So Comes Snow After Fire

17.v

She was not running away, Tauriel told herself once again as she went through her room, tossing what items she wished to bring with her onto the bed. This choice was not weakness.

She had been afraid, at first, that this impulse to get as far from Erebor, as far from Kíli, as she could was merely petulance. Was she no better than a young elfling, running off to sulk because she was unwilling to face what she had chosen when she gave her love to a mortal? Perhaps Tauriel had deceived herself most pitiably when she had believed she was strong enough to bear an eventual parting.

No. Of course she knew better than to think that she was merely avoiding the consequences of her own choices now. She would still willingly accept this pain as the proof of having known and loved Kíli. She was not afraid of hurting.

But what would be accomplished by staying? She would have to watch Kíli spend his life without her. He would marry and have children; all his loyalty would be owed to them. If she and he ever met, it must be as cool, indifferent strangers. And even then, surely it would be wrong to remind him, every time he saw her, of what he could not have. She did not want him to come to despise the woman he had accepted as a wife. As for herself, Tauriel would rather be able to remember him as he was when he belonged only to her.

Better to go so that she and Kíli might each begin to make something of the choices that had been forced upon them. Kíli had a kingdom and a family to serve. And she— Well, she had all the world to discover. But first, she wanted to return, briefly, to the Greenwood, the only other home she had known. She needed welcome, comfort, something that she could no longer find here at the mountain.

Tauriel glanced over the items collected on her bed: a light cloak, a water-skin, a spare tunic, and a pair of socks. She was only taking what essentials she would need for traveling, those and each of Kíli's gifts. She had never been terribly sentimental about things before, and yet since these items of worked metal and stone were all she had left of him, Tauriel could not bring herself to leave any of them behind. Some were tools that she could carry and use, like the comb or a knife; others were mere baubles—the tiny golden spider with jeweled eyes or a tree made from copper wire and with emerald leaves—useless, perhaps, yet still precious because they were from him.

Skimming her fingers over these things Kíli had once held in his own hands, Tauriel paused over a pewter flask, remembering the night he had given it to her. He had promised, then, to take her to look for Durin's crown in the Mirror-mere beneath the gates of Khazad-dûm. Now she would have to visit that sacred place of his people alone, if she ever went.

Her vision blurred, and she swallowed hard, fighting to stop her tears.

"You're leaving, aren't you?" came a voice from behind her.

Her face composed once more, Tauriel turned to see Tilda standing in her doorway. The young girl's expression was solemn.

"Yes," Tauriel answered. This morning she had spoken to Bard about offering her captainship to Darion. The soon-to-be-king had been sorry to lose her support, but had seemed to understand why she must go. He too, Bard had said, knew what it was to lose someone precious.

"I don't want you to leave," Tilda said unhappily.

"Neither do I."

"Then why?"

Tauriel sighed, hoping the young girl could understand. "Kíli must marry someone else."

"But he loves you!"

"I am an outsider, and our match is not permitted."

"That isn't right," Tilda returned readily.

"No, I don't think so, either."

Tilda remained in the door, watching the elf, and Tauriel wondered what she could say to comfort her friend. She did not know how to part from mortals, for whom such a farewell might truly be a last.

"Mum died but I thought maybe you would always be here," Tilda said at last, and then threw herself across the room and caught Tauriel in a hug.

"Tilda, I am so sorry," Tauriel breathed, feeling a sudden pang of true sympathy for the girl who had also lost a mother. Once or twice before, the elf had wondered fleetingly if Tilda might look to Tauriel to fill her mother's place; knowing now that Tilda did, Tauriel felt a sudden deep pleasure, followed by a guilt nearly as strong at the thought that she must abandon this child who relied on her. And not only this child—she must abandon, too, any hope that she might one day have a child of her own. At this thought, it was all she could do to fight back a sob.

As Tauriel stroked Tilda's hair, she noticed that the girl wore the braids Tauriel had taught her. The plaits were still a touch uneven, but with practice, soon enough they would be quite as neat as Tauriel's own.

"Here, my dear, I have something for you," Tauriel said when she could trust her voice again. Going to her bedside table, she gathered the silver elvish hair clasps that she usually wore; she had not replaced them since last night, when she had left her hair loose to meet Kíli.

Tauriel pressed the clasps into Tilda's hand. "These are nearly fitting for a princess."

Tilda gazed down on the gift wonderingly. "Thank you very much," she murmured. "I won't forget you."

"Nor I you." Then because she knew that she wanted to give Tilda this further comfort, Tauriel added, "I will come visit again, when your father is king." For the sake of a friend, she would dare to return once more. Surely she could avoid contact with Kíli for a brief visit.

"Good," Tilda affirmed, her wet eyes revealing how much the promise meant to her.

"You're not keeping that?" the girl added suddenly, pointing behind Tauriel to the runestone, which lay on the washstand, apart from the objects gathered on the bed.

"I am." The stone sat apart now only because Tauriel had been about to transfer it from last night's gown to the pocket of her traveling clothes when she changed.

"You said it would keep you from losing each other," Tilda remembered.

Tauriel did not know what to say. How could she tell Tilda that the stone was nothing more than a memento now that Kíli's promise was ended?

Yet Tilda seemed to understand well enough even without words. "You can't stop believing it now," she pleaded, clearly troubled.

"Oh Tilda, I don't know how things can change for us," Tauriel confessed miserably. She knew Kíli was too honorable to go back on his word, once given. If he pledged to marry among his own people for his brother's sake, he would do so.

"If he promised you, he will come back. I'm sure of it," Tilda insisted.

Tauriel's tears fell at last at Tilda's unknowing echo of Kíli's words on the lake.

"My dear little friend," she said softly. "You must go on believing for us both. I do not know how."

Tilda clasped Tauriel again, her head pressed to the place where Kíli's own had often rested.

"Oh Tauriel, I will," Tilda returned, and then she, too, wept.