A/N: Greeting, fellow readers! I bring you this evening, another one-shot from my The Hobbit archive. However, this one will take place long before the events in said book/movie.

So, this is my taking on what happened the day Tauriel was found and brought into the Elven King's Halls.

Enjoy!

The song of a single raven echoed far into the darkness of the Mirkwood forest, drowning out the sound of the saddles' creaking leather, stomping hooves and marching boots.

Thranduil, the Sindarin king of Silvan elves of the Woodland Realm, the most superior of his kin, was sitting astride his steed, riding ahead of his train of guards. The cloven hoofs of his great elk stepped the earth gently as he rode before his followers, his icy gaze fixated on the dark path before them.

Thranduil's silvery cape veiled over his mount's rump as the animal effortlessly made its way across the rooted path, and the party was silent, not a single word of the elvish language was muttered between the guards. Their keen eyes were too busy scouting through the ancient trunks at their sides in search of something vile in the misty darkness. This forest was infested with creatures such as vicious orcs and bloodthirsty spiders, the latter of a gigantic size that often made their nests straight above heads of those that dared to venture out in between the old, sickly looking trees. There was a reason folk said that people leaving the path would never find it again.

A short, high-pitched whistle called to the elven king's left and he pulled the reins of his elk, halting his train with a single gesture of his arm.

They waited, and waited some more, until a sudden rustle of dead leaves up in a nearby crooked tree drew their attention. A wood-elf made himself present as he appeared up in the branches before jumping down and landed elegantly before the elk's feet.

"Heruamin… (My Lord…)" the elf greeted formally and placed a fisted hand above his heart before bowing respectfully towards his king.

"Man siniath? (What news?)" Said the Elven King in his deep voice as he looked down at the brown haired wood-elf with hazel eyes.

"I have scouted the west as ordered, my liege, and found nothing of concern apart from meeting the occasional spider striding on its own, however, I discovered a matter of grave concern." The elf said grimly. The frown on the king's forehead narrowed.

"Man cennich? (What did you see?)" He asked, his voice tinted with concern.

"A bloodbath, belegron (mighty one)…" he revealed after some hesitation and dared meeting his ruler's gaze.

. . .

The smell of blood lingered in the frosty air and the energy was gloomy as the elves entered the location found earlier by the scout Thranduil had sent ahead.

The fog ghosted between the trees and the wind had picked up, leaving the treetops swaying gently in the wind, and the ancient, grey trunks creaked in complaint.

The elven monarch gazed around the clearing and his stomach churned at the sight laid before him:

The three tents that had once stood and served as shelter for the camping elves were now nothing but remains and a symbol of what had happened there. The maroon fabric was torn and the poles barely stood as they struggled to hold up the clothing. The bonfire before Thranduil's feet was dead, apart from some glowing embers lurking in the ashes.

The King kicked at the ashes as the wind drifted by and picked up the grey flakes and carried them on.

It was not the destroyed objects that had once been means of survival that disturbed the King, though; it was the bodies.

Around the clearing, both slaughtered orcs and elves lay scattered about, their bodies sprawled on the forest floor with pools of blood seeping through the ground, nourishing the dead earth.

"By the Valar…" one guard muttered sorrowfully as he discovered the body of a young elf-maiden underneath a fallen tent.

The elven monarch walked on and passed one of the tents. He looked down as the ground grew shady and he stopped abruptly in his tracks.

A male of his own kin lay sprawled on the floor, just outside the tent, with a horizontal line of crimson running across the elf's throat. His right hand barely gripped around the hilt of a dagger, resulting in Thranduil coming to a conclusion he had died whilst protecting himself and his kin.

The king's eyes followed the tent's fabric fluttering in the wind, and as the drapes opened slightly, a silhouette of black was revealed inside.

Readying his sword, Thranduil pushed the clothing gently aside before taking a step inside the dark shelter, as if someone was calling him, luring him inside.

The tip of a single sword was buried in the ground, but the blade was not of elvish steel. It was craftsmanship of the orcs and the steel was bronzed with rust and reeked with the metallic smell of blood. The stench infiltrated Thranduil's nose as he looked at the jagged edge of the sword, silently cursing it for being placed in such a taunting position. Beside him, he spotted the body of an orc, its eyes wide open along with its mouth, revealing rows of rotten, sharp teeth, coated with blackened blood.

As a sudden wave of rage washed over Thranduil, he strode forwards, picked up the sword and forcefully buried the sword deep into the orc's open mouth, before he spat down on the body in disgust.

"Feast of wolves…" the King muttered angrily as he turned to explore the tent furthermore.

He didn't have to look far to find something else of concern.

Just there, in the corner, a she-elf laid on the ground in a defeated position. Her once amber tunic was drenched with blood, and a limp arm was draped out beside her, her head tilted to one side.

Thranduil walked over and kneeled down beside the elf and gazed at her face, his lips a firm line of grief.

Her skin was as pale as sick moonlight, and her mossy green eyes were halfway lidded, gazing lifelessly into the eternal nothing. Her red hair was a wild mass on the ground, the braids in it just coming loose.

The king stretched out a hand, and placed it gently onto the female's forehead and closed his eyes in concentration. The king conjured up a scene, to reveal what had happened there and saw it through his mind's eye, though through this elf's eyes, when she was alive.

Whispering voices penetrated his head, but they were soon drowned by screams and shouts from one elf to another. He couldn't see much, yet what he did see was that the male elf he saw just outside the tent was standing, alive and healthy, talking to what seemed to be his wife, his vesse, who carried a bundle of clothing in her arms. Suddenly, a scream could be heard from afar, followed by a hoard of orcs emerging through the trees, their maces and swords raised high.

As if in slow-motion the slurred imagery changed from peaceful to chaos. The male pushed his wife inside the tent as he fought off the incoming orcs with three other elves. The she-elf screamed out his name as she clung to the bundle in her arms. He was currently bravely fighting the orc before him, and as he were to execute his last attack, a sword swift as lightning came from behind and stopped the elf from doing any further moves. His wife shrieked heartbreakingly as she saw his heart being pierced from behind, and she fell to her knees as sorrow overcame her and before her eyes, the column of his neck was sliced before his lifeless being was thrown to the floor.

She cried out as a wall of pain crashed into her, though she was silenced as the curtain was roughly pushed aside and a monstrous shadow entered the tent with a mace raised above his head. The next thing Thranduil heard, was her cry accelerating to a scream, before she was silenced forever.

Startled, he pulled his hand away from her forehead, rendering him from seeing any more, and let out a gasp of horror.

However, despite the gruesome event he was just witness to, the bundle in the elf's arms triggered his curiosity. Was it her child she was cradling so gently to her chest before the forces of evil had overrun them?

His question was answered as he spotted movement in the dark corner, just beneath the feet of the dead she-elf.

Thranduil stood up once more and walked slowly over to the corner, his hand secured around the hilt of his sword. However, his wandering mind grew more at ease as he recognized the bundle of clothing before him from his vision.

The sound of soft weeping ringed in the king's pointy ears and his grip around the hilt slackened by a bit, and he took one more step further, but was stopped as he heard another weak wail, muffled by the clothing. He was then assured there was no danger and sheathed his sword before walking towards the bundle.

A whimpering coo was heard from underneath and Thranduil bent down to have a closer examination of the creature hid in the clothing.

He gently pulled down the hem of the woollen clothing, revealing what he suspected:

A babe, maybe a few seasons old, now shivering from the sudden cold, laid wrapped in the clothing and tiny arms stretched out whilst the legs kicked restlessly. A big yawn was followed by the baby forcing its eyes open and its tired gaze met the king's.

Thranduil looked at the tiny elf with icy blue eyes, and his gaze met the baby's brilliant, smoky green orbs. How long the little one had lain here was beyond him, but just from one squint into the depths into those green eyes, he knew there was something special about this one. Furthermore, he also noticed its small, pointy ears had become blue in colour, and the youngling's body was bonier than other chubby babies, like the king's son, Legolas, had once been.

Thranduil picked up the baby girl, and she cooed at the feeling of strong arms cradling her.

"Mae govannen, ai er… (Well met, little one…)" the king said softly whilst rearranging the blanket tighter around her tiny body as he scanned the baby after injuries, and apart from being malnourished and cold, she seemed to be well. His eyes shifted to look at the infant's dead mother and he crouched down once again and gently brushed his fingers above the she-elf's eyelids and closed her mossy green eyes.

"She shall be under my protection always, dinaer (silent one)." The king vowed with a bow of respect before standing up. He looked down at the little girl in his arms and noticed she was stretching out after a long, blonde lock of his hair that was temptingly dangling before her eyes. He turned to exit the tent, but looked over his shoulder to glance at the baby's mother one last time.

The babe squinted at the light and fussed a bit before Thranduil hushed her gently as they appeared out into the daylight and underneath the sunlight that attempted to break through the treetops.

The king called after his guards and they immediately gathered around him in expectation of orders. However, the men stirred as they noticed the tuft of auburn hair poking out from the bundle in their ruler's arms.

"My Lord?" one guard asked as his gaze fleeted from the bundle to Thranduil.

"We do not have much time before the creatures of the night will ascend and lurk in the darkness of the forest." The king told his subjects, his deep voice filled with power.

"What about the dead, my liege?" one young elf asked.

"Sadly, they will be the feast of spiders and vargs before we can manage to send out troops. Leave them be, and may Eru guide the spirits of these fallen innocents to peace. If there are no more survivors," the king motioned to the babe cooing in his arms. "We ride." He finished, before walking over to his waiting elk, who was stood nibbling at some dried leaves on the ground.

With just one hand the king heisted himself lithely on top of his mount, as did his guards, before they abandoned the last resting place of innocent souls.

Thranduil swore he could hear the light tapping of thousands of hairy legs crawling far above his head.

. . .

The ancient trees were moaning, and the leaves rustled and shivered as the wind ruffled through them. The fog was lifting, and dusk was falling rapidly.

The elven king's long, blonde mane veiled behind him as the wind played and tugged at his hair, leaving the whistling sound ringing in his pointy ears. The great elk snorted and shook its head at the bothersome wind that whisked through and jerked at its enormous antlers.

Winter was advancing.

As the party rode across the bridge over the roaring river, Thranduil could see from atop his mount over to the courtyard, and there he saw his son, Legolas, duelling with the nobles' sons, all of them youths.

Legolas, son of Thranduil, was no more than a few centuries old, a mere youngling, a juvenile, but he was wise beyond years and slowly mastering the art of swordfight and archery. He was the apple of the elves of Mirkwood's eye, seeing he was not only the heir, he was the only heir.

The king and his company entered the courtyard and Legolas spotted his father's arrival. Anxious to hear about his father's adventure, the prince sheathed his twin knives before running over, leaving his playmates to duel on their own.

"Ada! (Father!)" The youngster called as he ran up to the elk and watched as his father elegantly slid off its back, careful not to harm the now sleeping babe.

Legolas stroked the great elk's muzzle before one of the guards gripped the reins and led the beast away.

"Ionneg (son), have you trained well today?" the king asked as he placed a fatherly hand on top of his son's shoulders, though the prince didn't answer the question given, for his crystal blue eyes were focused on the bundle of grey in his father's arms.

"What is it that you are carrying, father?" he asked as he met his gaze.

Thranduil smiled at this, knowing his son's curiosity above all things.

"This, my son," he began as he crouched down to get to his son's level, but also to answer his question "is the newcomer."

He pulled down the hem to give his son a closer look. Legolas stepped forward and frowned in confusion as to why his father would be carrying a baby that was not his.

His face soon broke into a smile as he saw the baby girl writhe in his father's strong arms, dissatisfied of being awakened. She whined for just a moment, because when her eyes locked with Legolas', she grew silent. The king took notice of this connection and offered her out to his son. After a moment of hesitation, the prince opened his arms and braced himself as his father placed her in his awaiting arms. Legolas' arms instantly (and instinctively) curled around the baby girl's tiny, fragile body protectively and he found it remarkable how light she was.

The blonde prince frowned as the clockwork in his head ticked.

"Where is her mother?" he asked as he looked up at his father, his dark brows furrowing into a frown.

The king looked down in sadness at the reminder, but he met his son's gaze and masked his melancholic thoughts.

"She was robbed from this living world too soon, but her legacy will live on. Her offspring will be the constant reminder of the cruelty in this world, but also the symbol of hope." The king told his son wisely, and Legolas looked down at the baby in understanding, who had grabbed hold of his platinum blonde hair.

"Will you walk her with me to the nursery?" The king asked, and Legolas gave him a nod in agreement. Thranduil gave his shoulder a pat before he stood up and walked with him through the gates and into the Elven King's Halls.

. . .

The babe was given the name Tauriel, translating, "Woodland daughter", and little did the king know, that she would later play such an important role within the kingdom.

Over half a millennium later, Tauriel had fought her way through life to become the captain of the Mirkwood guard. She had grown to master the art of battle and proved to be incredibly proficient in both archery and hand-to-hand combat, even assessable to Legolas, her prince and friend, as well as companion-in-arms.

Her beauty grew with each day, and she had had elven men, both Silvan and Sindarin fall to her feet, but she was not to be wooed. She had already imprinted with the nature of combat.

Legolas had grown up beside her, trained with her, learned with her and to this day, they were inseparable. Some people would describe them as indivisible, the one not working without the other.

The King knew.

And he would have none of it. He had seen the way his son had looked at her, the way their touches lingered, even the way they fought with blades together.

The King knew what the people would think if he allowed the prince of the Woodland Realm to pledge himself to a lowly Silvan elf.

Furthermore, the forces of darkness would ram Mirkwood once again, and little did the king know, that Tauriel, the orphan he saved 600 years ago, would stand forth, defile the king, and yet be the champion of heroism.

The soldier of peace.

The warrior of good.

The beacon of light.

A/N: Alrighty then. To be frank, I'm quite satisfied with this, and I hope you enjoyed it as well!

Since Tolkien never revealed Legolas' age, I just had to stand to a mere guess here, and maybe Tauriel wasn't as young as put here, but alas, I think I covered it well.

So, this is my darkest tale so far, I think (Not if you've read 'Reign of Darkness' (In Elven Blades, Elven Love)

And I'm sorry if the part in the end was a little… off, but I thought I might include it ;)
So, I'll see you around with more later, can't say when!

So hold onto your hats until then, and a merry Christmas to you all!

~ Dragon