So Comes Snow After Fire

14.iii

Tauriel closed her eyes and let the heat of the sun sink into her as she leaned back against the ivy-covered wall of the small, private courtyard in Dale. This secluded space was not quite the garden it had once been: the fruit trees and roses had long since been destroyed by dragon's fire, but the wildflowers and beech saplings Tauriel had found to replace them were already flourishing. Perhaps next year she could add some more exotic offerings, but already the place served well as her personal retreat.

She held the runestone in her palms, and the sunlight warmed it so that she could almost imagine Kíli had just handed it to her and the warmth was from his touch. Yet she would have preferred to hold his own hand. She had not seen him since he had given the visiting dwarves a tour of Ravenhill, and the truth was that she missed him more than she had known to expect.

Footsteps sounded on the flagstones of the court: quick and light, the stride of someone small and young. Tauriel opened her eyes to look up at Tilda, Bard's younger daughter.

"Here you are! Darion said you were still in the city," Tilda said brightly, and then she faltered, seeming to realize she might be trespassing on Tauriel's rest. "Do you mind if I join you?" she added, cautious.

"Not at all; please do," Tauriel assured her. She felt a special affection for Bard's two daughters and was pleased by the chance to see them regularly now that she lived in Dale. Tilda especially seemed drawn to her.

The young girl stood looking down at Tauriel for a moment, her expression thoughtful. "You look so beautiful when you dress up," Tilda said at last.

"Oh... Thank you," Tauriel murmured, touched by the girl's sincerity. She would not have considered her simple dress very fine, especially compared to the elaborate gowns the women of Thranduil's court often wore, yet perhaps it seemed so to someone unaccustomed to anything elvish. Once again, she was reminded that Tilda, like Kíli and indeed most mortals, saw her as someone exotic and almost other-worldly. She had never thought of herself that way, and Tilda's reverence humbled her even as it gave her a new sense of worthiness.

"You're not going to Ravenhill today?" Tilda asked, settling onto the grass beside Tauriel. "I thought you always did on your days off." The girl, like most of Dale, knew of Tauriel's connection to Kíli.

Tauriel smiled, both touched and abashed by Tilda's bold interest. "Kíli is not there today. There is a great meeting of the dwarven clans this month, and he is busy with that."

"What do dwarves talk about, I wonder? Growing their beards and counting gold?"

"Or perhaps how to tell the inside of one mountain from another in the dark!" Tauriel teased, then went on more seriously, "I'm sure there are many alliances to reestablish, now that Erebor is a kingdom again."

Tilda's eyes went to the runestone in Tauriel's hands.

"What is that?"

"It is something Kíli gave me." She held it out to the girl, for once not reluctant to share something so personal. Tilda had always seemed to accept her attraction to Kíli without question; indeed, as far as Tauriel could tell, Tilda thought it was only logical that Kíli and his elven savior should belong together.

Tilda took the stone with reverent hands. "Did he ask you to marry him?"

"No!" Tauriel returned, equal parts surprised and amused. Was that what her young friend thought the gift meant? "He gave it to me so we won't lose each other."

Tilda turned the stone in her fingers, watching the light glint off the hidden colors in its depths.

"Is it magic?" she wondered.

"Perhaps." Tauriel had never been quite sure, herself. Was there some kind of blessing attached to the stone that made it more than simply a memento?

"It's very pretty," Tilda said appreciatively and handed it back. "Will you be a princess if Kíli marries you?"

"I don't know. I suppose perhaps." Tauriel knew she would never be counted part of the royal line, though whether that meant she would be excluded from a title as well, she had never asked. She did not particularly care, so long as she had Kíli.

"I hope so; then you'll be like Sigrid and me." Tilda shook her head with mirth, and a few loose curls waved about her face. "It's still so funny to think I'm going to be 'Princess Tilda.' It sounds like someone out of a story!"

"Maybe you are," Tauriel suggested.

"Maybe! It really has been strange enough! Da coming home one day to let a bunch of grumpy, wet dwarves in right up through the privy and then—"

"What?" Tauriel interrupted at this piece of the story she had never heard before.

"Well, it was the only secret way into the house!" Tilda grinned as if she had just let Tauriel in on some great conspiracy. "Don't say I told you, though! The bald dwarf with all the tattoos said he'd pull our arms off if Bain or I ever said anything about it."

Tauriel could imagine Dwalin, who in that moment had surely been compromised in dignity more than in anything else, uttering such a threat. Yet surely he would never have made it good against someone as sweet as Tilda.

"I don't think he would," Tauriel confessed. "Dwalin is not as terrible as he seems. But I won't tell. Though perhaps I may tease Kíli about it?"

Tilda considered for a moment and then nodded. "You have to tell me what he says."

"I will."

They sat in friendly silence for a while, and then Tilda asked again, "Tauriel, please, would you—" She stopped, momentarily bashful.

"Yes?" Tauriel prompted kindly.

"Well, I was wondering if you would teach me how to do a real elvish braid? Sigrid says she doesn't know how to do one like yours."

"Of course!" Tauriel felt her heart warm at Tilda's grateful smile. "Did you want me to now?"

The young girl nodded. "Oh yes, if you would!"

"With pleasure." Tauriel slipped the runestone back into the pouch at her belt, trading it for her comb. As she pulled apart Tilda's neat, if plain, braid, Tilda caught the silver comb from Tauriel's lap and admired it.

"I know who gave you this," she remarked, and Tauriel could only laugh softly in reply.

Once she had combed Tilda's hair smooth, Tauriel positioned the girl's fingers, guiding them through the motions of the braid as her own mother had done for her many years ago. Although Tauriel had never before tried to imagine having a daughter of her own, she could not help but do so now as she leaned down over this young human girl, offering instruction and encouragement. She had always supposed she would not want a child, simply because she had always been content alone. But she was not alone now; there was Kíli, and because of him, perhaps one day even—

No, she must not hope too far. What if they could not? She did not think him inferior to her, in either body or spirit, but it was still true: dwarves were Ilúvatar's children by adoption only, having been created by a different hand. What if an elf and a dwarf were simply not made for each other, never mind what the two of them had shown by their love? Of course Thorin and his council must make provisions for the case of half-elven children, but that concern was hardly a guarantee of such an event. She and Kíli would only know the truth by proving it themselves. And until then, Tauriel would not wish for something she could not be sure of. For now, she had Kíli, and even Tilda, and they would be enough, she told herself as she pressed a kiss to the top of Tilda's head before helping to bind off the finished braid.