Ich dien – To Serve the Kingdom
by faust
3
The Captain
There is a time of almost shocked standstill after the elves have left, a stunned quietness, before everyone picks up whatever they've done before. Bard's eldest, Sigrid, Kili means to remember, directs her siblings in cleaning up the mess from the fight of the night before. Still intact furniture is put straight, splintered items piled up next to the oven, some pieces set aside for repair. Household objects are picked up from the floor, broken goods separated from whole; things are cleaned, stacked back where they belong. They work silently, from time to time throwing short glances towards the dwarf and the elf. They don't ask for assistance, and Kili is almost ashamed. He cannot help anyway. He is much better, he did not lie to the Woodland queen with that, but he still feels weak and exhausted, and his leg is throbbing and will most certainly not be able to carry his weight yet. He grunts, displeased with himself, and guiltily sinks more comfortably back into the pillows.
From his bed, he watches Tauriel busy herself with mundane tasks. So far, she has checked his bandaged leg two more times, sifted the assortment of healing herbs laid out on the kitchen desk, straightened his blanket, thrice, prepared a pain numbing tea and one to reduce a fever, accepted and eaten an apple Sigrid offered her, sliced up another one for Kili and would have handfed it to him had he not prevented her from it, cleaned her gear, smoothed a wet stone over her long knives, retrieved arrows from where they still stuck in walls, furniture, and the floor, sorted out those that were reusable, checked their fletching and stored them in her quiver. She is about to check his bandage yet again when Kili stills her hands by covering them with his own. He briefly marvels about how much broader his hands are than hers, which in comparison seem slender, almost svelte.
"Don't worry," he says. "It is well. All is well."
She snorts in a very un-elven way. "No, it is not. Nothing is well. The queen…" She trails off, looks to the door as if the lady's essence were still perceptible there.
Perhaps it is, at least for Tauriel.
She bites her lip, fiddles with a loose thread at the hem of her sleeve. She's found it without even looking, she must have worried it a few times already this morning. There is not much left of the self-assured warrior of the night before.
"The queen…?" Kili prompts, and as there is no response he tries again with, "what is she going to do?"
"You heard her." Tauriel blinks. "Outside. She sent a guard back to bring word to the king, and she leads the others in quest of Legolas."
Kili has not heard any of that. He hasn't got elven ears, he can't hear things spoken outside. But what Tauriel says does not come unexpected. What is surprising, though, what truly baffles Kili, is that the Queen of the Woodland is leading the search party.
It is said that there have been few, very few female dwarven warriors in ancient times, but Kili is sure the talk is just that: talk. Dwarven women are protective of their families and they would not back away from defending them if need be, but they would never be part of any army or guard. Dwarven women rarely leave the privacy of their homestead. They do not participate in matters of the state, they are protected and kept from public display. They don't take on official tasks. A dwarven queen would certainly not ride with the guards, much less spearhead them. She would not undertake a position designed for a male. Kili's own mother, sister of Thorin and highest lady among the dwarves, would never venture far out of her halls, would never leave the seclusion of her home in pursuit of her missing son. She would never question it to be solely warriors' work. Male warriors.
Of course, he understands elven customs are different. There's no mistaking in that with Tauriel being captain of the palace guard and having proved to be as fierce a warrior as any male elf; but the queen…. Surely, with the queen it must be different. The queen is precious, she cannot be imperilled. She must be protected, hidden, her kindness and beauty not exposed to the dangers of a scouting mission into the lands of the goblins.
Not that he considers the queen exceptionally beautiful. Even though elven beauty has slowly grown on Kili, Tauriel's in particular, by dwarven taste the queen is by no means attractive. Too tall, too smooth of skin, too silvery of voice. No beard. For an elf, though, she might be beautiful. Kili has to hold back a snort. If the queen is to be considered beautiful, then the prince must be, too. There is much resemblance, although the queen's hair is of a darker, warmer gold than that of her son, her eyes moss green opposed to the icy blue of his, her gaze warm and friendly where the prince's had been cold and dismissive. No question: he is her offspring in appearance; but his attitude is all inherited from the king.
Everything about the queen is warmer than whatever Kili has ever heard of the king or seen of Legolas: her eyes, her smile, her kind words for the boy—even her inquiry about his own wellbeing. She's warmer and…Kili can't put his finger on it…more delicate, perhaps. Yes, delicate. Frailer, almost…fragile. Kili frowns as he remembers the queen's exit: there was a brief faltering in her stride, an instability, almost a stumble. But elves don't stumble, do they?
"What's wrong with your queen?" he blurts out before he can stop himself.
Tauriel's head shoots up, her fingers let go of the fringe at her sleeve, her body tenses, her eyes are guarded. Suddenly she very much looks the palace guard that she is. A formidable paladin. "What do you mean? There is nothing wrong with our queen."
Kili wishes the queen—and the king—could hear it. No one would doubt Tauriel's loyalty at this moment.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to offend. I just…" How to put it into words? "She looks…unwell. Sickly." Yes, sickly, that's it. Every elf Kili has met so far has looked—despite the uncanny paleness—as hale and healthy as a person possibly could. But not the queen. Her pallor seemed even more vitreous, her features drawn and her movements a whit less fluid and light. As if she were sick. But elves don't get sick, do they? Well, elves do not stumble, too, and stumble the queen did. "She is sick, isn't she?"
Tauriel stares at him as if he were uttering something obscene. Something unmentionable. He's almost apologising again, almost taking it back, and if only to erase the look of dismay from Tauriel's face, but then she sinks down onto the side of his cot and starts talking in a low voice.
The queen, Tauriel says, is indeed unwell. She fell sick when the Shadow came upon Greenwood the Great, turning it into what now commonly is called Mirkwood. The queen, although a Sinda like her husband, is more attuned to the wood than anyone. She has loved, protected and nurtured the forest from the first day the elves had set foot into the Woodlands, has shown respect and devotion to it, and Greenwood reciprocated the sentiment, sharing its Song with her, guiding and sheltering her. But as healthy and beneficial the connection had been, as noxious and destroying it became as the Shadow fell upon the wood. What kills the wood now, is also killing its queen. Slowly, steadily, unstoppably.
Kili cannot believe there's no cure. He has experienced elven healing, he has felt how powerful it is. What was the herb Tauriel used on his leg to banish the evil sorcery? Kingsfoil, yes, that was it. He suggests kingsfoil, as if he had any notion.
But Tauriel shakes her head, saying that not even athelas can heal Greenwood's queen. No matter what the healers try, the queen fades. The only thing that seems to at least slow the process is protecting her from the tainted woods. And so the Lady of the Woodland, the queen who loves the forest so much, has not seen a tree, has not left the stony fortress her husband has built for many decades.
And now she has left the stronghold. Kili shudders at the thought of what that might entail. And he does not understand. "But when it's so dangerous, why has she left the stronghold now?"
"Legolas."
"I don't understand…"
And then Kili learns something about the elves' love for their children. About the strong bond between mother and child, about the ailing queen's iron will, and about King Thranduil's gentle affection for his family. Apparently there's one thing in which dwarves and elves don't differ so much: in the love for their children.
"They must be certain Eryniel can locate Legolas, easier and quicker than anyone else—or the king would never have allowed her to go," Tauriel says. "But I fear it will cost them dearly."
Kili also learns that the king's compassion for his family is mirrored in that for his subjects. He would do anything to protect his people, Tauriel says, anything to keep them from harm.
Anything? Like…perhaps…arresting strangers who intrude his realm with obscure purpose? A realm that is already threatened by the dark, by foul beasts and evilness. A realm of people who have suffered great loss at the Last Alliance and just started to prosper again when the darkness fell back upon them. A realm of people who hence naturally would be wary of any presumed new threat.
Kili kneads his hands. As unreal as it occurs, suddenly he feels something akin to understanding for the Mirkwood king's actions. Thranduil's single-minded focus on his own people's interests might not be meant as an offense to others but is the elven king's way of protecting his kind. And, Kili has to allow, if Thranduil didn't look after his elves, who would? He's completely bereft of alliances, of help, or protection from other elven realms.
The little boy, Bain, yanks a splintered chair from below the remnants of the big table in the centre of the room. "Don't hurt yourself again," Kili hears one of the girls cry, and Bain's proud voice stating "I'm fine!"
Thanks to the Woodland Queen he is fine. Thanks to the queen who has come out of the shelter of her homestead to find and rescue her only son—thus exposing herself to the darkness that slowly kills her.
Kili can't help but feel...respect. He is not a parent, yet, but he is a prince of his folk and a warrior, and he understands what duty means and commitment, and where devotion ends and self-sacrifice starts. He also understands that sometimes that is a necessity, but it doesn't make the consequences easier to bear for anyone.
"So," he asks, just because he wants to be perfectly sure, "now the queen is out there, she will be…affected even more?"
Tauriel nods. "It will make her worse. The Shadow, it…it feeds on her fëa."
"And she will die faster."
"Yes."
"Because you tended to me instead of keeping an eye on your prince's safety, and now she has to chase him down." Kili laughs humourlessly. "I'm sure Thranduil will hold the dwarves responsible for that." It's surprisingly easy to follow the king's reasoning. If Kili is honest with himself, were he in Thranduil's position, he might conclude similarly.
But Tauriel shakes her head. "No. He will hold me responsible for that."
She is worrying the loose thread on her sleeve again. Plucks and picks and pulls at it until it comes undone—then she stares at the thin wisp she twists between her fingers, almost mesmerised.
The children are still clearing the room from the debris of last night's destruction. There's the sound of something metallic falling down and touching the ground with a resonating, bright clonk; it startles Tauriel out of distraction and Kili out of watching her, and both their heads turn to the noise's origin.
"Sorry," Sigrid mutters as she picks up a bronze tankard. "Didn't mean to…"
Kili smiles reassuringly at the girl, Tauriel looks back at her hands, and then at the woollen strand as she lets it fall. It travels slowly down, in an almost swinging motion, dandled by the warm, dusty air.
"You have to go back," Kili says suddenly. "I shouldn't have asked you to stay. You neglected your duty—that's…"
Tauriel tears her eyes from the twine and looks up, alerted and defensive. "That is what? Wrong? For you of all people does it seem not right?" It's sharp, chiding. Not quite, but nearly as cold as the prince.
"I…no. No." Kili tries to sit up straighter, and flinches as the movement pulls at his wound. "You know I'm… I've told you how grateful I am. Tauriel…" He pronounces her name like an endearment—and it is one. „Tauriel, you saved my life. How could I hold you at fault for that?"
He reaches out, manages to catch her hand. He squeezes it, holds it, rubs his thumb over the back of it. "I love you," he says.
Her face relaxes. She lowers her head, bashfully, smiles.
"But you have to go back now," Kili continues. "Staying here any longer will get you into trouble."
"I am in trouble already, I assume."
"Yes, but this you can explain. Tarrying longer you can't."
"No, I cannot. I will have to go and tell the king what happened. Have to make him understand…everything."
She pulls out of Kili's grasp and plucks at her tunic's sleeve again. Soon she will have loosened another thread. Kili seizes her hand, again. Stills it, again.
She has to go, he has to let her go; they both know that. Yet there are things they have to settle ere they part: how they will manage to meet again; how they will be able to find each other; how they can know if the other is well. They mustn't lose each other. They don't know how right now, but they have to make it work. Have to make them work. They can't imagine not seeing each other ever again.
They talk until Tauriel cannot delay going back any longer. Under the children's curious eyes, they make their good-bye. A chaste kiss, soft and tender—and not enough, not enough by far, tasting of promises of so much more.
And then Kili's beautiful elf maid is gone, and he almost wishes he'd held her back.
Sindarin, just in case...
fëa = soul, spirit