What's this? An update, after all this time?

In which Tauriel and Thranduil meet Galadriel, and it's not nearly as horrible as either feared.

Tauriel rises very early the next morning, and it's all she can do not to get hopelessly drunk before breakfast. Thought of meeting Lady Galadriel remains terrifying, for all the elleth is her kin. All the breathing exercises in the world can't calm her racing pulse, and in spite of the pain in her leg, she finds herself pacing, unable to sit still.

She braids her hair, at least, in the fashion she's always worn it as a guard, and dons Sadronniel's dress – she's done a decent enough job altering it, so that it doesn't look like a hand-me-down. Physically, she knows she'll pass muster, but oh, she fears the Lady's probing mind.

Although probably not as much as Thranduil. She's surprised to find she actually feels somewhat sorry for him; he has so much more to hide from Lady Galadriel than she does, and she has no doubt that he's dreading this, in his own way. In this at least, she can't help but sympathize with him. She doesn't doubt Galadriel will make him very unhappy, and the thought makes her wince. To her mind, he's paid for his wrongs, but hers is not the only mind that might judge him.

By the time she leaves her room, she's paced so much that she has to lean heavily on her stick, her leg aching more than it has in over a week. At least it's something to focus on, she supposes; she ought to be grateful for it.

Thranduil meets her at the entrance to the healing wards, and though he looks completely impassive, she can read the tension in the set of his shoulders. It's the first time she's seen him with his crown since before she left, and she quashes her vague dislike for it with the eminently logical thought that he's a king, of course he'll wear a crown to meet with a visiting dignitary.

Does Galadriel count as a monarch? She doesn't style herself as Queen, merely Lady, but her position is every bit as exalted as Thranduil's. Oh, this is a terrible idea, completely and utterly; Tauriel's hands are sweating so badly that her grip on the stick is somewhat compromised. Facing an army of orcs would be less terrifying. Far less; up until the Battle of the Five Armies, Tauriel had taken joy in warfare, even if she can no longer.

"She will not harm you," Thranduil says. He's courteous, slowing his natural pace so that she need not work too hard to keep up, and she's glad of that, at least. "You need not be nervous."

Tauriel gives him a sidelong glance. "Then why are you nervous?"

A flash of irritation crosses his face, and in spite of everything, she almost laughs. "I do not know what you are talking about," he says loftily.

"I'm sure you don't," she says, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. Seeing Thranduil wracked with guilt and grief is so terribly wrong, but seeing him even vaguely off-kilter is rather more entertaining.

Apparently out of deference to her leg, they are to meet Lady Galadriel in the nearest receiving chamber, rather than the grandest, as would befit her station. Tauriel can't help but be relieved, because her leg really does hurt abominably, but she'll be damned if she'll limp any more than she actually has to. It's irrational; Thranduil knows full well how injured she is, and Lady Galadriel will surely spot it in a heartbeat, but even at her lowest, Tauriel has always had her pride. At times, it was all she had.

Thranduil looks at her, her limp, and the way she leans on her stick, but she's silently grateful when he doesn't offer help. His pace slows, but only minutely – not enough to be noticeable to anyone but her. While in some ways he can be unutterably stupid, no one could call him unobservant – and like it or not, in some ways he knows her well. Her pride might exasperate him, but at least he knows to leave her to it, even if it does cost her.

When they reach the door, she pauses, drawing a deep breath. No, she's no great lady, but she can at least compose herself like a civilized person. Perhaps she has no fine manners, but that doesn't mean she needs to embarrass herself.

Thranduil is wise enough not to ask whether or not she is ready. All he does is open the door, and bid her enter with a slight incline of his head.

She's never been in this room before. It's smaller than the traditional receiving room, and more homelike, with a large fireplace and a large round table surrounded by cushioned chairs upholstered in dark green brocade. The air smells of lilac, of all things, mingling with the faint scent of smoke.

Lady Galadriel sits facing the door, and Tauriel almost forgets to breathe.

Thranduil can be terribly intimidating, a fact she knows full well he uses to his advantage, but the Lady of the Golden Wood is more imposing by far. Even seated, Tauriel can see how tall she is, her skin fair and white as a lily, her hair a glimmering mingle of gold and silver. There are points of starlight in her endless blue eyes, and a weight of memory that's very nearly staggering.

And she is Tauriel's cousin.

Tauriel remembers to bow, at least, exactly how she was taught by her tutor some five hundred-odd years ago. The stick makes it a trifle awkward, but she hopes she might be forgiven.

Thranduil, unsurprisingly, does not bow, but he does give the Lady another inclination of his head. Her gaze both sharpens and hardens on sight of him, and Tauriel suppresses a wince. This, she thinks, is not going to be pleasant.

But to her relief, those diamond-bright eyes leave Thranduil, turning to her instead. It's not much of a relief, given that being the focus of that stare is downright nerve-wracking, but at least she won't have to deal with Thranduil getting righteously told-off in front of her. Yet, anyway.

"Come closer, child," the Lady says, rising, and somehow, Tauriel manages it, daunted though she is. She feels like the clumsiest, coarsest creature imaginable, and not just because of the stick.

"Yes, I see it," the Lady says, reaching out one white hand to touch Tauriel's fiery hair. Brief though the contact is, Tauriel finds that it soothes her, slowing the hummingbird flutter of her heart. "Your hair is exactly like my aunt's. I always thought it an irony that she had such hair, and not my uncle, for he was the one with the legendary temper."

Tauriel swallows. "I cannot say mine is legendary, but it's fairly well-known among the Guard," she says. "I suppose now I know why." She isn't going to mention all the times she's argued with Thranduil. The less mentioned of their interactions, the safer they both were.

"Some things do run in the family," Lady Galadriel says, not a little dryly. "I have yet to speak to my uncle – is he truly as mad as they say?"

"Unfortunately, I think he is," Tauriel sighs. "I have never known any other mad people, so I cannot say for certain, but his mind often wanders very far afield." Why, she wonders, is the Lady so steadfastly ignoring Thranduil? It's bordering on outright rude – but then, it's better than several of the alternatives could be. She only hopes he's willing to let it stand, and not get righteously indignant over it.

Bizarrely, he doesn't actually seem to mind. Granted, he's always been difficult to read, but if he's annoyed, he never hesitates to let those around him know. He seems content to sit in silence, watching the pair of them with impassive eyes.

It gives her a strange feeling of power, sitting here with this ancient, legendary elleth – this elleth to whom she is so closely related. Tauriel has always been no one, has always been happy to be no one, but only now does she realize that she is, in fact, Thranduil's equal. Technically, she's Thranduil's superior, but that isn't a thought she wants to contemplate right now.

All her life, as her sovereign, he has held so much power over her that it fed the resentment and contempt that festered in her for twenty years – his dismissal of her had stung so badly in part because it was true. Except it is not true, and knowing that, frightening though it is, makes letting go of that resentment much easier now.

Thranduil is not her superior. She need not hold that against him anymore, because it isn't true. Eru knows she doesn't want to do anything with her birthright, but simply knowing it is there is strangely freeing.

She wonders if the Galadriel is reading her mind, for the Lady smiles. There is an almost physical warmth to it, one that relaxes Tauriel. "I am afraid there is little enough for you to inherit," the Lady says.

"I wouldn't know what to do with it if there was," Tauriel says honestly. "I am a guard, my lady. I've never wanted anything finer in life."

"Perhaps not, but there are a few heirlooms you should receive," Galadriel tells her. "And I would like to bring Lord Elrond here, if you are willing. Maglor raised him and his twin, and somehow they came to care about one another. Perhaps his presence will help."

Tauriel hasn't really thought, until now, about the fact that Lord Elrond is technically her foster-brother. How has her life come to this? How has she turned out to be, all unknowing, connected to two of the most powerful Elves still left on this shore? The thought is almost dizzying.

She glances at Thranduil – this is, after all, his kingdom. Whether Lord Elrond comes or not is his decision, no matter what she or Galadriel want.

"Fine, bring him," Thranduil sighs, with a languid wave of one ringed hand. "Bring his entire family, if you must."

Tauriel isn't entirely certain that is such a wise idea. If certain past events make themselves known, he will find himself rather unpopular with his guests, and the thought is disquieting. Their quarrel is their quarrel, and not for outsiders to pass judgment on. She, as the one who was wronged, is the only one who has that right, yet she knows he will hear of it, should others of his own station find out. The thought sits ill with her, for Thranduil, whatever her trouble with him, is still King. He's a king who has been making a concerted effort to better his realm and his people, and she won't have him derided by outsiders – no matter if he does deserve it. Or has deserved it, anyway.

For his realm, he is trying. She still might have little use for him as a person, but she has to respect what he is doing as a king, and Lady Galadriel and Lord Elrond ought to as well. He's done more in the last eight months than he had in the previous century.

How can you hold him in such respect and such disdain at the same time?

She jumps a little; the thought is not her own, for it is in the Lady's voice. It is not hard, my Lady. Yes, he wronged me terribly, but he has done so much for everyone else that I can't help but respect it. I think he truly has learned from his mistakes.

Lady Galadriel's blue eyes seem to suck at her very fëa. And yet you have not forgiven him.

Would you, were you in my place? Tauriel asks, trying to keep any ire from the thought. I am doing what I can, to make his time on this shore easier. No more can anyone ask of me.

One golden brow arches, almost infinitesimally. Oh, I did not say you should forgive him, child. It does you credit to work with him as well as you do. Just now, I do not think he truly desires your forgiveness, for he does not believe he deserves it. Should he ever decide he wishes it, make certain he earns it.

Tauriel doesn't bother saying that's never going to happen. She has far too much to think about – as does Thranduil, come to that. Perhaps having guests will be an aid to her, for Yavanna's words are ever in her mind. A group of other Elven nobility will be more than enough distraction for anyone, and he likely won't have any time to spare so much as a thought to Fading. She's done what she can, but it's a strain, because they're both so terribly careful to avoid anything like conflict. It doesn't, she knows, come naturally to either of them, and she wonders if it's as wearying to him as it can be to her.

Yes, she thinks, guests would be good. Thought of meeting Lord Elrond and his kin is daunting, but she's also wildly curious, and it would do Thranduil some good to have people around he actually has to worry about offending.

My Lady, just…ensure nobody castigates him, please? That is my job, and I have done it enough. The people need him, and he has, finally, done his best to be what he must be to them. His rule should not be broken simply because he made a terrible mistake and I paid for it. I would not have this change in him spoiled simply because he was too stupid to keep it to himself. Because really, she thinks, what was he thinking? He might not think he needs the respect of his people, but if so, he's wrong. He's going to have to earn and keep it by his future actions, but, strangely, in that at least Tauriel trusts him. When it comes to her personally, she has no faith in him at all, but she actually does trust him as a king. If nothing else has come of this mess, at least it's woken him up, and he's been doing his best. Perhaps it's not perfect, but nothing is, in this world.

I will have a word with them, the Lady promises. "You may wish to rest," she says aloud, "before we meet with my uncle. I know your leg pains you."

Tauriel's bright enough to recognize a dismissal when she hears one. "I will, my lady," she says, rising.

"Galadriel," the Lady says, with a smile that, small though it is, borders on impish. "You must call me Galadriel. We are cousins, after all."

No, that is not, in fact, ever going to happen. Ever. Even the thought is enough to fill Tauriel with a vague sense of panic. "I will try," she says.

Thranduil rises with her, but is cut off by a pointed look from Lady Galadriel. Tauriel winces a little, for she's certain he's not going to like whatever conversation they are about to have. She can only hope he isn't going to get raked up one side and down the other.

Thranduil watches as Tauriel limps away, meeting up with a guard at the door, before turning his attention to Galadriel. Unsurprisingly, she looks displeased with him, but not as much so as he might have expected.

Incredibly, she shakes her head, her expression perilously close to exasperated. "Only you, Thranduil, would seduce and break the heart of the last of Fëanor's heirs," she says. "I do not know what motivated you, and I do not care to look, for I know already you are thoroughly ashamed of yourself. As you should be," she added, rather more severely. "I promised Tauriel that I would not unduly castigate you, but you should have known better. I know that foresight is not one of your gifts, but the most ignorant of Edain should have seen how poorly your actions would end."

Her words are nothing he hasn't thrown at himself, time and time again, but his mind fixates upon one thing. "Tauriel asked you not to castigate me?" he asks, genuinely bewildered.

A little of the subtle ire leaves Galadriel's eyes. "She feels that doing so is only her right, and that you have paid enough. She is not blind to your efforts in this kingdom, Thranduil, nor does she dismiss them. Tauriel might not be fond of you, but nor does she actively wish you harm."

"I almost wish she would," he says, with only a trace of bitterness. "These last weeks, she has tried, and so very hard. She has not yelled, or berated me – has been nothing but benign in my presence, but I see the strain in her. I do not think she wishes any longer to hit me, but she works so assiduously to be semi-pleasant company that it exhausts her. She does it because it is asked of her, not because she wants to."

Galadriel quirks a golden brow. "This surprises you?" she asks. "Give her time, Thranduil. She does not hate you, and your actions have earned you a measure of her regard, however distant.

"However, you must stop thinking of her as one of your guards. She is heir to the throne of Finwë, Thranduil, however little meaning the title now holds. I know that you do not perceive yourself as holding power over her, but if you continue to regard her as your subject, power you will have, and she will resent it. If you ever want to earn anything from her, you must treat and regard her as your equal. Truly your equal," she adds, forestalling his protest. "I know that is what you believe you do now, but it is not. She is not the same person she was twenty years ago, and neither are you."

"Tell me, my lady," he says, unable to entirely keep the acid out of his tone, "why are you so concerned with the state of my feelings?"

"Because, you foolish King," she says, "this changes much. Even if my uncle never truly regains his mind, he lives, and we know he lives. His daughter is hale and whole, and technically a ruler in her own right. It would not do to have any of us at odds with the others – and I know that you regret what you did," she adds, rather more gently. "I know that you love her, but if you keep thinking of her as Tauriel and nothing more, this state of affairs will never change. She will not go back to the person she once was, Thranduil, any more than you could.

"She may not forgive you, but that does not mean you cannot live with her in peace. You must be willing to truly start over with one another."

Start over. He'd asked Tauriel if they could, and she'd most emphatically said no – but then, this was not what either of them had meant. If he is honest with himself, he has not thought, all this time, of Tauriel as anything but the elleth he's known all her life. Yes, Maglor is her father, but he has tried not to think of that. Perhaps, in doing so, he has done the pair of them a disservice; he still wishes for Tauriel as she had been, before he broke her – he wishes to see the light return to her eyes, though he has known all along that will never happen in the way he might wish.

She is Tauriel, daughter of Maglor. Direct heir of Finwë. Perhaps, if he learns who she is now, they might live together equably. He dares not hope for more.

See, Thranduil, Tauriel does sort of respect you, even if she doesn't particularly like you. Watching how you handle Elrond and his children might or might not help, depending on how you do it. The pair of them will come to be more at ease around one another once their guests arrive, and they have someone to focus on other than each other and poor crazy Maglor.