The ride south to the valley of Nanduhirion would have seemed long and hard but for the steadfastness of purpose that drove me from within: a burning need, an itch beneath my skin, a craving to see the spillage of vile orc blood. Once past the borders of the forest, we seemed to drift over hill and dale and across streams in our path as though our mounts' thundering hooves barely touched upon the earth, halting for rest only when it became of urgent need. The faithful warriors who rode with me uttered not a word of complaint, apart from my second-in-command, Amroth, who suggested that any enemy who awaited us would not likely disappear with the coming of another dawn. I was used to such from my Second, an elf who rose to his position scant decades ago after his well-trusted and much beloved predecessor had succumbed to the shadow Mirkwood's toll upon his spirit and opted for the shores of Valinor. Amroth was cunning and greatly skilled in all arts of warfare, yet I suspected that ambition bid him set his sights upon my station as Captain of the Guard, which gave me cause to never fully lay my trust in him. I did not grace Amroth's thinly-veiled challenge of my authority with any reply but a withering gaze and a resumed path southward, causing the borders of our forest home to disappear further behind and beside us as we kept a fairly steady parallel with the great Anduin River.

The skies changed, darkening as we moved ere closer to Nanduhirion, a place which seemed haunted by a shadow of evil not unlike that which crept through the great forest, closing in on the halls of Thranduil like an unassuming fog. The valley had indeed become host to much evil long before any newly swelling threat raised cause for alarm; sun-bleached bones could still be found scattered through the fields that lay before Moria, lingering witnesses of what the dwarves called the Battle of Azanulbizar, last conflict in a war between their kind and the orc-filth which had infested Moria. The elves of Mirkwood and Rivendell had watched and listened through kindred eyes and ears in Lórien as their war raged, knowing the outcome would affect all our kind for better or worse. Relief was found in the victory of Durin's folk over the feared Azog the Defiler, yet we knew the enemy could not be completely wrested from the mountains while the Nameless Terror lingered deep within the pit of Moria. The effects of what had passed in the valley were finally being felt, as ripples from a disturbing pebble dropped into a pool of water finally reaching the shores.

Our party slowed as the hills faded and the terrain flattened into the valley, sparsely scattered patches of trees and brush providing the only cover but for outcroppings of rocks. Tension infiltrated our ranks as the overcast sky blackened with each passing breath, the darkness and an eventual downpour of rain failing both to mask the sight of the precursors of enemy forces lurking upon the slopes across the valley and to cover their stench which wafted towards us on howling winds.

"Halt!" My command was met with swift obedience, each fellow elf reigning in their steed after mine as we took cover within a sizable copse of trees. Desiring to gain a better view before leading my forces headlong into an attack, I dismounted beside a jagged boulder and scaled to the top of the rock, nimbly leaping from its edge to a sturdy branch upon the nearest tree. A few manoeuvres further up the trunk brought me to an ideal perch, and I surveyed the valley with keen eyes despite the pelting rain from my newly gained position.

My initial scope of the land had been accurate enough in determining how many orc scouts mounted upon their vile wargs crawled over the slopes at the base of the mountain, but I had missed the sight of what seemed to draw them down from their posts one by one as flies swarming a rotting carcass. There, within a steeper dip in the valley, more than a score of dwarves readied themselves for battle with the encroaching orcs.

"Nadorhuanrim," Cowardly dogs I whispered as I watched the first of the scouts attack the surrounded party of dwarves, relieved to see a sword cut down first beast and then rider. Upper lip curling as sudden fury overwhelmed me, I swiftly alerted the rest of my company to the scene.

"Astalderea, en!" Valiant one.

An arm and index finger outstretched to indicate what was occurring was hardly necessary then, as the battle cries of the besieged dwarves and the hideous howling of wargs quickly rose to join the clamour of the wind. Wasting no time, I ordered my warriors to their best vantage points within the trees, reaching to my back to retrieve my bow and a first arrow from the quiver, easily taking aim at a warg charging the Dwarven ranks.

"Sii'!" Now!

Scores of arrows flew upon command, whistling through the air until they found their marks in orc and warg. The corners of my lips curled in delight at the sight of riders falling from their mounts and the sound of pained howls erupting from the throats of wounded beasts. With the first volley successfully eliminating a number of the scouts closing in upon the party of dwarves, I commanded an advance to meet them upon the new-found battleground. I swung down from the branch I had perched upon and sprang with ease back up into my saddle, covered by a second volley from the back of our ranks as I led a charge into the open. Bow exchanged for my long knives, I found the weapons almost needless as the last of the scouts fell to either well-aimed arrows or the hacking of Dwarvish axes and swords.

I held up a hand for a slowed pace as the immediate threat was eliminated, not wishing to unduly alarm the circled dwarves by the charging of my riders. Halting completely once within earshot of our assumed allies against the orcs, keen eyes scanned each member of the small party in search of their leader; it did not take long to discover him.

Thorin Oakenshield.

My gaze widened minutely in response to the presence of the dwarf prince, thoroughly unexpected, as our last knowledge of the expulsed dwarves of Erebor had placed them far away to the West in the Blue Mountains. Eschewing the urge to immediately satisfy my curiosity as to the reason for their appearance upon the plans of Drimrill Dale once again, I opted instead to address the prince regarding our move to their aid while a few of his comrades pulled their bloodied weapons from the bodies of the enemies fallen around them.

"You looked in need of some assistance, ai' atar." Little Father - A common description of a Dwarf.

Thorin Oakenshield's gaze darkened as he stepped forward from his party, a gruff answer quickly befalling.

"If you wish to insult me and those aligned to me, say it in a braver tongue, she-elf."

I arched a brow at that, though certain my disdain was obscured by the shadow of my cloak's hood. Never before had I heard the voice of the heir of Erebor, and his mere tone was enough to confirm what little I knew of him as told by my king. I bit back a harsher reply not becoming one of my station and responded with cool, measured calm.

"The haste of your kind has not escaped you, Thorin son of Thrain. Yet it is encouraging to know you can distinguish the voice of a female elf. You jump to conclusions almost quicker than I can draw my bow. I meant you no offense, goth en gothamin." Foe of my foe.

"Why is it that you know of me, yet I know nothing of you? Not a name, not a purpose. Did you save us for the sole intention of dealing with us yourselves? For if that is the case, then why waste time, she-elf?"

The spite in Thorin's deep voice was not lost upon me, and I barely refrained from flinching at the implication of the questions posed. He wished to know how I recognized him and seemed to believe that my warriors and I would have no decent cause to come to their aid. It was not entirely unreasonable. How could I say that I knew his face because I had seen it once before, as I awaited command at Thranduil's side while looking down upon a scene of utter terror and destruction? How could I admit that I had seen the young dwarf prince shouting and begging for help as he led his fleeing people from their home while Smaug laid waste with his fiery greed, only to turn my back without question when so ordered? I could not. My king had his reasons, valid ones, but I had not been able to deny the sickness I felt as screams and wailing fell upon retreating ears.

Convincing myself that it was discretion rather than shame which led me to avoid a direct answer of Thorin's question, I drew back the hood which darkened my visage and met Thorin's eyes whilst granting a proper introduction.

"I am Tauriel, Captain of the Mirkwood guard in service to the Elvenking Thranduil. Lower your weapon, Master Dwarf, for we seek no conflict. Our interest is solely the rise in orc activity which is threatening our borders. We received word of a small force travelling this side of the great river, and it seems you found it. Or at least, part of it. I believe it safe to say we have a common enemy here, and it is not one another."

"I'm afraid we're preoccupied with more important tasks than eradicating rambling orc forces and though I have no intention of leaving any alive if they cross our path, I have no intention of sharing with you my time or energy, not the least the likes of Mirkwood."

Thorin lowered his weapons as requested while he spoke, and his words again piqued my curiosity as to the reason for their presence. A reason which Thorin seemed unwilling to disclose. I had little time to dwell on such matters, however, as ominous sounds from the mountains gave reminder that danger had hardly abated.

"I'm afraid you have no choice, Thorin Oakenshield, for our mutual enemy fast approaches in vastly greater force. This was but a scouting party. A warg is a loud beast, especially when being slain. Orc senses might be as blunt as their blades, but a warg can hear its own. So now they come. I would suggest that you and your party go nowhere, but feel free to ignore the warning as I've no doubt you're considering. Your choice, Thorin son of Thrain."

With that, I turned my mount and retreated to my patiently awaiting ranks, abandoning use of the common tongue as I delivered orders for my warriors. Every last one of us could hear the sound of the coming onslaught; we could feel tremors through the very ground as scores upon scores of orc-ridden wargs descended from the mountains, paws pounding the earth in their charge into the valley. The ghastly howls rang ever clearer as the winds gentled and the rainfall subsided.

"We shall lead them away from you, to give you a breath of space," Thorin Oakenshield bellowed across the space that separated our ranks. I turned in my saddle, a definitive nod signalling my approval of the dwarf prince's logical strategy.

"Form ranks and take aim. They come with haste." My commands were spoken with an utter calm which belied the anxious set of my gaze upon the dark storm which swept onwards with murderous intent, yet my own bloodlust kindled as I envisioned the destruction of every last piece of orc-filth.

"Fire!"

Arrows flew then with deadly accuracy, nearly every one lodging in the body of either beast or rider and lessing the number which reached the Dwarven ranks. Drawing a second arrow and setting it to place, I drew back upon my bow and took aim, my shot stalled as the sight of the dwarf prince cutting into the first warg to reach him took my notice. The monster was dispatched in only two blows, and a faint smile curved my lips before I returned attention to my target and sent an arrow sailing into the skull of an orc who raised his arm to cut down a battling dwarf.

My archers took aim at will after the first round, and our ranks remained tightly closed until the encroaching orc pack split, the greater number chasing after the dwarves as they retreated for a small patch of woodland while the smaller portion altered their course and charged directly for us.

Most bows were exchanged for swords and long knives, as our skills and preferences dictated, and we waited in complete stillness while the enemy drew closer, unflinching in the face of threat to our very lives. I too chose to abandon bow for my long knives, the weapons unsheathed mere moments before the wargs clashed with our ranks.

We had been a solid unit until that moment, a mechanism of fluid and seemingly effortless destruction, yet the moment that unity was destroyed by the headlong clash of the enemy, they discovered what it was to fall prey to the power and anger of the woodland's children as individuals. Each of us had born evil's burdensome shadow in patience too long; each of us stood ready to fight and lay down our lives for our kin awaiting at home; and some, like myself, bore grudges more personal that ran far too deep.

I relished their horrid shrieks and squeals, the gurgling of blood filling their throats and spilling from their foul mouths as we struck them down one by one, strewing the field with their bodies in whole or in parts. The wargs proved more difficult to destroy, and I cried out in rage as I witnessed more than one of my loyal ones fall prey to the formidable foe that was beast coupled with rider. We could not halt for the precious losses of fallen kin; their deaths seemed to only heighten our resolve, and soon enough we found ourselves the victors, spattered with the blood of our enemies.

Those closest to the fallen went to them immediately, silently grieving as they ensured a dignified passing from this world for their fellow warriors. I swiftly assessed our damages before turning my attention to see what had become of the Dwarven ranks, dismayed to see their losses heavy and their remaining few fighting for their lives against the remainder of the orc pack which seemed to have entrapped them within the terrain they used for shelter. My countenance darkened as I watched, uncertainty rendering me still. Duty dictated that I see to my own guard and remove us from the path of what more and greater danger would surely follow, yet I could not tear my gaze from the scene before me. Our slain needed to be cared for, our defenses tightened, and our King alerted to the truth of the growing threat's severity. It was not Mirkwood alone which would suffer should the enemy reign unchecked within the valley, but Lorien and perhaps even Rivendell across the mountains as well. The realization that my ranks stood too few in number to engage and eliminate every orc pack which doubtless infested the area drew a grimace to my features, and I knew we had little choice but to return home to report and gather reinforcements before yet another discovered us upon the heels of the first.

Steeling myself for what I knew I must do, I turned away from view of the carnage before me and commanded a retrieval of the dead before we retreated. My spirit twisted within me as I issued the orders, yet I recalled the words the dwarf prince himself had spoken and hardened my heart. They would not have given us aid if the pack's rapid attack had not forced an engagement, even after we spared them the assault of the scouts. There was no cause for us to do more for them.

Our dead were quickly secured to their mounts and each survivor prepared for departure, awaiting only my word. I should never have turned one last time to see what became of the dwarves.

I watched in awe—whether at the bravery or the sheer stupidity I was not sure—as Thorin Oakenshield broke from the cover of the trees and charged into the thick of what remained of the orc pack, his prowess in battle not preventing him from falling prey to the madness of such a move. Despite the sheathing of his sword in a warg's flank, Thorin was knocked to the ground by the creature who seemed to barely notice the injury, and its attack was only stalled by the wedging of the dwarf's axe handle into its mouth.

It was a gruesome thing to watch, knowing that the prince was going to meet his end in the jaws of a filthy animal. I sent the last two arrows in my quiver straight into the beast, loathe to depart absent even an attempt to aid our unlikely ally. The warg seemed to hardly notice the arrows buried in its body, frenzied as it was in its intent to kill. Even from a distance, I could hear the cackling of the orc sitting astride the creature, and its malicious delight roused my fury anew. I knew I should not stay, and yet I could not make myself turn again.

"Amroth..." Whipping my head around to where my Second waited, I charged him with fulfilment of my duty in order to grant myself space to fulfil a more urgent call. "You will lead them home. Stop for nothing and report to Thranduil what has happened here."

Amroth's brows raised, but he uttered not a word of dissent. I knew he would not.

"Tauriel! What do you mean to do?" The cry came from another within the ranks, his alarm clearly overriding formalities of title.

"I mean to do what I must," I uttered as I drew my crimson-stained knives once more. My mount pranced in anticipation, and I rounded to the horrified gazes of my warriors as a few weak echoes of protest resounded.

"Do not question me, voronwea. Go!" My loyal ones.

I spared them not another glance, unable to dwell upon the anguished thought that it might be the last as I spurred my steed and charged towards the fray. I heard shouts of my name, but little did they register. My focus was set, and once within range I threw a knife with an agile flick of my wrist, satisfied to see the orc triumphing over the dwarf prince fall from his mount. I dispatched the second knife almost as quickly, yet the weapon missed its mark as the warg bore down upon its victim in a lunge. The knife barely scraped the tip of its ear.

Shouting in frustration, I reached for the sword strapped to the side of my saddle, unsheathing it in a smooth motion and raising it to strike as my horse dashed up alongside the beast. The sword had never been my preference, yet I was skilled and confident in its use. The blow I struck into the warg's upper back should have been lethal, yet even as the blade sliced into the thick hide, the brute relented its assault of the dwarf and whirled upon me with unexpected speed. The sword was wrenched from my grasp as the beast turned, and the blade remained wedged in its back. Attempts to rein in my frightened mount failed, and the horse reared violently, throwing me from its back before it bolted.

Stunned only momentarily, I swiftly leapt to my feet, but it was already too late. Without my weapons, no agility could save me from the massive, clamping jaws. All the breath left my body at the sheer power of the beast's mouth ensnaring me before I even felt its teeth pierce into my flesh. The cry that ripped from my throat was drawn as much by pain as by the knowledge that I had failed. I had failed my king, my guard, and my people, and for what? To spare the life of an arrogant dwarf prince who would likely perish soon after me?

Cursing the foolishness which had prompted my rash action, I struggled in vain against the warg's hold, my strength sapping as my blood flowed. The monstrous being shook me in its mouth, though I felt my flesh tear further, the pain began to ebb as dizziness fogged my mind.
Suddenly, I felt the jarring impact of my body against damp earth, yet I could not even find relief in the fact of being released from the warg's jaws. Though my vision blurred, as I tilted my head upon the ground I could see the retreating forms of my kin, my fellow warriors. Had they waited? Had they even seen my downfall? It mattered little. I was going to die alone in a pool of my own blood, and I had none but myself to lay blame to for it.

The sounds of the remaining clash of battle began to fade, and my view of the darkened sky began to blur at the edges, spots dotting my vision as I fought a losing battle for consciousness. As if in a final mockery of my efforts, suddenly there appeared above me a face: stern and bearded, with piercing blue eyes beneath heavy brows, grim lips speaking words my darkening mind could not comprehend.

Thorin Oakenshield.