the beautiful fin begin to form—the soft membrane flutters to life.

He is unprepared to see her eyes snap open before she surges up and breaches the surface of the bathwater. He expects her to hit him, or perhaps drag him into the bath and drown him. She only stares.

He stares back at her like he will drink her dry until she is empty of rage. As if she is the wine he oft indulges in. Like him she is immortal, unchanged in body save for the great and terrible beauty of her eyes. Her face is a map of the world she's traveled to get to him.

"Díheno nin." Thranduil whispers. He is on his knees at the edge of the basin.

"Ben iest gîn." She answers.

Sindarin translations: (from Sindarin phrasebook at realelvish dot net)

1) Ni veren an dhe ngovaned, Thranduil - I am so glad to see you, Thranduil

2) "Díheno nin." – Forgive me

3) "Ben iest gîn." – As you wish