Chapter 2: Dangerous Plans

A week later found the royal couple strolling in the gardens. The queen's voice sparkled like a brook over fresh stones: "I am eternally grateful to you for the gardens and glades that your power preserves for us. They are an oasis in the corruption that encroaches upon our forest."

"Thank you for your charming thought, and for the amusement of it, too," her husband's warmth was as a summer shower "'Eternally grateful.' How else might one feel, I wonder? 'Temporally grateful'?" He cocked a glance at her. "Or could it be that you have been reading Mannish tales? 'Eternally grateful' is their phrase, though I have failed to understand what they mean by it. What of theirs can be eternal?"

"I have never considered the question, my lord," she smiled across at him. "But yes, I have been reading tales from Laketown. They are a charming people. It is a pity they are so impoverished and oppressed under the threat of the dragon."

"You know how greatly we help them. We have been their primary trading partner since that monster destroyed their economy, and our metalwork, which they sell eastward, gives them a fair profit as well."

"Yes, we have no competition in metals now that the dwarves are gone from Erebor."

"We had no competition then, either. When dwarves were here, working metal and gems, we dealt rather in medicines and perfumery. But you remember those days better than I," he insisted.

"Yes, I much enjoyed designing fragrances and directing the work in the perfume shop. But there are no customers for such things, now. Dale is gone, Esgaroth is too poor, and there is no more traffic down the river to Gondor."

"Unfortunately, there is less from year to year. The shadow south of Mirkwood becomes fell, indeed."

"How goes the shadow in the north of Mirkwood?"

"What do you mean?"

"I am thinking of those dwarves on the road. Is the forest 'dealing' with them, as you told our fair guard?"

"No, not much yet. They are actually holding up rather well, though they are also holding up one of their number, and the heaviest, too! He fell into the Forest River, and to their credit, they did not abandon him, though it slows their progress, which is risking their provisions."

"Did you find out their errand?"

"Yes, my love. We guessed well. It is Thorin, Thrains's son - can you believe? - with a small company. He has not been in these parts for 170 years! And he is indeed making for Erebor! Can you imagine: he hopes to win it back and oust the dragon! I do not know what has possessed him, but I can only guess it to be gold-fever. Sanity does not lead that way."

"No, I suppose not. How many dwarves has he with him?"

"Twelve, thirteen with himself – oh, and they are traveling with a perian!"

"A perian?! One of those charming people who used to live down the Great River, near the Gladden?"

"Yes, one of the very same."

"Why, it has been almost two thousand years since any periannath were seen this side of the mountains! So some still live? I used to wonder what had happened to them; I thought that perhaps they had all been preyed by orcs. They were a resilient people, but not strong."

"They were indeed preyed upon, until the remainder fled westward, over the mountains, into Eriador. But of what became of them since, I have given no heed."

"I wonder how they have fared? Does this one seem to have folk somewhere, or is he a lone wanderer? And how did he come to join the dwarves?"

"You can ask these questions of our pert elleth guard. She has taken an exceeding interest in our trespassers and is providing reports daily, now that they are nearer. But I have not questioned her much on the perian; my concern is the dwarves. They will soon reach the end of the road, and when they find it blocked, they will have to turn off it, and then either the spiders will get them or we will have to invite them here."

"That will be a diverting change for our folk; hosting dwarves! Not only Legolas will enjoy having something new to occupy him."

"I did not say that I intended to host them."

"What then? Let them be eaten by the spiders?!" The queen stopped and looked at him.

"That might not be the worst outcome," Thranduil replied, looking away.

"What on earth might you be thinking?!" She steadied herself, placing a hand on a beech.

"I am not thinking of leaving them to die, but I have yet to find a solution that serves. If we accept them, they will proceed to Erebor; I do not see how we can prevent it. But there, they will accomplish nothing but to wake the dragon, who will surely want to take a stretch to his wings. On his first tour of the neighborhood, he will discover that Esgaroth has been rebuilt while he slept, recall all his old grievances, and directly burn down the entire town."

"No!"

"Yes."

"But, what can we do?"

"That is exactly what I do not know. If there was a chance of the dwarves killing Smaug, that would be different. But none of our eavesdropping scouts – the more reliable ones, I mean – has heard a slightest word about their having a plan for killing him. They want to get in, rescue some treasure, and there their plans end. It is most peculiar. Even for dwarves it is irrational."

"Maybe our scouts misunderstand them? How indeed do they comprehend their speech?"

"In this we have the fortune of their perian. They treat him as a full member of their company, and in consideration, speak even to each other in Westron. It is a wonder at their manners, but however that may be, we would otherwise be more in the dark."

"Not all our guards are fluent in Westron," she tried.

"My dear," he said sympathetically, "we choose which guards to send as scouts."

The queen released the tree and stood silent, looking down at the grass, sprinkled with blue forget-me-nots. Finally, she looked up. "So you are quite sure of their aims."

"Yes, and of their lack of method. And more, of their unswayable determination."

"Perhaps you can offer to aid them? Then you could ensure that Smaug was either left sleeping or killed?"

"Dearest, if we could kill Smaug, we would have done so centuries ago. And if we could persuade dwarves and other people to let sleeping dragons lie, many sad tales of Middle Earth would have resolved differently ere now."

"So what do you plan to do?"

"I plan to think about it."

[Author's Notes: I'm not going to be naming Thranduils's queen. Unlike the typical OC, this character obviously actually existed, we just don't know her name. So in respect to canon, I'm not going to insert a "fictional" name. True, I'm inserting all sorts of words into her mouth, but they might well be a good guess at what could have happened. Whereas any name I come up with will have zero chance of being close, so I'm bowing out of making one up.]