She had not wanted this.

When King Thranduil summoned her, she expected orders about the borders. Patrols. Spiders in the north. Orc sightings near the mountains. Instead, he’d spoken in that quiet, imperious way he had—fingers drumming against the carved arms of his throne—about her. The strange mortal woman who’d appeared from another world, who was not of Middle-earth, who walked the halls of the Woodland Realm like she belonged here.

He wanted Tauriel to watch her.

“Assigned,” he had said. Like she was a ward. Like Tauriel was a guard for something fragile.

She’d bitten her tongue. Bowed. Obeyed.

And hated it.

She was the Captain of the Guard. She had led warriors into battle. Fought creatures that sent even seasoned elves retreating. She was not a babysitter for soft mortals with wide eyes and strange words. She was not meant to sit indoors and trail behind someone who painted with colored powders and wore odd rings on all her fingers.

But she did it.

She followed her. Stood nearby with arms crossed and eyes sharp. Watched as she explored the gardens, and the throne hall, and every overlooked corner of Thranduil’s kingdom. And over time, something odd began to happen.

She stopped waiting for the woman to fall apart.

Because she never did.

She was clever. Endlessly curious. She asked questions Tauriel had never thought to ask about the trees, the songs, the way Elven boots were shaped. She left no corner of the world untouched. And more than that—she spoke to Tauriel. Genuinely. Warmly. Like they were equals. Friends, even.

And that was more disarming than any blade.

Now, she sat in Tauriel’s room—the one she rarely used, the one that felt too polished, too still—and painted color onto her fingernails with the kind of reverence normally reserved for runes. Tauriel had removed her gloves hesitantly at first, unsure why this was happening, unsure why it mattered.

But now she watched. Quietly. Curiously.

She had chosen a soft shade, something pale and warm, that shimmered faintly in the candlelight. It felt strange to see her fingers—strong from the bowstring, callused from years of war—transformed like this. Ornamental. Pretty.

She had never been painted before.

Never been adorned.

Jewelry had followed, over the past days—rings slipped over her knuckles, earrings she’d been coaxed into wearing, even a delicate circlet laid across her brow. Not as a mark of rank. But as play. As care. As celebration.

And it startled her how much she liked it.

No other elleth had done this with her. The women of the realm were distant, dutiful, courteous—but rarely close. Female warriors were fewer still, and Tauriel had learned to be one of the boys, sharper than their swords, colder than their arrows. There had been no room for this kind of softness.

Until her.

Until this mortal—this otherworldly girl—began treating her like someone who deserved to be cherished, not just obeyed.

Tauriel’s eyes dropped to her hands again. She turned them slightly in the glow of the firelight, watching the color dry into its final sheen.

“…You’re very skilled,” she said softly, voice quieter than it usually was. “I did not know how much I needed this.”