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She could not bring herself to leave.
It had been several weeks, and yet, she remained.
Thranduil had, without word, brought her down from Ravenhill himself, his arm around her shoulders. Tauriel had been too consumed by shocked grief to really notice anything, had only followed unseeingly, unfeelingly, where he led. He had brought her to one of the Elven healing tents, and she had followed, grateful not to be making any decisions herself.
The Healers had looked her over, had treated her minor cuts, had put her broken arm in a sling, had given her something for the pain from her broken ribs.
She had known there would be no such easy treatment for her broken heart.
She had slept from dusk until dawn on that first night. The Healers had given her something to sleep, dreamlessly, and she had been grateful for the relief of unconsciousness. She feared what she would have relived in her nightmares.
And yet, a part of her had been sorry for her deep sleep. She would have given almost anything for just one more flash of his cheeky grin, one more heated glance from his warm brown eyes, to once more hear his deep voice say her name.
Days passed. She helped in any way she could, in any way her broken arm, her cracked ribs, allowed. Mixing draughts and poultices for the Healers. Washing and feeding the wounded. Preparing the bodies of the fallen for their final journey back to Mirkwood, her heart, despite the strange numbness, breaking every time the face was that of an apprentice, a comrade…a friend.
Then there was the piling of dead Orcs into pyres to be burnt, the stench hanging heavy over the battlefield long after the flames had died. Tauriel, strangely, preferred that work to anything else. The exertion felt good, kept the grief away, and every time a pyre was set alight, she took a perverted pleasure in seeing the bodies burn, watching those responsible for the carnage be incinerated. Obliterated.
As she moved across the battlefield, her eyes would on their own accord stray over to the gates of Erebor. They were no longer firmly shut. Dwarves were moving in and out intermittently, collecting their dead.
She tried desperately not to think about the dead already inside the Mountain. Perhaps already laid to rest.
She knew she would never see him again.
But the thought of not even being allowed to say a proper farewell turned the knife of grief in her chest, tore open the wound anew.
~*~*~
The Elves left, taking their dead, their wounded, with them.
The King had, with a solemn voice, proclaimed her banishment revoked. Tauriel knew she should be relieved, grateful. But all she felt was hollow. Her life lacked direction, purpose. And she was still clinging to her numbness, refusing to feel anything.
Thranduil had tried to persuade her to return with them. But although she had no reason to stay, Tauriel still could not bring herself to leave.
~*~*~
The first snow fell, covering Dale, and the Desolation, making the area oddly silent, almost serene. When the ground was hidden beneath a pristine white blanket that glittered when the sun intermittently broke through the grey clouds, it was easy to forget that it had been a battlefield, not two moons ago.
Tauriel’s arm healed, her ribs mended. Yet she was as numb as ever.
She stayed in Dale, helping their medicine woman set up shop, lending what knowledge she had of medicinal herbs, and healing. She aided Bard, the newly elected Master, in his negotiations with Thranduil, but she never attended any meetings. She kept mostly to herself, and avoided all questions.
She had set up her residence in a rundown house on the outskirts of Dale, from whence she could see the gates of Erebor through an upstairs window. It did not bring her comfort, per se, but she could not bear to be further away, out of sight.
She had yet to approach the Mountain. Partly because she did not know what sort of welcome she could expect, fearing it would not be a very warm one. But largely, she sometimes acknowledged to herself, because she was not ready. When she went to the Mountain, it would be to say goodbye. It would be the last time she would see him, and she was not ready.
She doubted she ever would be.
Sometimes at night, when she had slipped into the meditative state that constituted her rest, she would see him. He would be alive, and happy, and smiling at her. She would see scenes from a very ordinary life: tending a home, raising children…loving each other. The life they would never have together.
She would regain consciousness in the mornings with tears drying on her cheeks, her chest aching as if she had just watched him die all over again.
Other times, on the occasional night when she properly slept, she would find herself on Ravenhill. They would be fighting side by side, just like they had done then. And every time, she would have to relive the moment when Bolg pierced Kíli’s chest with his pike. She would watch as the breath was pushed from his lungs, as his eyes widened with pain, fear, surprise, as he held her gaze even as tears rolled down his cheeks. She would watch as he died, just as helpless in her nightmares as she had been then.
She would wake screaming, bathed in a cold sweat, heart racing.
It would be many nights until she chose to properly sleep again.
~*~*~
Several moons after the battle, just before the winter solstice, word reached Dale of a company of Dwarves arriving at the Lonely Mountain from Ered Luin.
Upon hearing the news, Tauriel immediately hurried to the highest tower in Dale, looking out over the Desolation.
A small company — only a few mounts, and no wagons — were making their way to Erebor.
She did not need to be told who they were.
She knew.
And she knew that it was time.
Her heart was like a stone in her chest as she donned her cloak. I do not want to do this. I do not want to say goodbye. I do not want this to be the end.
And yet, with tears burning the backs of her eyelids, she pulled her hood over her head, and, leaving her weapons behind, left for Erebor.
She approached the Mountain purposefully, yet made sure to keep her hands visible. She knew King Thranduil had been to speak to would-be king Dáin, and that treaties would be signed, and trade would recommence between Erebor and the Woodland Realm, but she still fully expected a lone Elf to be received with suspicion.
Two Dwarves stood guard just inside the gates, sheltered from the bitter winter wind. They moved to block the entrance when she approached, their hands on their sheathed swords, yet their faces open, curious.
“What business do you have with us, Elf?” the dark-haired one murmured, quite obviously scanning her person for hidden weapons.
“I am Tauriel, of Mirkwood. I have come to—” Her voice abruptly failed her, an unexpected lump forming in her throat. She cleared her throat. “I have come to…to say goodbye.”
“You knew the Durins then?” the red-haired guard inquired, his gaze alert as he looked her over for a completely different reason than his companion a moment ago.
She nodded. “I met K— the princes in Lake-town. Bofur or Óin can vouch for me, if need be.”
The guards exchanged a long look, then the red-haired one turned to her. “Wait here.”
He was gone for quite some time. All the while his companion remained in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest, staring at her with a mix of suspicion, and open curiosity.
The red-haired guard returned, and with him came the Dwarf in the wool-lined hat, Bofur. He nodded when he saw her.
“Aye, I thought it might be you, lass.” He exhaled heavily.
She met his gaze, noting the dark circles under his eyes, how his cheeks were more sunken than the last time she had seen him.
“Please,” she breathed. “May I see him?”
He looked at the guards, nodding to them. “I’ll take ‘er in meself.”
The guards stepped aside, and Tauriel felt their gazes on her back as she followed Bofur into the Mountain.
They were silent as they walked through the largely empty halls, lit by torches set into the stone, their footsteps echoing inside the cavernous mountain. Tauriel suspected silence was uncharacteristic for the Dwarf, but she was grateful for it. She had nothing to say.
“We’re nearly there,” Bofur murmured after a while, but the comment was moot. Tauriel’s keen hearing had already picked up the low murmurs, the shuffling of feet, the occasional sob.
They stopped outside a large set of heavy wooden doors, left wide open. Soft torchlight was coming from inside, and Dwarves were moving in and out of the chamber intermittently.
“We’ll be burying them any day now.”
She turned to glance at Bofur. His own eyes were trained on the doors.
“We wan’ed to wait for the Lady Dís, the lad’s mother, before we sealed ‘em in the Mountain. We thought she had the right to see ‘em one—” He broke off, choking on a sob. He wiped his eyes. “It was not supposed to end this way,” he continued, his voice thick. “All three of ‘em, gone. We lost our king, ‘n’ the lads—”
Tauriel’s eyes burned, and her throat constricted. She took a step back. “I cannot do this,” she whispered. “I am not ready.” She turned to run, to escape, but a firm hand grasped her elbow.
“Ye’ll never be ready, lass.” Bofur looked at her with steady, red-rimmed eyes, no hint of reproach on his features. “Is this the first time ye’ve lost someone?”
Tauriel exhaled, slowly shaking her head. “I lost my parents. But I was so very young, and it was so very long ago, I—” She swallowed. “I do not think I fully understood, then. What forever meant. That I would have all eternity without—them. Without him.” She drew in a shaky breath.
Bofur nodded. “Would ye like me to take ye inside?”
Tauriel nodded, swallowing against the lump in her throat that was almost cutting off her air, her breath stuttering in her chest. Nerves wrecked her insides, and her every instinct was telling her to run, fast and far. If she did not go inside, today would not be the last time she would ever see him.
If she did not go inside, there was still a slight chance he was still alive somewhere.
Bofur turned from her, and took a few steps towards the doors. Tears clouding her vision, she reached out, and grabbed his shoulder, gripping the leather of his coat with shaking fingers. His large hand closed over hers, squeezing.
Together, they passed through the doors.
Three ornate daises were placed on a terrace. They were overlooking an expansive gulf, lined with other terraces, and stairways, all seemingly empty. The view ought to have been impressive, but Tauriel only had eyes for the three Dwarves laid out before her.
Thorin’s body was placed in the middle. His hands were laid upon his sword, and he looked as solemn in death as he had in life. To his left was Fíli, so still, without a trace of all the worry and grief Tauriel remembered seeing on his face in Lake-town. And next to him was—
Tauriel choked on a sob, the tears finally starting to fall down her cheeks.
“Kíli,” she breathed.
His eyes were closed, his cheeks pale, his face solemn.
Tauriel exhaled shakily. “This is not him,” she whispered.
Bofur stopped, and turned to look at her, her hand still on his shoulder.
“It is…wrong.” She cleared her throat. “His eyes were always twinkling; his lips were always smiling. He was never still, always moving, fidgeting, even in his sleep. This is…not him.”
She wanted to rush forth, wanted to take his hands, grip his shoulders, shake him, make him look at her, smile at her, have him take her into his arms, and apologise for scaring her so, ensuring that it had all been a trick, a cruel joke, a misunderstanding.
Bofur gently took her hand in his, and pulled her forwards. Distantly, she picked up the sound of his sobs, his shaking breath. She squeezed his hand.
She stopped next to the dais. Slowly she lifted her hand, and ran her fingers through his hair, twining a lock around her finger. Then she touched his shoulder, his throat, his cheek.
His skin was soft beneath her fingertips, his short beard tickling the pads of her fingers, just like when she’d stolen a caress in Lake-town, while he was sleeping. Then, his skin had been burning hot, had been clammy from his fever.
Now, his skin was cold as ice to the touch.
Then, he had been looking at her with wonder, had murmured nonsense about starlight, had been asking her to love him.
Now, he was still, and silent.
And she had never answered him.
A great sob tore its way from her chest, and she fell forwards, tearing her hand from Bofur’s to cover Kíli’s with both of hers, squeezing, hoping, praying, demanding that he squeeze hers back.
“Don’t leave me,” she breathed. “I only just found you. You promised me you would return to me.”
Sobs were wrecking her body, making it hard to breathe.
So this was grief, she briefly noted. This was what she had been pushing down for months.
Bofur had placed a hand on her back, and was gently stroking it up and down. She was at once grateful for his presence, his comfort, and resentful that someone else was intruding on this, her last moment with Kíli. But his silence, his own quiet sobs, spoke of his grief, and that, at least, they shared.
Her nose was pressed into Kíli’s sleeve, and she inhaled, but all she could smell was the leather of his coat. She wished he smelled like him, that musky scent she remembered from Lake-town, mixed with something warm, like burning firewood.
She’d never smell it again.
“Forgive me,” she sobbed. “I should have followed you. I should have been as bold as you. I thought we had time.”
“We always do,” came a low, gentle voice behind her.
Tauriel reluctantly lifted her head. She slowly turned, wiping her cheeks with one hand, leaving one on Kíli’s, not ready to let go of him, no matter what the person behind her might have to say.
Next to her, Bofur bowed. “Lady Dís. This is Tauriel of Mirkwood, and—”
“And I am Kíli’s mother,” she woman finished for him, her brown eyes fixed on Tauriel.
It was undoubtedly Kíli’s mother. Her brown hair was a shade darker than his, and she was shorter, barely clearing Tauriel’s ribs. But the eyes were the same: a warm brown, and with the hint of an amused twinkle, despite the obvious grief visible in her hunched shoulders, her pale cheeks. And the smile…
Tauriel swallowed.
“And who is this Elf, who so grieves my youngest son?”
Tauriel inclined her head. “I am Tauriel. We…we were friends.”
Beside her, Bofur scoffed wetly. “Was a bit more than tha’, wasn’t there? With his talk of starlight. He loved you, foolish as it may ‘ave been.”
Tauriel’s cheeks warmed as she met the other woman’s gaze, holding her breath.
But Lady Dís smiled, approaching the dais to gently stroke a few strands of hair off Kíli’s forehead. “He never was one to do anything by halves. It does not surprise me that he would fall in love so quickly, and so impossibly.” She looked at Tauriel, her gaze steady. “And you, my dear? What were your feelings?”
Tauriel swallowed, turning to Kíli. The stillness of his prone form broke her heart anew, made fresh tears escape to run down her cheeks.
She took a deep breath, her heart beating furiously in her chest as she prepared to speak the words she had never said, not even to him.
“I love him,” she whispered. “And I did not know how much until I watched him die.”
Lady Dís inhaled shakily. “You were there?”
Tauriel nodded. “I knew of the Orcs arriving from the north. I had seen them. Your brother was unknowingly leading his companions into an ambush, and I feared for Kíli’s safety.” She closed her eyes, wanting to block out the images. But they were there, behind her closed eyelids, just like they always were. Kíli’s last moments. His anger, his fear. Their desperate need to find each other. Her own powerlessness. “I arrived too late. They had already killed Fíli, and Kíli was furious, and grief stricken. And we were sorely outnumbered.”
At her side, Bofur was sobbing, great heaving breaths. Lady Dís swallowed, and Tauriel opened her eyes to see the other woman with silent tears running down her cheeks.
“It was swift,” Tauriel said, her voice thick. “He did not suffer. I tried to save him. I sometimes wonder if…if I had not gone to Ravenhill… Did I distract him? Was he too busy trying to keep me safe to save himself?” She covered her face with her hand as new sobs overtook her, shaking her shoulders as she gasped for air.
“It wasn’t ye fault, lass.” Bofur’s hand had returned to her back, stroking determinedly. “Ye healed him in Lake-town, remember that. I know ye did what ye could for the lad.”
“It was not enough.” Tauriel hung her head, hiding her tear-streaked face behind her hair.
The silence enveloping them was almost suffocating. Lady Dís eventually broke it.
“What of the scum who killed him?” There was an unexpected fierceness in her voice, which reminded Tauriel that the woman in front of her was the younger sister of Thorin Oakenshield.
“He is dead,” Tauriel replied. “Not by my hand. But he is dead.” She lifted her head, and met the other woman’s gaze.
Lady Dís nodded curtly. “Good.”
They both looked down at the man lying peacefully between them.
“I always feared it would come to this,” Lady Dís murmured, her voice thick. “I lost my grandfather, and my brother, to this Mountain. And now I have lost another brother. And my sons.” She inhaled shakily. “They are entering the Halls of Mandos together, but I am not so selfless that I do not wish I could have kept at least one of them.”
Tauriel swallowed, tears once again burning behind her eyelids. “I am intruding upon your grief.” She had to force the words to leave her lips, when all she wanted was to stay, to remain with Kíli for just a few more moments. “I will take my leave.”
She began to pull her hand back, but Lady Dís immediately covered it with her own. Her palm was warm, and calloused.
“No.” She determinedly shook her head. “Stay. I had him for many decades. He was yours for only a short time. This moment is yours.”
Tauriel closed her eyes. “Thank you,” she breathed.
Bofur moved around the dais, offering his arm to the Lady Dís, and they slowly started to move away.
“Wait.” Tauriel turned around, and reached inside the bodice of her coat. “This is yours.” She showed Lady Dís the rune stone resting in the palm of her hand.
Every fibre of her being objected to the idea of parting from it, the only momentum, the only tangible reminder she had of Kíli. But it was a token of the promise he had made to his mother. It was only right that the stone should be returned to her.
Lady Dís covered her mouth with her hand. “I was sure he would have lost it along the way.” She reached out a trembling hand, and touched the smooth surface of the stone, tracing the runes. She looked up, and met Tauriel’s gaze, her eyes wide. “Did he give it to you?”
Tauriel nodded.
Lady Dís looked back at the stone. Then she nodded determinedly, and gently folded Tauriel’s fingers back around the token. “Keep it. Kíli gave it to you; he made a promise to you. It is yours.”
Tauriel brought her closed fist to her heart, silent tears escaping from behind her closed eyelids. “Thank you. I will treasure it.”
“What will you do?”
Tauriel shook her head. “I do not know. The grief is still too new, too raw. It is…too early to tell.”
Lady Dís abruptly closed both her hands around Tauriel’s fist. “He would not want you to fade. I know it.”
Tauriel looked up, blinking at the other woman.
“Kíli lived so fully, in everything he did. He would want the same for you, I’m sure.” She smiled gently, and oh, there was that heartbreakingly familiar twinkle in her eye. “You will find happiness again, lass. And promise to come back and see me, occasionally. I have some stories to tell you of that no-good son of mine.”
Tauriel laughed, despite the tears running down her cheeks. “I will.” She squeezed the other woman’s hands. “I promise.”
Lady Dís pressed her forehead to their clasped hands for a moment. Then she let go, and tucked her arm into Bofur’s again. He smiled at Tauriel, before escorting the last remaining Durin from the now empty terrace.
Tauriel turned back to the dais, her hand still clasped around the rune stone.
The smile disappeared from her lips as she once again laid eyes on Kíli’s still form.
She exhaled shakily. “My love.” She moved around to the top of the dais, to better be able to look into his face. “I would have given anything to spend a lifetime with you, even a mortal lifetime. But it was not meant to be.” She gently placed her hand against his cold cheek, caressing his jaw. “Do not wait for me. Go, be with your brother. I will attempt to live as boldly as you did. And when my time comes, I promise you, I will find you.” She leaned forward, and pressed her forehead to his. “I love you.”
As her silent tears ran down her cheeks, and into his hair, she pressed a lingering kiss to his brow. Then she tucked the rune stone back into her bodies, and left the terrace.
Bofur was waiting for her just inside the gates to the Mountain.
“Ye all right, lass?”
She shook her head, smiling sadly. “No. It will take a long time, if I ever feel truly like myself again. Thank you, for bringing me to see him.”
Bofur nodded. “He would have wan’ed ye to say yer goodbye.”
As she secured the clasp of her cloak, she caught his eye. “Tell me, Bofur. What does amrâlimê mean?”
Bofur closed his eyes, shaking his head, and grinning. “Kíli, ye reckless sod.” He opened his eyes, still grinning. “It means ‘my love’. And Dwarrows only have the one.”
Tauriel smiled, her broken heart healing, just a little bit. “I thought so.” She put her hand on Bofur’s shoulder. “Until we meet again.”
He doffed his hat, and bowed. “Lady Tauriel. It has been an honour.”
With a heavy heart, yet feeling curiously settled, Tauriel left Erebor.
Living without Kíli, having to go through every day without him, felt like an insurmountable obstacle. But she was certain: he would not want her to fade. He would want her to live. He would want her to travel, to fight, to live, and laugh, as he had.
And then, by the grace of the Valar, at the end of all things, she would see him again.
After all, Elves could be just as stubborn as Dwarves.
The End