Unknown to Gollum, his passage through the forest of Mirrormere had not gone unseen.
From the tangle of roots and shadow at the lake's edge, a red-haired Silvan Elf watched him—silent, unmoving, her breath held as though even the night itself might betray her. She saw the violence in his movements, the merciless efficiency with which he killed, and felt no fear. Only fascination.
This was not how it was meant to be.
She was not meant to be here, crouched in damp loam and moon-shadow, watching a creature the world had long since cast aside. She had been traveling west, bound for Lórien, meant to visit distant cousins and lose herself among the silver trees. A simple journey. A safe one.
If only things had gone as they should have.
If only Legolas had noticed her.
If he had taken her—claimed her—then she would still be in the Woodland Realm, walking beneath green boughs among kin who pretended not to see her hunger. But he had not. And now… now she was here.
Why was it that Legolas—and all Elves, truly—were so willfully blind?
Her name was Tauriel, and she knew she was beautiful. Others had said it often enough, though always with the same careful distance, the same polite restraint. She was lithe and supple, her movements graceful, her youth still clinging to her like summer warmth. She had seen the way eyes followed her, had felt the unspoken want in averted gazes.
Yet none of them ever reached for her.
There was a hollow place inside her—aching, gnawing—that no song, no duty, no reverence for starlight could fill.
Desperation had driven her to foolishness.
She had tried everything: lingering glances, gentle touches, feigned vulnerability. When none of it worked, she had devised her final, reckless gambit. The Enchanted River. Cold. Swift. Unforgiving.
She had let herself sink, thrashing just enough to be seen.
He was supposed to save her.
She had imagined it perfectly. Legolas would hear her cry and leap from the trees, noble and swift, plunging into the river without hesitation. His arms would wrap around her, strong and sure, hauling her from the water. He would lay her upon the bank, brush wet hair from her face, and—moved by fear of losing her—press his lips to hers.
Her first kiss.
She would awaken then, gasping softly, clutching him, pulling him closer. He would resist at first, startled by her boldness. But she would smile. She would charm him. And then their mouths would meet properly—desperately—their breaths mingling, tongues tangling in a way she only half understood but wanted all the same.
And then she would be his.
She did not know exactly how it worked—how such moments unfolded into something more—but she was certain it would make sense when it happened. Just as it had made sense when she once saw it happen before.
A wild man, at the forest's edge. A girl pinned beneath him, his mouth crushing hers in a kiss so fierce it stole her breath. The girl had cried out, begged him to stop.
"No, please… I don't want to become pregnant…"
Yet he had ignored her, overcome by his desire, his need. There had been something terrifying in it—yes—but also something raw and powerful. Beautiful, in its way. Unrestrained.
Legolas had ended it with a single arrow, swift and merciless.
Tauriel had never stopped wondering.
Did the girl become pregnant from the kiss alone? Or was there something else—something deeper—that the Elves refused to speak of? Mysteries of flesh and creation, locked away behind silence and shame.
If only Legolas had not interfered.
If only he had not noticed.
Because he had. He had seen through her act at the riverside, his sharp eyes piercing the lie she had so carefully crafted. He had reached her before she slipped beneath the water—and his hand had struck her face, hard enough to ring her ears.
"How dare you?" he had shouted, fury breaking through his usual calm. "I trusted you, Tauriel! My father took you into the House of Greenleaf—and this is how you repay us? I am your brother! Have you no shame?"
Then the words that cut deepest of all.
"You dirty bitch."
They had flayed her more cleanly than any blade.
And so she was sent away—to Lórien, under the guise of reflection and healing, but banished all the same. Exiled for wanting what no one would give her.
Now, hidden among twisted roots beside Mirrormere, watching Gollum tear life apart with his bare hands, Tauriel felt something stir within her at last.
Not shame.
Not grief.
But recognition.
Just why—why—did Legolas have to notice?
She had thrown herself into the river without hesitation, cold water closing over her head, lungs burning as she let herself sink too far, too long. She had meant only to frighten him—but fear had turned real. By the time his shadow broke the surface above her, darkness had already begun to creep at the edges of her vision.
He dragged her from the current with effortless strength, laying her out upon the stones. She lay limp, shuddering, water streaming from her hair and clothes, playing the part she had rehearsed so carefully. Helpless. Weak. Saved.
She felt his hands on her shoulders, firm, assessing—not panicked. He called her name once. Then again. There was no desperation in his voice, only focus.
That was when she ruined everything.
She could not wait. Could not endure another heartbeat of pretending.
Before he could do more than lean closer, before he could even decide whether she truly needed saving, Tauriel stirred too quickly—too eagerly. Her hand twitched. Her lips parted. And then, abandoning all pretense, she lunged upward from the stones, reaching for him, mouth seeking his.
The sound of the slap cracked through the air like a branch snapping.
Pain exploded across her face as she fell back, stunned—not by the blow, but by the look in his eyes.
Fury. Disbelief. Revulsion.
He was already on his feet, staring down at her as though she were something foul dragged up from the river with her.
"What in the name of the Valar do you think you are doing?" he roared. "Do you take me for a fool?"
She tried to speak. Tried to explain. Tried to reach for him again.
That was when he lost what little restraint he had left.
"I trusted you," he shouted. "My father brought you into our house. Our family. And this—this farce, this disgrace—" His voice shook with rage. "I am your brother in all but blood! Have you no shame at all?"
Then the words that burned themselves into her memory.
"You dirty bitch."
They struck harder than the slap ever had.
She was sent away before dawn—no explanations offered, no arguments allowed. Lórien, they said. Time to reflect. Time to heal.
Banished.
She tried to understand it. She tried to arrange the pieces into something that resembled justice, or mercy, or even concern. But nothing fit. Still, she could not bring herself to hate them—not truly. Not even Legolas. What filled her instead was something far more corrosive: frustration. A relentless, gnawing frustration that hollowed her out from the inside, that clawed at her thoughts and left her restless, aching, undone.
And then—as if the Valar themselves had finally grown tired of her silent screaming—something unexpected answered her despair.
In the depths of the forest, in the black hush of her need, she found him.
Gollum.
A creature stripped of civility, unburdened by hesitation or restraint. Wild. Untamed. He was everything they were not.
He killed without pause, without reflection. There was no hand-wringing, no moral hesitation—only action. She watched him crush the little Hobbit heads with brutal efficiency, the sound dull and final, and felt her pulse surge. The strength in him was undeniable, rippling through every movement, every violent certainty. Even Legolas had never moved like that—never with such absolute conviction.
And those eyes.
That voice—raw with hunger and hatred, stripped bare of pretense. His long ears jutted sharply from his skull, his pale skin gleaming in the moonlight as if carved from bone and sinew. His body was all muscle and tension, power drawn tight beneath thin skin. His legs were thick as tree trunks, his frame a testament to something primal and unrefined—something that did not ask permission to exist.
And then there was the truth she could not deny, no matter how she tried to look away.
His raw masculinity was unmistakable—his heavy jewels, the thick, prominent length between his legs, impossible to ignore. Half-dressed, unashamed, his body flexed and shifted with each movement, and the sight of him ignited something buried deep inside her. Something that had never been named. Something that had never been allowed.
A sensation she had no language for.
Heat coiled low in her stomach, spreading outward, setting her nerves alight. Her legs trembled where she crouched, her breath caught, her heart hammering so loudly she was certain he must hear it. She bit her lip, hard, unable to tear her eyes away as hunger—sharp and unfamiliar—clawed its way to the surface, demanding to be acknowledged.
She did not understand what was happening to her. She had no experience to guide her, no words to frame the ache consuming her—but denial was impossible.
She wanted him.
Not gently. Not safely.
She wanted him with a need so fierce it drowned out everything else she had ever known.
Legolas no longer mattered. Nor the Elves of Lórien, with their quiet judgments and willful blindness. They had failed her. None of them had seen her—not her need, not her hunger, not the void gnawing at her soul.
But Gollum… twisted and strange as it was… felt like an answer.
He was raw. Unrefined. Untamed.
And that was exactly what she craved.
If the Elves would not give her what she needed, then she would take it elsewhere.
She would go to Gollum.
With a guttural grunt, Gollum burst from the lake, the cold water sheeting off him as his powerful legs drove him onto the grassy shore. The splash rang sharp in the night air. A fish was clenched between his teeth, its silver scales flashing beneath the moon as it writhed helplessly. His jaws closed, sharp teeth tearing into soft flesh with savage ease. With a violent wrench of his head, he ripped the fish open, spilling blood and slick entrails onto the darkened ground.
The creature thrashed once, gasping, its body jerking in futile resistance. Gollum did not slow. His teeth sank deeper, and with one decisive bite he severed the head entirely, swallowing it whole—bones, eyes, and all. His throat worked visibly, muscles bunching and rolling as he crushed and consumed what remained, leaving nothing behind but torn flesh and dark stains soaking into the earth.
He did not know he was being watched.
From the shadows, Tauriel crouched motionless, her breath catching painfully in her throat. One slender hand flew to her lips in stunned silence, while the other—without conscious thought—drifted lower, brushing her own mouth in a dazed, instinctive echo of what she was witnessing. She could not look away.
Gollum straightened, oblivious, flexing his arms as if by habit or instinct, muscle tightening beneath pale, water-slick skin. He dragged a hand through his long, wet hair, pushing it back from his face with a sharp, deliberate motion—like a performer claiming his stage. Tucking the half-eaten fish into a pocket beside the strange glowing stone, he turned and began to climb, bare feet biting into soil and stone as he moved toward the mountain.
He wore no shoes now. No shirt. Those things belonged to another life, long discarded. Moonlight traced the hard planes of his body, gleaming against skin still slick from the lake. He felt no chill—only a deep, unnatural warmth pulsing through him, radiating from within, as though something inside his veins burned hotter than blood.
Since taking the Ring, his body had changed.
There was a rhythm to him now—a relentless, driving force behind every step. His movements were purposeful, unyielding, fueled by a strength he did not question. His legs were thick and powerful, carrying him upward with ease, and the muscles of his back and hips shifted and tightened with every stride, a constant reminder of the force he now embodied.
He was no longer the broken thing he had once been.
He was something new.
Something hard.
Something that would not be denied.
And he reveled in it, striding forward without hesitation, unaware of the eyes tracing every movement, every flex, every claim of space he made without apology.
Tauriel remained hidden behind the dense brush, her body trembling as she watched him through the leaves. Awe widened her eyes, stealing her breath. She had never seen anything like him—never felt such raw, undeniable power radiate from another being. His form seemed alive with strength, each movement confident, untamed, utterly certain of itself.
As he left the mirrored waters of Mirrormere behind and moved toward the looming gates of Moria, he looked—impossibly—to her like a king ascending toward his throne. A ruler carved from stone and shadow, destined to claim what lay ahead.
Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, so loud she feared it would betray her. Her legs weakened beneath her, heat flooding her face as she watched him go. She wanted to call out. To step forward. To be seen.
To be near him.
But she could not move.
Shy, untested, overwhelmed by the magnitude of him, she remained frozen in place. Her knees buckled, and she clutched the bush for balance, breath shallow, skin flushed with a mixture of longing and embarrassment she did not yet know how to name.
Still she watched.
Like a timid lover hiding in shadow, she followed his retreating form with her eyes as he grew smaller in the distance—though to her, he remained enormous. Terrifying. Magnetic. A creature that seemed meant to conquer worlds… and perhaps, if fate allowed, her heart as well.
She did not look away.
She could not.
And as his footsteps faded into the dark, one truth settled unshakably within her:
She would follow him.
No matter where he went.