The young elf sobbed. No, she wailed.

Thranduil, elven monarch of the once Great wood, had never seen such emotion out of his once calm and efficient former Captain. Six hundred years past, when she'd been only a small child and had lost her parents, she'd wept, full of fear and confusion and anger, but that was nothing compared to what he saw now. The waves of raw emotion that emanated from her showed that she was far beyond simple grief.

"If this is love, then take it away. Please!" she begged him. "I don't want to feel this way."

Tauriel had never begged - not once in six centuries – and the sound of her plea struck a deep cord in the heart of the ancient king. He had practically raised Tauriel. He had mentored her, favored her, but had always kept himself emotionally detached from the orphaned elleth. He had not allowed himself to feel attachment to anyone, for many, many centuries - not even opening up for his own son. But now, her distress was so genuine, so compelling, so familiar to his own pain, that he felt a part of him stir.

"Why?" she begged, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Why does it hurt so much?"

It was more of a plea than a question. More than the words, it was the sound of her voice breaking with profound emotion that made him realize that he, more than any, truly understood what she was feeling because once he'd felt the same.

What was far more profound was that she felt such pain for a dwarf.

There was an irony there. Perhaps a lesson from the Valar, if one truly wished to analyze the situation, but he did not. He would contemplate that later, after he addressed the pressing need before him. Despite her recent rebellion and his anger over her actions, he could not deny that he cared about her.

He knelt, lowering himself to her level so that she could see the honesty in his response. "Because it was real," he said, his eyes brimming with his own tears. They were not words of comfort, for there was no comfort that could be given. Only an explanation. He could offer nothing more because he'd never found an answer for himself.

In that moment, he found common ground with the young Silvan. He was not heartless, as she'd accused him but, as a ruler, he needed to guard his emotions carefully. Perhaps it was the great losses suffered in the battle, now ended, perhaps it was that his son had chosen to leave his side but he found himself opening his heart in a way that he'd not allowed himself for several centuries.

He stood transfixed, watching her as she grieved. For a brief moment, he regretted his choice to discourage any relationship the elleth might have had with his son. Had he done otherwise, their friendship might have become more and she would have been spared this pain. His son might have stayed by his side.

But that was not to be. It might never have been. Legolas and Tauriel had been friends for centuries, and while they cared for each other, there had never been a comparison to what Thranduil now saw. In only a short time, she had bared her heart to a dwarf with such intensity that now she might fade from this life.

He thought her foolish, to fall in love with a mortal, or to fall in love at all. He'd thought that he'd done his duty to guide her, to teach her to keep her heart protected, but she was young, so very, very young.
A mere six centuries was hardly long enough to truly learn the risk of opening one's heart. Tauriel was impetuous, impulsive, and had been growing more restless in recent years. It was inevitable that she would rebel, as any young one might but Thranduil had underestimated the possible consequences.

The sight before him was one he'd seen too many times in his long life, and a pain that he'd known all too intimately. Almost two millennia ago, he'd suffered such a loss. At the time, he had wished desperately to fade and follow his beloved across the sea, but he'd had a son and a kingdom. Both had needed him. Perhaps a part of him had faded then, and only a shell had remained to rule, to protect his people, to minimize the danger to his kingdom, so that none would have to face what he had faced. He had no desire to see his subjects suffer and fade the way Tauriel was doing now.

And she was indeed fading.

The sight sorrowed him beyond words. And now, he could do nothing as she desperately clutched the dwarf's limp hand, tears streaming down her beautiful face.

Then, she leaned down to kiss him. Thranduil turned away, giving her privacy.

The sound of a stone hitting rock distracted him and he turned back to see that she picked up a token and held it to her heart. Her intense sobbing had lessened and was being replaced by a vacant, haunted look in her eyes. Unable to bear seeing such lifelessness in her once vibrant features, the elven king focused his gaze on the stone in her hand. A brief glimpse of the markings caught his eye.

"What is that?" he asked. In a way, he felt that it was rude to interrupt her thoughts, but at some point she would need to pull her mind back to the world. Conversation, or a command from her king, might help.

She did not take her gaze from the dwarf as she answered, "A token, my Lord. Kili gave it to me."

"May I see it?"

She nodded, appearing confused for a moment but obediently handed him the stone before turning her attention back to the body, running her fingers through the dwarf's hair.

Immediately upon taking the stone, Thranduil recognized the dwarvish runes. He'd not seen such markings in a long time, but his memory was flawless. The runes clearly stated, "Return to me."

The runes were used in dwarven magic.

The concept was familiar to the king. At one time, dwarves and elves had lived in harmony, sharing their language, their lore and the secrets of their magic. Dwarven magic was different from that of the elves, rarely used, but having its own purpose nonetheless. Thranduil could not deny that there was something significant about the token.

"He gave this to you. What did he say?"

She looked up at him, her expression confused, but he was glad because the question had pulled her out of the bottomless depth of sorrow. It redirected her mind from the moment, if only temporarily.

"He said that I should take it as a promise that he would return," she replied, her lips turning downward at the memory of the futile promise.

A promise to return, uttered upon the stone carved in the private language of the dwarves. Dwarves had been created from stone and such a promise was not taken lightly. Thranduil recalled the old dwarven customs and protections that had been common at one time. But, like ancient elven magic, much of the knowledge had been lost over the millennia and, in the case of mortal beings like the dwarves, knowledge had been lost over generations. Thranduil wondered if the dwarf had even known the power of what he had possessed. More than likely, the token was given in sentiment, its true meaning unknown. Fortunately for this particular dwarf, Thranduil still retained that ancient knowledge.

It took less than an instant for the ancient monarch to decide to act on that knowledge. "Remove his armor," he commanded, his tone causing the elleth to jump in shock. "We must access the wound and repair it before we proceed."

A fortnight ago, she would have moved to follow his order immediately and without question but now, she faltered. She knelt protectively over the body as if wondering if her king had gone mad and was intending to do harm in some way. Thranduil might have laughed at the action, had the situation not been so dire.

"Do it!" he commanded. "We have little time if you wish to save him."

He could practically read the thoughts in her head at that moment. Save him, although he was already dead. It was almost comical how the shock and realization then translated into haste action. Immediately, her fingers flew to the buckles and straps holding the heavy chain mail surrounding the dwarf's broad chest.

King Thranduil himself then knelt by her side, assisting her in her task.

He questioned his sanity in that moment. He'd despised dwarves for millennia. Many of his own people lay on the battlefield at this very moment, injured, dying, and grieving their own losses, yet he was here, spending his time and energy on one dwarf, but his reason was clear: he wanted to do anything in his power to alleviate the horrible pain that this young one now endured. For all her confidence and skill, she was still little more than a child and seeing grief akin to his own echoed in her eyes was a far greater burden than holding to an age-old grudge.

The layers of mail and leather fell away and, immediately, the king placed his hands over the still-raw wound, chanting the familiar elvish words to call forth healing, sharing the light that had been given to him. Mentally, he felt the still-warm tissue bind and mend beneath the magic of the Eldar. He did not think of the dwarf, only of the task before him, isolating his thoughts.

When he finished, he lifted one elegant hand and commanded, "Give me the stone." Instantly, he felt the smooth object in his palm, still warm from Tauriel's touch. He placed the stone over the dwarven warrior's heart. He knew the words: ancient words, full of depth and power meant to call to Aule, the maker of the dwarves, but he could not command those words with the passion that was required. He took Tauriel's hand and pulled her toward the dwarf to kneel beside him.

"Place your hands over the stone and repeat after me," he ordered, although is tone was both gentle and firm. "Do not mis-speak. If you do not understand, say nothing and I will repeat. The pronunciation must be exact."

She nodded, her body leaning forward, both hands over the stone as if she was willing her own soul to it. That was good, he thought, there would be more power to call forth.

Slowly, methodically, he spoke the ancient verses, praying to the dwarven god. He watched his young ward, with her eyes closed, pouring every bit of strength out of herself and into the words. The spell would drain every ounce of energy from her but he knew she would not care.

She did not falter. She did not mis-speak. Every echo of his words were repeated with perfect clarity, pronunciation, and with deep, profound emotion. He felt pride fill his heart. This was a child he had raised, and raised to perfection. Everything she did, she did well and with her entire being. Even love.

He sent a silent prayer to Valar that they would grant her this one, desperate wish.

They stayed, unmoving, for what seemed like hours, yet it was likely no more than mere minutes, continuing to repeat the ancient Dwarvish words with apparently no success. The dwarf remained motionless. He watched as Tauriel began to breath heavily with the effort, draining her, but he knew she would refuse to stop until it was certain that it would not work.

He was nearly ready to pull her away in defeat when, finally, a warm red glow emanated from beneath Tauriel's hands. It grew in intensity, steadily spreading from the stone and across the dwarf's chest, until his body gave a great, heaving intake of air.

Tauriel paused, ready to shout for joy, but the king quickly touched her shoulder, willing her to remain focused on the task. Thranduil now changed the words from those that summoned to a binding, a willing the soul to tether itself to the body it had once inhabited. This was the longer, more dangerous part of the magic. The stone was merely a tether, a means to reach over the great barrier to call the soul back. Now, it needed to remain in its vessel, or risk walking the earth unattached. If the dwarf did not wish to remain, then their efforts would fail.

Tauriel's musical voice continued to chant, until she was nearly hoarse from the exertion, the strength leaving her body at a rapid rate. Finally, the sun began to set, turning the sky as red as the elf-maid's hair, and the king saw the dwarf's lips move, although no sound came forth. "Tauriel," was the single word that he'd tried to utter.

Thranduil placed his hands on the young elf's shoulders, indicating it was time to stop. She looked up at him, desperate hope in her eyes.

"We have done all we can."

She tried to get up, but it was clear she did not have the strength. He took her hand, helping her rise, although she stood somewhat unsteadily.

"We must leave. They will be looking for him soon."

She nodded, looking down at the still form of the dwarf, her chest heaving with exhaustion and no small amount of concern. "To take him away to his own."

"He lives for now, but do not hold too much hope."

She looked at him, her eyes full of fear. "But, he breathes."

"He has lost a great deal of blood. His wounds remain grievous. And it takes far longer for the soul to heal than the body. Do not hold too much hope," he repeated firmly.

She nodded, still weak but he could see the fire rekindle in her eyes. For the moment, she would not fade, and that gave him time to help her heal. For that, the world-weary king brightened, feeling a warmth that he'd not allowed himself to feel for far too long. For that, it was worth it.