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Chapter Text

1

Elves were difficult creatures to pin.  They had reflexes fast enough to shoot an arrow out of the air, and senses sharp enough to know when danger was coming.  It wasn’t just the sharp eyes or keen ears either.  The very trees and stones spoke to them and screamed when evil approached.  The best way to take down an elven warrior is either from an extreme distance while the elf is distracted, or to swarm it and take it down by sheer numbers.  And even then, an elf did not sell its life cheaply, and the attempt often failed.

So when the goblin archer crept up upon the lone elf, he expected failure.  He did it anyway because courage is not only allotted to the virtuous and ambition is not in short supply among the corrupt.  He expected failure and death but he, like all his kind, hated elves with an inbred intensity that bordered on bloodlust.  He lusted for the elf’s scream of pain, for its blood to flow, for its immortal soul to be torn from its mutilated, ruined flesh.  Already, the archer had marked one of the dwarves for death, and he dearly wished he could mark the elf in the same way.  The agony of its passing would be glorious.  Alas, elves knew how to counter the poison that would soon be claiming the dwarf.  If he was to ensure the elf’s death, he’d better aim to kill.

He had to creep closer than was safe to ensure the shot would be a good one.  An ideal shot would be to mortally wound…but not instantly kill.  The elf would writhe in pain and agony and feel as its life blood spilled into the earth, and perhaps its elf friends would come and see its death throes…it was a sort of pain that kept on giving and the goblin reveled in it.  It was only too bad that he didn’t dare to stick around for the other elves’ reactions; he was courageous and ambitious, not suicidal.

Even with the sweet vision of watching his poisoned arrow sink deep into elf flesh, he was absolutely shocked when, as he crept upon the lone elf, as he took his aim, as he released…nothing happened to hinder him.  The elf he fired upon didn’t move.  No hidden elves ambushed him in turn.  The forest was silent, and the elf stood tall and still upon the cliff even as his arrow sang through the air.

The goblin still expected something to happen.  He expected the elf to hear the faint rush of displaced air as the arrow sped its path.  He expected the very trees to shout a warning.

He did not expect for the elf to barely move, its body just starting to twist about, clearly hearing something but too late, too slow, and the arrow bit, bit deep, through armor, maybe even through bone.

Without a scream, without completing the turn, the elf accepted the arrow into its back and promptly tumbled over the cliff and out of sight.

The goblin was so surprised by success that for a long moment he only stared at where the elf once stood, already half convinced that the young warrior had been some sort of vision and that he had only shot down a phantom.  Goblins, however, are not prone to flights of fancy, and after the moment of shock, elation sang through his black blood.  He almost danced his way up to the very rock where the elf had stood so he could feast his eyes on the broken body below.  What he found was the river, the waters here rapid and unforgiving and not so much as a drop of blood was left behind to share the story of the elf’s passing.

It was…unfulfilling in some way, to kill like this.  Likely the elf’s friends would never even know what had happened now, unless through a bit of luck the body washed up somewhere.  Still…he had done it.  He had killed the elf warrior, and maybe it was even now drowning slowly while the pain of the arrow wound bore it down, and that would have to be enough.

So maybe the goblin was a bit too gleeful, and a bit stupid in his victory, because surely if there was anything his success should have taught him, it was don’t stand about in profile on a great big rock where anyone might see you.  He’d gotten the lone elf, but the forest was crawling with them, and goblins are not the only creatures capable of creeping.  It would have served him right, he supposed, later, if he’d been shot down in just the same way he’d taken out the elf.  Instead, he suddenly felt cold metal tickling his throat, and unforgiving hands had his weapon torn away and he knew he was a dead goblin, just not dead yet.

They took him to the elf king and the goblin cowered and humbled himself, all the while looking for the best place to stick the blade, because elves are not the only ones who don’t like to die cheap and, even though the only blade left the archer was his tongue that didn’t mean he couldn’t strike to the very heart.  Blood and death were glorious, but pain was pain, and if the goblin was to die he’d tear that proud, very blond king’s heart from his chest first.  He hadn’t known the name of the elf he’d shot, and one elf looked much like another, but he did have eyes, and blond hair was in short supply among his captors.  So he waited while the elf king stared down his nose at him, all emotionless and otherworldly and grand, promising freedom for words, as if any elf ever suffered a goblin to live.  He wanted to know about the thirteen dwarves.  Very well.

“One less dwarf,” the goblin rasped out gleefully.  He didn’t know what the dwarves were to the elves, but they had been defending them and that was enough.  He was slightly disappointed when that didn’t garner any response, though only slightly.  Anyway, that was just the introduction to what he really wanted to share.  “One less elf, too.  All alone on the rock, he stood.  I shot him down, with my Morgul bow.  His pretty blond tresses were stained red, before the river took him.”

The goblin saw his words strike true.  He had a very brief seven seconds to enjoy his victory before his head was removed from his neck.    

2

Elves have many strengths.  They are in tune with the song of the world in a way that few other species could match.  They cherished life, and life cherished them in return.  Trees were, for the most part, friends, though even trees could become corrupt.  Elves could sense danger or evil, just as they could sense goodness.  They could befriend the wild places of the world, for they were a bit wild themselves.  They are strong in body and in mind and have far reaching senses to match.

What elves cannot do is breathe underwater.  And immortal doesn’t mean an elf can’t die.  It just means that all elves who do die, die too early, die young.

3

Tauriel didn’t mean to leave behind her kin and shield mates, her people under her command.  She pursued their escaping captives and slew any orcs that got in her way.  Then the dwarves were swept beyond the reach of orcs and elves alike, and the orcs fled between the trees or died beneath elven weapons, and the elves cared more about the monsters in their woods than the escape of some unwanted guests and they chased the orcs and let the dwarves float where they would.  Tauriel did care what happened to the dwarves, or at least to one of the dwarves, a dwarf she knew to be injured already.  At a stretch, she could have said it was her duty to pursue escaped prisoners.  Her king did not like elves to run off alone into the forest, especially if that running would put them in contact with the outside world, with men, with dwarves, with orcs.  Still, he probably would accept her excuses, when she returned.  It’s not like he’d specifically forbidden her to go after the dwarves.  It would be harder to explain when she didn’t return with any of them…but she could share intelligence of their movements.  And maybe she could save a life.

She pursued in the trees, because there wasn’t a spare barrel readily handy for her to leap into, and even if there were, that would probably be one folly too far.  On the river she would be vulnerable.  In the trees, she was at home.

She was too slow.  Or rather, she was slower than the swift current of the river.  She also had to keep in sight of the water, in case she came upon bodies or wreckage or any sign the dwarves had, in fact, left the river behind.  For the first hour, she followed in determined silence.  In the second hour, for the first time, doubt entered her heart.  The battle tenseness that had held over from the battle was fading into the usual hunt readiness.  But this was not a usual hunt, and as her rash pursuit went on for hour after hour, there was time to think about more than what she was running to.  It occurred to her that she had made a mistake. 

It wasn’t a mistake to follow the dwarves exactly, nor would it be if she rendered medical aid once she caught up to them.  The mistake was in slipping away silently, like a child sneaking from their bed at night to run away from home.  She was an adult, and she had duties, and she should have told someone where she had gone.  As it was, they might even fear her dead.  If nothing else, they’d spend time and effort to search for her, time and effort that could have been put to better use.  If someone under her command had acted as she had done…well.  She’d accept the consequences when they came.  It was too late to turn back.

When she caught up to the dwarves, all would be worth it.  It would be worth everything.  She felt it in her heart.

She never saw what pursued her.  Sometimes, being used to always having someone to watch your back could be dangerous…when you unexpectedly find yourself alone.

4.

Thranduil had weathered many wounds in his long life.  He knew pain intimately, and how to handle it without allowing it to handle him.  The worst of his life, the one pain that came closest to ending him, hadn’t touched his body.  Elves can feel pain to their souls as physical sensations.  Get too near the darkness, and an elf’s soul would burn.  The dark speech hurt to listen to.  The day Thranduil felt his soul ripped in half was, up to then, the worst of any blow he’d ever been dealt.  He lost half his soul that day, with the passing of his wife.

He didn’t have another half to tear away.  If Legolas were truly lost to him…this was a wound he did not think he could survive.  He could feel it now, hotter than dragon’s fire, and only the uncertainty of what had happened to his son kept Thranduil on his feet.

The orc lied.  Legolas was not dead.  Goblins lie.  It’s what they do.  His wife’s son was not dead.  His son was…missing.

“We have found no sign of Prince Legolas or Captain Tauriel.”

If Legolas was dead, then Tauriel likely was as well.  She was close to his son, almost as a sister, hopefully only as a sister.  She would have defended Legolas if she could.  If he were captured or carried off somehow, she would have pursued.  She must be pursing him.  Legolas could survive an arrow.  He could survive the river.  He could survive.

“Bring me my armor.”

His son could be alive, but wounded, dying.  Or he could be dead.  Thranduil would find his son.  Either way, he would find his son.  And if his son were taken from him, if he must endure this pain, then he would not fade.  He would take what he was owed in blood from the orcs.  If he was to join his son, his wife, then he’d take as many of those foul malformed walking carcasses down with him as he could.

But his son was alive.  He wasn’t dead.  He was alive.

5.

“It’s a weed.  We feed it to the pigs.”

Dwarves may not be quite up to elven standards when it came to medicine; after all, a dwarf healer couldn’t study its craft for hundreds or thousands of years, but dwarves do have long memories all the same.  And this dwarf knew a healing herb when he saw it, even when it was being chewed upon by a pig.  It was just as well.  It’s not like they had an elf handy to practice medicine anyway.

He made sure he gathered a lot.  It was going to be a long night.

An elf also would have come in handy when the orcs attacked.

6.

Tauriel should have been more on guard.  To be fair, she had been focused on her surroundings; it came second nature now whenever she entered the forest, but those surroundings she had focused upon where mostly located about the river.

She was far from the river now.  At least, she thought she probably was.  She hadn’t been aware enough when the spiders had dragged her to their nest to know exactly where she was, except in deep trouble.

They had attacked without warning, but then that was usually how it went.  She had been stung almost before she knew they were there, but she had still managed to kill two before she lost all sensation and then fell into darkness.  She had thought herself dead, so it was rather a surprise to wake up again.

She woke up in a sticky situation, finding herself quite literally tied up in spider threads.  It was dark, wherever she was, but she could sense the forest around her so she supposed it was just the usual dimness found beneath the tightly knit tree branches of the forest rather than that she had been dragged underground somewhere.  Or perhaps it was night.  She had no time sense at all.

Normally, even in a situation like this, she wouldn’t be overly scared.  A little bit of fear was important, of course; it was what made a person a person instead of a mindless animal.  Still, she’d know that there were others nearby who would help her.  She’d always known that Legolas would come for her, no matter how dire the situation seemed.  And if Legolas had happened to be next to her in danger, she knew others would come.  But now…now she was alone.  Utterly.  Completely.  No one knew where she was.  No one knew she was in danger.

Never had she felt so completely alone.  Well, there was one time.  That time had been worse.  Then Thranduil had taken her in, and there had been Legolas and she hadn’t been alone anymore.

She had to get back to them.  She struggled, but the threads that bound her were tight, and sticky, and she still felt weak and ill from the spiders’ venom.  She felt dull pains all over, whether from being dragged or repeatedly poked and bitten she couldn’t be sure.

She was going nowhere.  She’d lost her weapons, probably dropped in the very place she was ambushed, somewhere by the river.  It occurred to her that she might well die.  Alone and ill and unarmed.  She might die.

And if she died, what would happen to the dwarf?  Who knew what horrible poisons that arrow shaft had been coated in?  She struggled, and she struggled, and she failed.

She was still alone.

7.

Elves cannot breathe water.

When Legolas fell, and it seemed to him he fell forever, while something unwanted and foreign and wrong invaded his body and left fire and ruin in its wake in one sharp and unending sensation of PAIN, when he fell he did not expect to die.

Death did not occur to him.  And because it didn’t occur to him, it was perfectly natural for him to keep on living.  He fell into water and pain and he could see his own blood in the water and it would have been a very bad moment to pass out for he likely wouldn’t have awoken again.

He didn’t pass out.  He swam, though each stroke tore at him with claws.  The need for air hurt worse in that moment, so he pushed himself, and his head was above the water as the water swept him on and on and on.  He didn’t swim hard and he didn’t go far, for he could not.  Not even the will of an elf could overcome the frailty of a body that has been so wounded.  It wasn’t enough to save him from the river.

If it hadn’t been for the debris he would have been lost.

It wasn’t a whole barrel, just half of one that had been smashed during the battle.  It had swept up into some tree roots, roots that Legolas was going to pass by because he was in the wrong part of the current and he couldn’t fight.  He missed the roots but somehow the barrel was there, floating like a gift, and maybe it was.  Trees do love elves.

He had strength enough to drag himself upon it, but no more.

He was dying.  It just took him a while to figure it out.

His body floated on the make-shift raft and he followed after the dwarves, rather more successfully than Tauriel did in the trees.  Of course, currents being what they were, no one knew that he was there, for all he was almost directly behind them the whole way.  At least, not until they stopped.

Chapter Text

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.  The king 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.  He didn't respond as the second elf approached them either, with news of the dwarves.

“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 gave no indication he heard.  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.

Chapter Text

14.

Óin was rather surprised that he still had two patients.  He could not, in good conscience, only tend to Kili and ignore the elf, but he had fully expected the elf to have succumbed to his wound by this point.  It was definitely poisoned, with something horrible considering how bad poor Kili had gotten, and the dunk under icy water hadn’t helped either of them.

The elf was fitful, in obvious pain, and his breathing was labored but breathe he did.  In some ways, he now seemed stronger than Kili, who was at least still awake but weak and fevered and trembling from constant agony so the old healer almost wished he would go unconscious as well, even knowing that would be a bad sign.

Thorin had gone, and had taken most of the party with him.  He had told Óin, before he left, that when Kili was well enough he was to follow, but ‘Leave the elf’.

Óin could understand the reasoning, cold though it sounded.  They had done their duty in not abandoning the prince and tending to his wounds, but it would create rather a bad situation if they were found with the elf prince, whether he died or was merely dying.  Better to let Laketown be the ones to return him.  Or disappear his body, if they prefer.

The prince hadn’t died yet, but survival was still far from likely, and he didn’t look good.  The human girls tended to him.  They seemed to find him fascinating, and were very concerned that he was going to die considering he wasn’t their kin and they’d never even met him before.  They were politely concerned about Kili as well, but Kili did have Fili to mother him, and anyway, it was easier to be concerned over someone who slept than someone who groaned and cursed and kept shouting that he’d be fine and he didn’t need to be mothered before giving into pained cries once more.

Bofur had been helping tend to both of them.  Óin called him too kind hearted for his own good, and ignored what Bofur mumbled in response, something along the lines of pots and kettles, total nonsense anyhow.  He had wandered off now, though.  Perhaps to find something to help, perhaps to return to his nap, perhaps to chase after the other dwarves for all he knew.  He wasn’t there, and Kili was trembling and white and soaked through with sweat, and the elf was hardly better except elves didn’t seem to sweat, and how was Óin meant to look after a creature he didn’t completely understand?  He knew pointy things shouldn’t be in his chest, and that blood was meant to stay inside his veins, just as with any other being, but other than that, who knew how elves might be different?

He needed herbs and potions and a good clean environment that didn’t smell of fish.

When Bofur did unexpectedly turn up with a large bundle of kingsfoil, he was most welcome and Óin took back every nasty thought he’d had about the man.

Though it might have been better if Bofur hadn’t invited the orcs in after him.

15.

Thranduil was a father and a king.  Most of the time, these two facts meshed well, for a good king was also a good father, and vice versa.  A king, like a father, cared for his people and guided them and protected them.  Sometimes, however, these two fact clashed against each other and left the man standing beneath both titles feeling as though he were caught between the horns of two rampaging rams.

The father wanted to storm through Laketown, have his warriors barge into every house, explore every boat, and uncover wherever his son might be hid.  The king realized that such a move would be an act of war, and only advisable if he were the sort of tyrant intent upon subduing the human settlement under his own rule and ignoring the rights of every person who lived there.

Humans, a nasty voice inside his head whispered, what does it matter if you take over their town for a day?  They kidnapped your son!

Had he known exactly where his son lay, and in what condition, and what sort of monster now set upon his defenseless body with deadly intent, then no law or rule of decency could have kept him from flying to his son’s side, and he would have dealt with the political fallout afterwards.

He knew none of this.  He did not even yet have proof his son was in Laketown.  He knew only that his son was gravely injured, that he had floated down the river, and by all appearances the dwarves had taken him with them when they alighted.

His heart screamed that his son must still live.  His logical side asked what use the dwarves would have with his son’s corpse, so he must have been alive when they took him.  Neither his logic nor his heart could overrule the fear that even now filled him with relentless panic.

He must find his son.  To do that, he needed information.  He send some of his people to approach the leader of Laketown and to arrange some sort of search.  It’d probably be even quicker and more efficient than storming the town anyway, and involve a lot less frightened people.  Frightened people could be dangerous in their own right.  Better that they be confused.  Better that they go on with their lives and leave his people to him.

16.

“Captain Tauriel!  You awaken!”

Tauriel supposed the healer knew what he was talking about, and therefore she must indeed be awake, but she hardly felt it was so.  She felt sluggish; half her senses seemed to fail her entirely.  She could see and hear, but in a muted sort of way, and she was hardly aware of the world around her.  Was she in a cave, in a tree, underwater?  Impossible to tell.  Orcs could be just behind her and she suspected she’d have no clue.  She felt half blind.  She also felt exhausted, an exhaustion that delved into her very bones and left her heavy and limp.

This was not the first time she’d ever been poisoned by spiders, but it was certainly among the worst.  She felt pummeled and sore and half blind and half asleep.  She was still aware enough to recognize that something was missing.  No, not something.  Someone.

“Where is Legolas?” she asked, in a voice that hardly sounded like her own, so week and rough did it sound.  Legolas was always there when she was injured, as she was always there when it was his turn to stay in the healing ward.  If one wasn’t by the other’s bedside, then they were lying in an adjacent bed.

The healer hesitated in answering.  Something was wrong.  Something was very wrong.  A dark feeling that had nothing to do with the poison still swimming in her veins filled Tauriel with ice.  She forced herself to push past her exhaustion, past the pain, and focused her eyes upon the healer.

“Where is the prince?”

“We were hoping you might know something about that.”  That wasn’t the healer talking.  It was one of her own guards.  He stood at the healers side, his face impassive but the eyes gave him away.  He was worried, fearful even, almost sorrowed.

“Elechant,” Tauriel said firmly, in her captain voice.  “What do you know.”

“Prince Legolas is missing,” Elechant answered at once.  “The king interviewed one of the orcs we fougth at the river, an archer.  He said…he claimed he shot the prince and that he fell in the river.  The king has sent out search parties.  He himself travels down the river.  We discovered your capture along the way.  We supposed you too must have followed after the prince, but were surprised by the spiders.  Some of us rescued you and some went on after the prince.”

Tauriel lay back in shock.  Legolas was shot?  Surely not.  He was too seasoned a warrior to be caught out by a lone orc.  Even if that orc was an archer?  One who fired from a distance?  No, even then.  Orcs lie. All know that.  And yet…his father clearly found truth in his words, or why else would he himself go down the river?  And Legolas was obviously still missing.

The ice in her veins seemed to melt into lava, and her heart thundered in her chest.

“Captain?”

She turned once more to look at her guard.

“Did you see the prince in the river?  Is that why you went off alone?”

“I was pursuing the dwarves,” Tauriel answered.  “I never saw Legolas.  I didn’t even know he was missing.”

After that, the healer insisted she drink something surprisingly not disgusting, though it did have a sharp medicinal taste to it, and in spite of her fear, and misgivings, and the beginning of something darker, something like guilt, the drink dragged her down and she fell back into the void.  The last thing she heard before she slept again was Elechant, whispering ‘Be well, captain, and worry not.  The king will find his son.’

There was no accusation in his voice, nothing but kindness and respect, but somehow his words seemed to fill her with darkness.

They told her everything would be fine the last time to.  When her parents were missing.

Truth and hope were not the same thing.  She fell into sleep and her dreams were dark.

17.

By all rights, they should be dead.

Bofur was knocked out almost from the moment he’d handed over the kingsfoil, even as he’d walked in the door.  Kili was unwell, to the point of being delirious and definitely useless in a fight.  That left two dwarves, one who was a healer and not a fighter, and three children against a horde of murderous goblins.

Except, as it turned out, it was two dwarves, three children, and one barely coherent elf.

The elf had, up to that point, been doing a pretty good impression of a corpse, if corpses had the ability to moan in pain or tremble.  At any rate, he’d shown no sign of consciousness or that he’d be waking in the near future, if ever again.

So it was a shock to everyone, likely even to Legolas himself, when the orc that had been seconds away from skewering Óin was skewered himself.

The orcs, who had come specifically for the dwarves, still responded to their deep-seated hatred of all things elvish and turned on the ailing prince.  If that arrow wound hadn’t been killing him, it looked like the orcs were about to undo whatever good Óin might have managed in helping him.  Over Óin’s dead body were they going to undo all his hard work.

The elf was surprisingly deadly, considering it didn’t look as though his eyes were focusing properly and when he attempted to pick up a rather heavy bit of fishing equipment to use as a weapon, he was too weak to do anthing but fall over backwards with it.  He still managed to angle it so the orc coming after him speared itself, and weak and unstead though he was, he seemed to know how to avoid direct hits by orc weapons.

He also made an excellent distraction.  As the orcs turned upon the dying elf, they forgot to watch their back.  And even children can be deadly when they have something heavy in their hands to hit orcs over the head with, or something sharp to stab into an unshielded back.

Orcs, like most dark creatures, tend not to fight with their companions but in spite of them, swarming wherever they liked and none of them having each other’s backs.  That was often their downfall, and the reason a relatively small group of free folk might defeat a much larger group of orcs.

Even so, two dwarves, three children, and a half dead elf probably weren’t going to be enough here.  Especially when the monstrously huge orc showed up.  Its eyes were filled with an enjoyment of cruelty  and malice, and hitting it over the head with blunt household appliances just wasn’t going to take him out.

The elf stood anyway to face him, unfocused and swaying but defiant.

Just when Óin began to wonder if the elf had some supernatural power and that they might win anyway…or at least have a chance to run away and let the elf fight the orc…whatever strength the elf had drawn from seemed to leave him at once, and he collapsed at the orc’s feet.  And Óin noted his wound was bleeding again, after all his effort to get it to stop, too.

They were all going to die.

18.

Sometimes, there’s a reason for old sayings.  Like: let sleeping dragons lie.  That might have been a good saying to listen to.

19.

Bolg stared down at the elf lying crumpled at his feet.  Some might consider that a good result, like a gift of sorts, but to the orc it all just felt a bit…anticlimactic.  Like the elf had robbed him of a great and glorious battle.  Where was the fun in defeating an already defeated enemy?  He might as well go around a battlefield once the fighting is over and stab the dead.

Still, unfulfilling or not, he’d be stupid to turn down such a gift as that.  And perhaps the dwarves would still put up a fight.  Bolg pulled out a knife. If he couldn’t have his fight, at least he could make his killing of the elf more…intimate.

Chapter Text

20.

The Master of Laketown was being difficult.

Men were suspicious of elves.  Elves were too aloof, too alien, too…too pretty.  Laketown had traded with the elves of Mirkwood for centuries, but hadn’t personally been visited by the elves in almost as long, certainly longer than any person in the town had been alive.  Some of the elders among them might just remember the king upon his stag, or elves in Dale or in Erebor, paying their respects to the dwarves, but never from close up, never as someone to talk to or meet with.

And now five elves entered their town on the lake, saying they had come from the King himself, and demanding an audience with the Master.

If they hadn’t just been visited by dwarves, the Master might have been more eager to greet them.  If nothing else, elves are rich and kings could afford to pay back favors handsomely.  But they had just entertained a party of dwarves, and everyone knew of the relationship between those dwarves and these elves, and it seemed very coincidental that the one visit should follow the other.

So, the political climate being what it was, the Master cursed the dwarves under his breath, and smiled at the elves, and invited them to breakfast with him, never mind that the sun had been up for hours, and hoped that no one would mention the dwarves within the elves hearing, and all in all dragged his feet and made the whole process slower than it needed to be.

He probably would have allowed the search in the end, once he’d worked out how to blame the elven invasion on Bard, but he didn’t get the chance.

Elves have very good hearing.  They may or may not have heard talk about the dwarves; they didn’t mention it to their reluctant host if they did.  They did hear the screaming.

It was a screaming child.

Politics being what they were, the proper reaction for the elves would be to politely bring the screaming to the attention of the Master, this being his town, and he would take care of it.

It was a screaming child.

Their king would forgive them for reacting as they did.  He would have reacted in the same way.  They left the Master to his food, pushed past the slinky sort of man that shadowed the political official, and they reacted.

21.

“What did you do with our prince?”

Thorin gave a pointed look, not at the haughty elves who had followed them up the secret stairway at a rather inopportune moment, but at the hobbit, as though to say ‘see?!  See what your kind heart has gotten us into?!’

The look rather missed its mark as Bilbo had all his attention on the elves.  He was the only person in the party who hadn’t drawn his weapon at the elves sudden arrival.  Though to be fair, the elves only had their hands on their weapons, two loosely holding bows with their arrows at the string but not pulled back, two with their hands resting upon swords, and the leader who held a bow but no arrow and didn’t seem inclined to draw one.  The dwarves, by comparison, were tense and battle ready, their weapons held defensively and it was only a minor miracle that none had gone on the offensive yet.

This could get ugly rather quickly.  These elves were not welcome, especially not there and then, when they stood on the threshold of uncovering the doorway.  Now was a time for dwarven secrets, and no elves were invited to share in those secrets.  The dwarves glared, and the elves stood calmly and there was a dangerous energy present, that of violence restrained.  And it was between these two opposite and opposing forces that a hobbit calmly stepped.

“He was injured by an arrow and floating on the river,” Bilbo said, his voice far too compassionate for their unwanted visitors.  “Not our arrow,” the hobbit was quick to add.  “We took him to Laketown and a healer tends to him.  He is there still.”

There was a long moment of silence.  The elves stood ethereal and emotionless and unmoving.  The dwarves, by contrast, wore their emotions on their sleeves, and they were annoyed and angry and belligerent and just a bit incredulous at their hobbit’s calm retelling of events, as though he were explaining what happened to neighbors and not the pointy-eared pests who’d held them captive in a dungeon.

“I do not know who you are,” said the elven leader.

“Oh, right, sorry,” said Bilbo, “I…”

“He’s with us,” Thorin interrupted, before Bilbo could get around to making introductions, or perhaps inviting the elves in to tea with the dragon.

Bilbo responded with a strange mixture of pride, embarrassment and annoyance.  The elves didn’t respond at all, still standing all cold and apart, as if they weren’t even worried about all the dwarves aiming weapons at them, as if the dwarves were no threat.  The leader spoke again, the entirety of his attention on Bilbo.

“We thank you, member of Thorin’s company.”

And without paying the dwarves any more mind, all five elves turned and left.  They almost seemed to vanish, so quickly and silently did they move, and with the lengthening shadows they could have become shadows themselves and were gone.

Thorin didn’t like it.  How could they be certain the elves were really gone, and not now spying on them?

Still, it wasn’t like they had a choice in what they did next.  Whether the elves spied or whether they now sped on their way to Laketown to see to their prince, the dwarves only had a moment in which to uncover the door.

The sun set.

22.

Bolg sliced through flesh, savoring the fresh blood, the whimper it tore from the half dead elf’s lips.  Screams would be more delicious but he’d take what he could get.  The elf was mostly unconscious after all.

There were screams around him anyway, screams of fear and outrage.  Ineffectual weapons hit at him and he laughed and brought the knife down for another taste of the elf, not fatal wounds but painful ones, and then it would be the dwarves turn and maybe, for dessert, he’d play with the children whose house this seemed to belong to.

“He’s her friend!” a rough voice shouted, and then one of those ineffectual weapons stabbed through his side.  Bolg looked down, and there was some sort of hook piercing him, and holding it was the dwarf, the half dead dwarf who he’d already planned to make sport of and make the brother watch, the useless and injured dwarf who had somehow become able enough to have injured him.

Everyone stared at the hook and the dark blood welling out of the orc’s side, and no one moved, not the dwarf that had stabbed him, not the brother or the children, who were held back in any case by orcs, not the orcs that had accompanied Bolg, not the old dwarf, not the elf who lay still upon the ground.

If they’d any sense, they’d have followed up on that attack.  Dwarves were weak, and men were weak, and so, it seemed, were elves.  Bolg growled, and he yanked the hook from his side, and he turned upon the pale sweaty dwarf, who now stared up at him in wide-eyed alarm, and the children screamed.

He loved it when they screamed.

He moved to skewer the dwarf, perhaps not to kill it directly, maybe in its already wounded leg.  Someplace that would hurt and punish it and show it how much weaker it was than him and make it squeal.

The elf stabbed him in the leg with his own knife.

He’d dropped the knife to grab the hook.  A stupid mistake, really.  The elf was stupider though, and with a roar he turned on it, bearing the hook down, only to have the old dwarf who, for some reason, none of his orcs had restrained yet, leap at him and punch him in his injured leg.

The hook missed the elf, digging into the floor instead, and how did these insignificant, weak little creatures keep getting in his way?  It was insufferable!

Forget toying with them, he was going to rend them limb from limb, starting with the elf they all seemed so intent on protecting, and then Thorin’s little heirs, and then the old one, and then the children.

He grabbed the dwarf and threw him aside, hard.  Then he went for the elf.  He held it in the air and its eyes were open and it glared at Bolg defiantly, despite the fact that it didn’t seem able to focus on him, almost as if it looked at something behind him.  Bolg held the elf’s neck and squeezed.

He really should have turned to look behind.

23.

Thranduil was waiting for his scouts to return.  He was preparing to enter Laketown.  Or to travel to the mountain, should his other scouts arrive and inform him that his son was there after all.  He was preparing his heart for pain, and he was on the verge of sending out any of his people willing to go, to search everywhere, diplomacy be damned.

He wasn’t expecting his scouts to actually return with his son’s body.

No, not just his body.  His son was alive.  He looked dead, but that was because he lay so still in the elven warrior’s arms, and he was covered in blood, some of it so dark it looked black.  Some so dark, it was black.  Had orcs discovered his son?  Had they finished what they started?

Thranduil couldn’t breathe.  He couldn’t force air into his lungs, and he suspected he wouldn’t, not until he beheld his son draw breath.  And if his son didn’t, then he wouldn’t either.

There were others with his son and the elf carrying him.  Thranduil noted them peripherally.  Two of his elves carried dwarves, one sickly looking and one who might be dead, or at least unconscious, and two dwarves trailed behind them, and a fourth of his elves was holding a human child, though she appeared unhurt at a glance, only very young, and another child trailed behind them.  Adult men followed after them, a couple of them seeming to try and stop the elves, saying something like ,’wait’, but they stumbled to a halt when their elves joined Thranduil.

He saw them, but he didn’t see them, because there was Legolas, and he lay still and bloody and he couldn’t breathe.

“He lives, my king,” were the first words Thranduil heard, and for a long moment Thranduil wasn’t sure whether he heard the words at all, or if he only imagined he did, because they were so exactly the words he needed to hear.  The words that followed were less wonderful.

“He is gravely injured.  There were orcs about, and I knew you had healers and supplies waiting, or I would not have dared to move him.  We killed all the orcs we saw, but we do not know if there will be more.”

“Take him into the tent,” Thranduil answered.  In his head, he repeated the words ‘he lives,’ again and again.

Thranduil did not see what was done with the other guests in his camp.  He supposed that the injured dwarves were probably seen to, and the children and whoever else wandered into their circle.  Those who needed aid would be helped and those who didn’t would be kept where they wouldn’t be any trouble.  A guard would be kept against unwanted visitors, whether evil orcs or spiders, or merely annoying dwarves or men.  Thranduil knew this would be done but he didn’t wait to see it happen.  He followed his son.

24.

Five elves watched the mountain.  Five elves returned to their king to report what the not-dwarf had told them.  The watchers kept their distance.  They didn’t want the dwarves to wake the dragon, but they too had heard the rumors, that the dragon was already dead.  Dead or gone.  They had no orders to stop the dwarves from entering their mountain.  Perhaps they didn’t feel it their right, in any case, to stop the dwarves from trying to retake their mountain.  Perhaps they merely felt it prudent to let the dwarves test it out first.

They were close enough to see the hidden door open.  They waited to see what would happen next.

They were almost too close when a dragon did emerge, breathing flame and ire.

It was well they hadn’t followed the dwarves in.  Perhaps they would have noted the missing breastplate.  Perhaps they would have done what the dwarves could not and slain the monster.  Or perhaps they would have failed, and the dragon would have smelled elf, and perhaps instead of flying for Laketown, it would have chosen a different target, and perhaps the entire story would have ended very differently and in a much darker manner than what did happen.

The dragon flew for Laketown.

The elves were nearby, but the army was not at hand, and the elves were preoccupied with their prince.

Bard slew the dragon over the shoulder of his son.

Thorin became king under the mountain.  He became ill from dragon sickness.  He barricaded himself in his mountain with eight dwarves and one hobbit.  His nephews weren’t there nor the other two who had stayed behind.

They stayed to be beset upon by a dragon.  In his heart, Thorin feared the worst.  It didn’t overpower him.  In his heart, Thorin had little room left for his kin.  The gold had taken him.

25.

Kili was tended to by Óin and Fili with an elf’s help.  Kili was doing better.  It seemed the elves understood the evil that was in this wound, and what must be done to combat it.

From what Óin observed, the young dwarf was now doing better than the elf prince.  Not that he’d seen the elf prince since they’d entered the elven camp.  And really, the old healer didn’t know how he felt about their new location.  It didn’t smell of fish, and it was very lacking in orcs, but it was rife with elves.  These elves did at least offer aid: herbs and water and bandages and chants that seemed to ease Kili somehow.

Bofur was mended as well.  It seemed he hardly needed any help, for he awoke shortly after they arrived, complaining of a headache and wanting to know where everyone was and if he had missed the boat.  Apparently he remembered nothing that had happened from that day.

The two girls stayed with them as well.  The Men had tried to follow, and the wheedling one first tried to complain that the elves had brought the orcs upon their town, and then that they had taken the children (never mind the children’s protests to the contrary), and all in all the oily man had made it clear he thought some sort of compensation was in order.

The elves ignored him, unless he started to go where he wasn’t meant to, and then they made it clear he wasn’t wanted.  It would take a brave man to stand up to a determined squadron of elves, and this was not a brave man.  In the end, he slunk back to his master, and the others followed.

“Do you think Da is alright?” the younger girl asked.  “And Bain.”

“I’m sure they’re fine,” Bofur answered her kindly, despite having almost no idea what was going on.

It was, rather ironically, directly after he said this that they heard the noise.  It was a noise Óin still heard in his nightmares sometimes, one impossible to forget once first heard.  Like thunder, without a cloud in the sky, like the roar of a fire, like oncoming death.

The elves stiffened.  They knew that noise too.

The noise went on, and on, and then, after the great noise, was silence.

26.

Tauriel felt stronger when she awoke again.

The world was still wrong.  Legolas was still not there.  But the world didn’t swim about and the pain she felt was only a residual ache in her limbs and she knew from experience that the worst of her battle against the spider venom was behind her.

“Captain Tauriel,” called a visitor.  “I have news.  Prince Legolas has been found.”

The words hit Tauriel like a physical shock, like being hit by an unexpected shower of cold water.

“And he lives?” she asked, not at all in her captain tone, but almost breathless in her hope and fear.  “Tell me, does he yet live?”

“He was found gravely injured, but he still drew breath when the messengers were dispatched.  They intend to return him here as soon as he is well enough to travel.  Reinforcements are sent for to meet with them, to ensure no evil befalls them on the journey.  Apparently orcs attacked him a second time while he was already wounded.”

Tauriel wanted to be part of the party that went to meet them.  She wanted that with all her heart, but she was not foolish enough to think she’d be sent.

It did not occur to her to ask after the dwarf.  It wasn’t that she no longer cared for him, nor that she wouldn’t do all in her power to save his life if he needed it, but the messenger had not mentioned the dwarves and it didn’t occur to her that there was any news to be had.

It was just as well no one thought to tell her.  Had she known that both Legolas and Kili were to be met and returned to the stronghold, no amount of spider venom would have kept her down, and she was in no condition to go.

Chapter Text

27.

As far as Thranduil was concerned, the dwarves could keep their mountain.  They were welcome to his wife’s jewels.  Well, not welcome, but he had the greater treasure still, and that treasure was all that concerned him.

His son drew in breath.  He was told that there was damage, severe damage, wrought by a dark and evil poison that struck too close to the heart, to the lungs, and was allowed to fester for far too long.  If it had been a Morgul blade, his son might well have become a wraith.  The goblin’s arrows had not that power, but the poison was a treacherous thing that caused pain and agony and death.  If left untreated.  Even without the poison, an arrow to the chest was never a small wound.  Drinking in the river, and then the lake, did not help.  And then there was the new bruising to the throat, a dangerous place for bruising, and the knife wound, shallow but long and the blade had not been clean, across his son’s chest.

His son drew in breath, but his breathing was labored and his heart was weak.  He was cared for, and his father was there to sing and to call to him and perhaps that would be enough.  Perhaps his son would remain.  Or perhaps he had already slid too far, and there was only a small matter of time that separated a father’s hope from his grief.

For the most part, Thranduil was left alone with his son.  Two healers waited, ready for any change, and outside the tent were guards.  Occasionally, one would enter to offer a report.  Thranduil learned that the dragon was dead, slain by a man named Bard, and apparently the father of the two children who had come to his camp.  Laketown burned.

Thranduil remembered burning.  He looked at his son, his son who had been so close to being in Laketown when a dragon came to burn it down, and he shivered.  Legolas shivered as well though his was not a shudder at what might have been.  He shivered as though cold, though his skin burned with fever.  He still did not awaken.

Thranduil was told the escort had arrived, but the healers were cautious of moving too soon, and they still waited.

Thranduil was told the dwarf improved, and in his heart he resented the creature for healing when his son still lay at Mandos’s door.  In his heart, he thanked the dwarves for being there when he was not, and cursed them for being there when he was not.  They bandaged and cared for his son.  They kidnapped him and dragged him through icy waters and lured orcs to his side.  Thranduil was of two minds about the dwarves.  If his son lived, he might find he loved dwarves for saving his son.  If his son died, he’d hate them to the grave for causing his death.

Thranduil was told many things.  He listened, and responded as a king should, but his heart was not with his visitors.  He suggested supplies be sent to aid the refugees from Laketown.  He suggested that, if the dwarves were so well, perhaps they should be sent on to their kin.  He did not care if either suggestion was carried out.  The first suggestion was.  The second was as well, though not directly.

Thranduil asked Legolas to return to him.  Legolas slept fitfully.  His eyes were closed.

Then came back some scouts with a message he could not ignore.

“Ready the army,” he said.  “We go to the mountain and the ruins of Dale.  This shall not be allowed to pass.”

“Do we all go, my king?” asked the scout.  Her eyes were on the prince.

“I will join my people when it is time,” Thranduil answered, though it tore at his heart to say it.  “Your prince…will await our victory in the stronghold.  Once he is well enough to travel.”

And if his words proved false, Thranduil would not be there to see his people’s disappointment.

28.

“I am well now,” Kili insisted.

“Well I’m not,” answered Óin.  “These old bones don’t appreciated being tossed about into walls.  So you’ll just have to sit here a bit longer.  Or are you going to leave me to the mercy of the elves?”

Kili looked at him suspiciously, but didn’t go so far as to suggest the older dwarf was lying.  Which he was of course.  He was hardier than that.  And Kili probably knew he was lying, but he couldn’t be certain, and so they waited to join the others, preferably at a time when Kili wasn’t as white as a wraith.

Fili was happy to wait until his brother was better, though he did suggest that he and Bofur go on ahead to let the others know what had become of them.

Kili said if they went, he was going.  Bofur offered to go alone and was informed by both the dwarves and the elves that no one should be going about alone right then.  An elf offered to accompany him.  The dwarves imagined how Thorin would react if they showed up with an elf, and politely declined.

“Actually,” Bofur said, “I still have quite a headache.  Perhaps we should sit here a while longer.”

“You said you didn’t even feel it anymore!” Óin exclaimed.  “You said you had a hard head and could take a few lumps!”

“Did I say quite a headache?” Bofur asked.  “I meant barely a headache.  In fact, I’m quite fine.  When are we leaving?”

“See, everyone is fine!” Kili said.

“No one is fine, and everyone is going to sit still like good little invalids and we’re all going to drink my lovely medicine and get better!”

“Er…I actually am fine,” Fili said.

“We will be happy to escort you to the mountain if you feel ready,” said one of the elves.

“Say…master elf,” said Kili, and the others waited for him to accept the invitation and were prepared to gainsay him and to sit on him if necessary, when the young dwarf asked something else entirely.  “Do you know if Tauriel happens to be in this fine camp you’ve erected here?”

“The captain of the guards is not here,” answered the elf, and all elves seemed cold and aloof when they spoke to the dwarves, even when they were doing something kind, but somehow his tone seemed haughtier and chillier than was normal even for an elf.  Kili was not put off by the tone in the slightest.

“Where is she, then?”

“Where she is needed.”

“And where is she needed?”

“Not here.”

This went on for some time.  At least no one was talking about leaving anymore.

29.

Azog was not happy.

Goblins did not exactly cherish their children, not like the free races.  If anything, they hated their young because who would want to raise the very person who would replace you?  On the other hand, raising a person who was yours to command had some appeal.  And there was something to be said for having someone to carry on, someone who could avenge you, who could bear up your name through their deeds.

Azog did not mourn when the lone goblin, unlucky enough to escape the elves alive, came to report that Bolg was dead.  He felt something rather more selfish than greif.  It was the sort of hateful anger one feels when one’s possessions are stolen.  Bolg was his, and the elves had taken him and broken him.

And the dwarves were still alive.

The lone goblin survivor was very unlucky indeed.

30.

Gandalf thought he’d have to stop a horrible war when he finally arrived before the mountain.  There were human refugees in Dale, refugees who were arming themselves and readying for a fight.  There was an army of elves.  The dwarves had barricaded themselves in the mountain.

“We must not fight!” he said.  “There are worse problems approaching!”

“Do you mean the army of orcs marching on us?” asked Bard.  Gandalf wasn’t entirely sure who Bard was, except that he had slain the dragon and now seemed to be leading the refugees, presumably because he was the one who slew the dragon.

“…Oh,” said Gandalf.  “You know about that.”

“Our king has sent out scouts to survey the orc threat,” one of the elves informed him.  “He has ordered us here to ready our armies.”

“And where is King Thranduil?” asked Gandalf.  It was very unlike the elven king to send his people away from the security of his stronghold, or to raise up his army.  He was protective of his people, to almost mad extremes.

“With his son,” the elf answered.  He left it to the human to explain.

31.

Bilbo was worried.  Thorin was ill, or something, some malady of the heart and mind that made him suspicious and grasping and cold.  The Thorin that Bilbo had come to know would never have gone back on a promise, especially when the people asking for aid were now homeless because of the dwarves.  Bard had sheltered them, sheltered Thorin’s ailing kin.  Bard slew the dragon and freed their mountain of his menace.  And Thorin was ready to repay the man with an arrow to his chest.

The army of elves showing up did not help Thorin’s malady in the slightest.  It did, however, bring unexpected help.

The four missing dwarves arrived just when all had given them up for lost.  Even Thorin seemed pleased to see them.  Almost, he seemed to awaken to his old self.  But then the dwarves shared their story, and their king did not like their words.

“There’s an army approaching,” Fili said.  “The elven scouts say it will be here soon.”

“There’s an army already at our doorstep,” Thorin answered.

“The elves saved our lives,” Kili pointed out.

“Our lives were only in danger because they held us in their dungeons,” Thorin answered.

Bilbo didn’t know what to do.  All he knew for certain was he could not give Thorin the Arkenstone.

“Gandalf has returned,” said Fili.  “He wants us to all come together for a council of war.”

“Let them fight it out.  We will stay in our mountain.”

Bilbo didn’t know what to do.  Perhaps it was time to seek wiser counsel.

32.

Legolas did not know where he was or what was happening, but he could hear his father’s voice.

He remembered dreaming, and it was a good dream, for his mother was there, but now he was awake.

He opened his eyes, and that task alone was infuriatingly difficult, but he was stubborn and he would see the world and understand what had come to pass.  He knew he was injured, there was no other reason to sleep with his eyes closed and to have weakness enter his limbs and pain pierce his chest.  He couldn’t remember how it happened though.

He was in a tent, lying on a bed, and his father was there.

“Legolas?  My son?”

“Father?”

Speaking was also harder than it should have been, his voice raspy and weak and simply drawing in the air to speak with was a task by itself.

His sight wasn’t quite as sharp as it should have been either; sleep still seemed to cloud his eyes and so he wasn’t entirely sure he saw what he seemed to see.  For it looked as though his father wept, but his father did not weep, never, except once.  Once, for his mother.  So his father could not be weeping.  Except, it seemed, he was.

“Are you well, father?” asked Legolas, though it was a struggle to get the words out.  “Did…did someone die?”

“No one has died,” said his father, “And all is well.  All is wonderful.”

33.

The council of war included an elf king and five of his advisors and two of his guards, the dragon slayer Bard who brought no one, one wizard, one hobbit, and two dwarves.  The hobbit and the dwarves were rather surprised to see each other, for apparently they had snuck away from the mountain separately.

“Fili! Óin!”

“Bilbo!”

“What are you doing here?  Did Thorin send you?”

“Not as such.  You?”

“…not as such.”

There was an awkward moment, and then Óin had turned to the elven king and asked after his son.  He was pleased to hear that the prince was on the mend, though far from cured.

“Good to hear,” said Óin .  “I spent quite a lot of effort keeping his blood inside him.”

The king didn’t seem to know what to say to that.

“I take it King Thorin is still intent on barricading himself in with his treasure?” said Bard, returning their discussion to the war.  “Is there no reasoning with him?  A stronghold like that mountain could be a welcome advantage.”

“I did not come here to speak of my king’s intended strategy, but to ensure a dwarven presence at this council,” said Fili.

“Actually,” said Bilbo, “I think I have something that may help.”

34.

An army of dwarves approached the mountain.  They saw the opposing forces and were prepared for war.  They were not prepared for cheering, at least not from the humans looking out from the ruins.  Nor for the man to ride up to them.

“You are most welcome,” said the man.  The dwarf looked him up and down.

“I think Thorin may have neglected a few things in his message,” said the dwarf.

35.

Legolas could hear children laughing.  Why were there children among his escort?

He pushed aside the thin curtain that shielded his bed from the forest.  The bed was a consession for travel that he barely accepted he needed, but they were stopped now and he felt well enough to sit up for a bit and perhaps even to walk around.

And there were children to match the sounds of laughter, little children, and women too.  Humans.

“Gurwen,” he whispered, “Do you see them too?  The children?”  With all the concoctions the healers had him on, and with the way he felt even now half asleep, as though he were in a trance, it was not beyond the realm of possibilities that he hallucinated.  Or perhaps saw a vision of forest spirits.

“They are the refugees from Laketown,” Gurwen whispered back.

“…And my father has allowed them to be brought into our realm?”  That didn’t sound like his father at all.  He was compassionate, yes, and would surely have offered aid, but his father was protective of his realm and Legolas could not imagine him inviting men into their very stronghold.

“It was thought safest for them,” was all Gurwen answered.

If only Legolas weren’t so tired, he might have been able to puzzle this out.  It was odd that his father said he had business to take care of, after being practically glued to his son’s side.  It was odd that women and children now came with them on the journey, and it was odd that no one had mentioned that they were coming to Legolas before.  It was odd that he hadn’t seen Tauriel for a while either.

He had so many questions.  If only he weren’t so tired.

“Legolas!” exclaimed one of the smaller girls, “You’re awake!  Are you better now?”

“I feel much better, my lady,” he said, and wondered if he should know who this child was, for she seemed to know him.  The child smiled and giggled at being called ‘my lady’, and then an older girl came to take her hand and pull her away, whispering that the prince needs rest.

Legolas was tired of rest.  He was so tired.  He blinked his eyes, and they felt heavy.  The sounds of laughter seemed far away.

“Rest, my prince,” someone said, perhaps Gurwen, perhaps one of the healers who seemed intent on making him sleep for the next yeni or so.  Annoyingly, he did find himself lying back again.  He blinked, and somehow forgot to open his eyes again and he was asleep.

36.

Orcs and other monstrosities flooded out from the ground.  A second army moved to flank.

They weren’t expecting the opposing forces.  By the time the eagles arrived, the battle was practically over.  It’s amazing what a difference a little forewarning can make.

37.

Thorin cursed his kin for joining a war council with the enemy, even though they told him it was just to keep in the know, and that they would not act in the war without his command.  He cursed the hobbit who stole his great treasure.  He cursed everyone, and himself most of all.  He was falling, and the world was coming apart around him, but he was king.

Thorin fought the dragon in his heart, and he won.

The dwarves rallied and joined their kin on the battlefield.  It was well that Fili had joined the war council and knew their strategies, so they were easily able to step in where most needed.

Thorin fought Azog and he lost.

Azog lost too.  His ambush failed entirely.  Fili and Kili did not fall.  The line of Durin endured.

Thorin had enough time to make peace with Bilbo and his kin, and he died as a king, with honor and dignity and undisgraced.

38.

Many elves died.  Thranduil looked upon his fallen people with a deep sadness.  The number of their dead was not great, not so great as it would have been had they been taken unawares, but one immortal life was one too many, and there were many more than one.

Their king grieved for them, but he did not succumb to grief, for his heart beat on in the forest.  Legolas, he was told, had made it home and steadily improved.

39.

When Legolas finally learned what his father had been up to, he felt something rather complicated.  There was annoyance at the secrets and also something akin to fear, except it was fear for something he already knew hadn’t come to pass, for his father had not fallen in the battle.  And joy because his father would soon return.  And sorrow for the fallen.  And sorrow for the pain he knew his father endured with every life lost.

He remembered better now what had led to his own downfall.  He remembered the arrow and the river, and then vague dreams, wherein monsters attacked him, and tried to drown him and struck him while children screamed, and stabbed him, and he couldn’t fight back, and then he was somewhere else, with his mother, and then he awoke and she was still dead.

Tauriel was the one who finally told him everything, indignant herself because her own guards had avoided sharing the details with her until she was well enough to know.

“I remember your dwarf, I think,” Legolas told her, when she was done ranting about the war they’d both missed out on.  She wanted to know more about his journey.  She sounded strange when she asked after him.  Almost as though she felt guilty for something, though Legolas could not imagine why she should feel that way.  She hadn’t even been there when he was shot, and it was not her fault she had been overcome herself by spiders.  He supposed he meant to distract her with his remark, and it did seem to, for her entire face lit up, before falling almost as quickly as worry set in.

“Was he badly injured?”

“I don’t remember much,” Legolas answered.  “There was a rather large orc intent on skewering me.  I think your dwarf tried to stop him.  And someone mentioned the dwarves being in the camp later.  No one said any of them died.”

“Then there were others to look after him,” she said.  Then, after a moment, “And he’s not my dwarf.”

She still made herself part of the party of elves intent upon going to their king and relaying to him news of his son and the stronghold.

It was a relief for her to see Kili was well.  It was also a relief that she had only good news for her king.  Legolas was well.

40.

Thranduil stood upon a balcony and looked up.  Legolas was standing in a tree, looking out over the river.

Tauriel was away.  She told Thranduil she did not feel worthy of being the captain of his guards.  He made her an ambassador instead and sent her to play diplomacy with the dwarves.  He did not think her thing with the young prince was wise, but Tauriel was young herself.  She would learn.  It was his son he worried about now.  Worried about always and forever.

Legolas was still frail.  His lungs were weaker than they had been, his strength depleted.  He no longer slept with his eyes closed, though.  The healers were hopeful that he’d recover fully.  They cautioned, though, that there might always be a slight weakness.  That his lungs may never fully recover.  That he might not grow quite as strong as he once was.

He was alive.  He lived, and he would continue to live.  He was well enough.

His father stood and watched his son who looked outwards.  One day, perhaps, he’d climb out of Thranduil’s sight, would climb beyond his father’s grasp, but today was not that day.  Today, the son only looked down at the river, and the father had his back.