T.A. 2940
Tauriel rises from the water, made anew. There is resilience in her sinewy physicality. The quarters prepared for her are near his and just as expansive. With no basis for comparison, she is uncertain of her status. Thranduil knows she has never been among so many Elves before much less lived as one.
The courtiers gossip. He hears all of it despite their efforts to hide their whispering. She hails from Belfalas. One of Cirdan's kin or perhaps of the Avorrim, though it is said not many of them are kissed by such fire in looks or spirit.
It was true enough. Tauriel learned Elvish by lingering near ships at anchor in Mithlond. He himself taught her the dialect of the woodland. Over the years she developed an uncanny grasp for the language.
Garbed in elven dress, Tauriel can pass for a Silvan. Her hair reaches her lower back and is worn in elven braids. As if the braids could somehow contain its wildness. Now that she is rested she walks with the air of a Wood elf. It is a carefully studied air but only just so. He cautions himself that the poise in the turn of her head and flick of her eyes are not to be admired.
"I am no elf-maid," Tauriel reminds him. She is the Belegaer incarnate, far more Ossë than Uinen at that. He would do well to recall it.
"While you reside here, you must play the part." How strange it is to be standing with her in his chambers, to realize the top of her head hardly reaches his shoulder.
"Yes. We all have parts to play, do we not?" Her tone bites into him. It is meant to rile him, and he rises to her bait. Thranduil elongates his spine and rises to his full height.
"I am a king who had just sent a company of Dwarves to the dungeons. Had I shown you-a foreigner for all intents and purposes and just as much an intruder-any favor, the rest of-"
She holds a hand up to stop him. He obeys and falls silent. An apology lingers at the tip of his tongue for how he has treated her, centuries after their last parting. He swallows the words and knows that the hurt he inflicted cannot be taken back. Perhaps they had fallen through her as stones sink in water and disappear.
It occurs to him that this night is Mereth Nuin Giliath. He tells her that the Eldar feast beneath starlight every autumn and she accepts his arm with a half-smile. It is a breathtaking introduction to his world. The repast is bountiful, she sips her first mouthful of Dorwinion wine and sputters. She watches the dancers with keen eyes.
When the minstrels take up their instruments, Tauriel seems to lean into the music. He thinks, with a hint of jealousy, that she will join in song. She will captivate all who hear like she had when he was a prince in mourning.
To his relief, she sits back in her chair only to listen. The feast has lasted the night. Dawn approaches, the eastern sky begins to lighten.
"Hir nin Thranduil, the Dwarves have escaped!" A guard storms into the terrace, destroying the ambiance. The king's wrath is instantly visible, Tauriel is the only one who does not shrink away. Legolas gives his commands and the guards are sent running to the subterranean water-gates.
The prince's furtive glances at the maiden have not gone unnoticed. Tauriel knows he watches her. He wonders who she is that his father should be so enthralled. She is deceptively strong and quick on her feet. He traces her movements as she follows his guards from the terrace in baffling pursuit.
They have come to the rocky edges of the Forest River. The Dwarves have escaped in barrels carried by the rapids, the Wood-elves sprint after them and let their arrows fly. Legolas realizes Tauriel has undone the laces of her bodice by the time they reach the river. Her dress falls past her hips to the ground. Legolas does not avert his eyes.
She throws a look of determination at him over her shoulder. "I can get them back."
"How?" He asks incredulously. His hands grip his bow, there is an arrow nocked.
There is no hesitation in the way she runs toward the water. She leaps off the smallest cliff headfirst, he loses sight of her as she dives off the rocks. Legolas follows with a cry. As he stands and peers over the cliff there are no signs of her. Only the sound of the rapids as they go ever on. He cannot allow his confusion distract him. Legolas joins the hunt for his father's prisoners, only to find that the Elves are not the only ones after them.
Though the Elves fight off the Orcs they can, they eventually cease their pursuit. Legolas watches the Dwarves float farther down the river and wonders what became of the woman who dove in after them. His guards succeeded in capturing a lone goblin, a hideous thing that spouts obscenities all the way back to his father's Halls.
Under duress, Thranduil comes to know why these creatures have dared enter his kingdom so brazenly. He dispatches it without further ado and Legolas is repulsed by the way its headless body twitches in death.
Mirkwood's borders are sealed off by order of the king. When Legolas tells his father what became of Tauriel, Thranduil does not check his pace as he strides away.
When Legolas catches his father alone in his chambers, he appears deep in contemplation. The king stands, observing the waterfalls that embellish his quarters as their stronghold is nestled above the Forest River. The king has been unsettled ever since the fire-haired maiden arrived then departed so unexpectedly.
"Tauriel told me she intended to bring the Dwarves back, though by what means I cannot imagine." Legolas remarks with a frown.
"She is a warrior of a different brand." The history imbued in Thranduil's speech draws his son's notice.
"Do you love her, adar?" The prince asks abruptly. He fears the answer as soon as he poses the question. He cannot forget the look on his father's face—vulnerable, thoroughly unlike himself—when Tauriel addressed him in the throne room.
The distant roar of the falling water fills the silence between them. Thranduil looks at his son, Glawardis's son. Do the strings of a lute love each other though they are forever set apart but quiver with the same music? The Eldar are prone to the allure of sea-song, even those who never heeded the call to Aman. She is an unknowable entity, no matter how many times he ventured west to see her. He is uncertain if he loves her or only the idea of her. He wonders why he must make the distinction.
"No," Thranduil whispers. "She is nothing to me."
The lie is not quite drowned out by the steady crash of the waterfalls that resounds through the caverns.