Laer o Faen

Ceritham sen

Without appearing rushed, but moving with a purpose Thranduil headed for the courtyard, preparing to meet the incoming watch, knowing without a doubt who it was that would need the greatest attention of a healer, and his heart misgave him.

He remembered the first time he'd seen her...

They came too late to save the traveling party, the outrider just too slow to reach the patrol, or their own warriors too unused to facing the dangers of such a road as lay through the once great woodland. He could not fathom why. It was hardly as though there had long been peace in this part of Middle Earth. Still he felt a quiet sense of guilt at their loss, at the deaths... senseless. Such a waste.

"Bury the bodies," he instructed softly, "At least what remains of their earthly presence can nourish—"

It was a small sound that cut him off, and he turned full circle, listening for it again, reaching out; the tiny light trembling in the shadows, stained red with the blood of her mother who had died in saving her. She could not have been more than ten coranar. Little older than his son had been when they lost Celyndailiel.

In spite of the warning that shivered through his soul as he saw her, he lifted the young red haired Elf into his arms, and wrapped the folds of his cloak around her.

"You are a daughter of the forest now," he told her softly.

...She'd taken the name he had given her as her own, in time, and for all the time that elapsed since that day, he had all but treated her as his daughter, compensating for all that he knew when he set eyes upon her. He had never had cause to doubt that she had striven to prove his trust in her.

"And so we face our first test," he murmured softly as he reached the centre of the courtyard, coming to a halt as they placed the litter on which they bore Tauriel down before him. He crouched at her side, and uncovered her pallid, shivering form, carefully running his fingertips over the blackening wound on the front of her shoulder. She shifted a little, as though the touch caused greater pain.

"The poison, my lord," another member of the watch said as if in shame. "It spread so quickly."

"How long has she been this way?" he asked, holding up a hand to stay the healers as they moved forward with herb-scented water – healing herbs, he recognised the scent, Athelas – and instead, himself, took up the cloth to gently, almost tenderly bathe the seeping flesh.

"A day?" the watch-guard answered, "Two at most. She wanted to investigate what became of our brothers; would scarce abandon them."

"They are slaughtered," he answered harshly. Then more softly, and with regret continued, "Ad Tauriel fir. Unless I miss my guess, this is a greater poison than any herb may cure."

He took a breath, glancing at the healer for confirmation of what he already knew. She moved closer, crouching beside her king, and gave the wound the attention of her practised eye – her knowing touch.

"Forgive me, my Lord," she confirmed his fears with her apology even before she went on. "There is the touch of shadow about this wound. Perhaps if we were able to send for Lord Elrond..."

"There is no time," he said and shook his head, knowing there was but one cure for this affliction.

Past and present warred briefly in his desires; his needs – the needs of his people – and all that he knew and left unsaid whirled like leaves in an autumn wind until he reached out, and placed a hand over the wound in Tauriel's shoulder, gathering himself to use healing power of a king.

The backlash was instant, and intense – a crushing cold, darker than starlessness. He tried to push through none the less, until he was certain that the hiss of rejection was crackling audibly throughout the courtyard.