Disclaimer: I am not J.R.R. Tolkien, Peter Jackson nor any of their associates. All recognisable content belongs to them, I simply like to toy with the established ideas for my own amusement.

Author's Note: I am basing this story off the impressions and ideas drawn from The Lord of the Rings movies, The Hobbit movies, The One Wiki To Rule Them All website, the Tolkien Gateway website and my own creative liberties and musings (but not Tolkien's books). I have utilised Google Translate for Croatian (which I found aesthetically pleasing for the language of Harad in this story), the RealElvish website for Sindarin, and Khuzdul–Eldamo and The Dwarrow Scholar websites for Khuzdul.

For the sake of this story, please ignore the very end of The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King movie – Gandalf, the Elves, Bilbo and Frodo do not board the ship for the Undying Lands but rather remain in Middle Earth. Everything before that point, however, does apply. This story takes place after the One Ring's destruction in Return of the King.

The translations from Croatian/Sindarin/Khuzdul to English will be provided at the end of the story.

Please enjoy and thank you for reading!

Echuia – Istonor: Awaken – Male teacher/Knowledge giver

The Silvan elves of Greenwood the Great were captivating creatures. Gandalf had spent many years amongst them, yet still their bewitching presence could not be overlooked even to his experienced eyes. Unlike their warmer dark-haired brethren, they depicted a cold and brutal blonde beauty as enticing as it was glacial and not nearly as approachable upon sight as the sociable elves of Imladris, nor as purely refreshing as the Silvan elves of Lothlórien, but no less beautiful. Like the setting of the sun, their presence promised warmth and light but from the greyness of a dawning darkness – unrelenting, unattainable, and most certainly unforgettable. If the elves of Imladris depicted the warmth of summer, and the elves of Lothlórien depicted the ethereality of the moon, then the elves of Greenwood most certainly depicted the impending winter – the excitement of a changed season, the anticipation of the first snow and the uneasiness of all that such a freezing, inhospitable season entailed. The Greenwood elves were unforgiving and uncontrollable, but no less lovely in their ferocity.

Much like its inhabitants, the Kingdom's forest was awe-inspiring. Ancient hemlock and pine stood proud, held strong and firm in the soil by roots as broad and deep as a dwarven warrior's chest. They twisted and twirled in a mixture of mahogany-brown trunks and yellow-orange fruits and emerald-green leaves, branches interwoven like the arms of woodland lovers and leaves whispering secrets on the dancing wind. They grew tall but bore branches even low to the earth, providing winding steps and secret stairs and peculiar paths for those which knew where to look, and an endlessly confusing maze for those unwelcome or unfamiliar. Such was the interwoven haven that to be submerged in such a land was to exist in an entirely different world, sheltered from the burning heat of summer and icy cold of winter as daylight dimmed and darkness softened, the ground lit by dappled light filtering through the leaves high above. Where the trees of Lothlórien grew tall and lean, and those of Imladris swayed sweetly in the gentlest breeze, the trees of Greenwood did not bow nor thin. Where the trees of other lands waxed and waned with the passing of the seasons, blooming bright and then shedding leaves to stand like fleshless skeletons in the depths of winter, the forest of Greenwood did not change. Much like the Kingdom's namesake, these trees remained great and green and untouched. Evergreen they had been called and evergreen they would continue to be.

Much like these everlasting trees, the longstanding Forest Path remained overgrown by wild greenery, untamed even during the height of travel. It settled a thought in Gandalf's mind, as he passed between spots of light and dark and blends of grey, that such a path depicted well the Realm's multifaceted history. For there had been a time when even the great, untouchable Greenwood the Great had been changed. A time when a powerful darkness reigned, a silent and unstoppable foe which seeped deep into the very earth of the forest, poisoning the land from its heart. The trees had grown weary, the vegetation had thinned and the animals had cowered in fear. Darkness had clung to the leaves and paths of this mighty Kingdom even during the height of day, where the Children of Ungoliant had spread and spun their vile webs. These giant spiders of evil and the venom they harbored had sullied the land with an ever-constant feel of death and despair, and so the elves of the great Woodland Realm had watched as their land became but a shadow of its former glory. Disquiet had spread like a disease through the trees, a low and weary humming growing in intensity the further the shadows spread – the ancient voice of the forest as it mourned the loss of all that was joyful and pure. It spoke in whispers of the formidable darkness to have taken root in the heart of the forest, of an unstoppable poison stalking freely through the land – and yet, the elves still believed there were hidden beauties within their Realm, splendors worth fighting for, no matter how haunting it had become. Only beyond its borders, where the sharp ears of its inhabitants could not hear, did the worshipful whispers of Greenwood change to the horrible hissings of Mirkwood, as the Realm became a gloomy and menacing mark on the land.

But the darkness which had suffocated this forest, a darkness which had touched all of Arda, was no longer. The spawn of Ungoliant which poisoned the forest with their alliance to Sauron were no more, their terrible webs imprisoning innocent victims having deteriorated to dust many moons ago. The forest was alive and free and thriving once more, the trees whispering words of joy and health a stark contrast to their fearful murmurings of darkness past.

The Kingdom had reclaimed its former glory and with it, its willful pride. Gandalf knew, while less wise than their kin of Lothlórien and less generous than their kin of Imladris, the elves of Greenwood were no less powerful. They were a cold and wild folk as fierce as a raging winter storm and they moved with a silent, predatory grace Gandalf had only ever seen in the large lounging felines stalking the dark jungles of Far Harad. Sjena mačka the Haradrim called them, both adoring and fearful in their whisperings for such felines were no trivial threat. Beautiful, treacherous and solitary, they embodied the stealth of the night in coats as dark and gleaming as naragbuzraban – the obsidian stone admired among the Dwarven Kingdoms – with steps as light as the silently shifting sands of a desolate desert, armed with claws and teeth as violently-sharp as the Mountains of Shadow. Sjena mačka reminded Gandalf of the elves of Greenwood, for despite their pale hair and radiant skin they possessed the same grace, the same stealth and untamed ferocity, the same mystery and underlying danger of sheathed claws in the deceptive strength of their lean bodies and precise movements when wielding weapons of war.

Gandalf admired all the Races of Arda, truly – the brash and hardy battle strategy of the Dwarves so very much like the unpolished uthakmesem and dezeb they coveted deep in their mountains, the cheerfully small and neat footwork vital to that of a proper Hobbit dance, the reckless yet admirable fight for valor and glory characteristic of the short lives of Man, and the dauntingly flawless mastery of everything and anything the Elves did as only a life of immortality could provide. Indeed, Gandalf had admired the skillful, elegant mastery Legolas Greenleaf had displayed when fighting their many battles during the Reclaim of Erebor and, later, the Fellowship Quest. In part, that was why he was here.

During Bilbo's time, the young Prince had been as prideful and willful as his father but lacking in the experience and wisdom the Kingdom required of its heir. Thranduil's direction for his son to find the Dúnedain and, by extension, Aragorn, had been one of the wisest decisions Gandalf knew the Elvenking to have made, for by the time of Frodo the Prince had learned the importance of confidence balanced by humility and a warrior mindset balanced by a compassionate heart to become one of the best soldiers, friends and leaders worthy of Greenwood the Great. He would be a great King when his time came, Gandalf knew.

The direction for his son, his Prince, to depart for the Dúnedain had also been one of the most selfless decisions the Elvenking had made. Dissention had existed between father and son long before the Battle of the Five Armies, steeped in pride and seethed by distrust and swelled with betrayal, for the hearts of Greenwood's Silvan elves were strong and ancient and profoundly complex. They loved once, they loved fiercely, and they did not love again. The love between noss was no less fierce than the love between herven and herves but, as Gandalf had quietly come to learn, the enmity between all three was also not uncommon. Gandalf had witnessed such heartbreak between King and Prince, father and son, when Thranduil banished the young Silvan elf Tauriel, whom had captured but did not reciprocate the heart of the Woodland Prince. Gandalf watched as Legolas defied his father, as fierce and lethal in his heart as in his battles, and watched as Thranduil allowed his son to leave whilst he remained ever loyal and ever cold in his Woodland Kingdom. At the closure of Erebor's Battle, when many lay dead and dying and mixed blood watered the war-torn soil, Gandalf had admired Thranduil's direction for his son to seek out the Dúnedain, to learn and grow and heal with the friendship of Aragorn when the Elvenking could have easily demanded his son return to their Kingdom, to demand the allegiance and obedience and loyalty of the Prince of the Woodland Realm. But the hearts of Greenwood's Silvan elves were strong and ancient and profoundly complex – even the Elvenking, whose compassion had broken and faded with the loss of his herves still held strong to the love of his iôn, for the duty to his son had been stronger than the duty to his Kingdom in that moment.

The Elvenking of the Woodland Realm was a most prideful creature, Gandalf knew. Quick to anger, quick to judge and quick to resent, he possessed mercurial moods as fiery and fierce as the flames which had taken his father, flames which had permanently scarred his body and mind and soul. Gandalf understood and respected the Elvenking, for all that he was difficult to deal with at the best of times, but the wizened wizard believed it now time to break certain habits of old. It was not usually his place, nor his inclination, to interfere in the privacy of the elves – or any race, for that matter – but Gandalf believed it was time the Elvenking listened to something other than his own ego. Prideful and most certainly wise the Elvenking was, but tolerance and benevolence were things he had long since forgotten, things which Gandalf would happily remind him of now. It was the very least the Istar could do for how much Legolas Greenleaf had sacrificed during the Fellowship Quest.

Gandalf knew the love of the elves was long and deep, and a positive word from a powerful wizard could only serve to benefit the Prince. Gandalf was proud of Legolas and knew Thranduil was also, but the wizard also knew the Elvenking held long and hard onto old wounds. Wounds of betrayal which, perhaps, had not healed since the Reclaim of Erebor – and so Gandalf, in his ever-cryptic ways, wished to set right old wrongs, help heal old wounds and witness the purest of loves that only the elves, even those of the reclusive Woodland Realm, could possess. It was finally time father and son forgave their betrayals, honoured their sacrifices and rejoiced in their conquests.

Many called Gandalf a meddling sort of wizard, and so a meddling sort of wizard he would be. They were, after all, now in a time of peace and prosperity and finally, truly, rid of the Darkness of Mordor.

His presence in their Woodland Realm would have been announced as soon as he passed the threshold of open plain to dense forestry, Gandalf knew. The trees, like silent stealthy sentinels, whispered in their ancient tongue, spreading word of the Istar's presence to the Woodland King on his Antler Throne in Halls carved of wood and stone long before Gandalf would reach the heart of the forest. The White Wizard could sense the life returned to this land, the sentience of each shifting leaf and the pulsing beneath his feet, of soil which was as thriving and perceptive as the roots which called it home and the branches which sheltered overhead. It was a rhythmic pulse – steady, strong, unfaltering – flowing like lifeblood throughout the land, originating from the heart held in the Woodland Antler Throne. Just as Gandalf could sense such life, he knew the Woodland King could sense his own arrival. The old wizard would not be walking alone for long.

*~~~* Echuia – Istonor *~~~*

It was just shy of an hour when he felt the eyes, a sensation he had become accustomed to throughout his many years in Arda for not only could he identify the sensation, he could also identify the intent. The eyes on him now were watchful but not wicked, they were peaceful and curious and, dare he say, delighted by the wizard's presence. He was amongst friends in this Realm and so he continued forward unperturbed as figures followed in the branches above. The Elves were a superiorly stealthy race rivalled only by that of the light-footed Hobbits, able to travel the treetops in absolute silence and near invisibility. If the Istar did not know better he would have likened them to Wraiths – wholly present but wholly indiscernible, at least to weaker eyes – but Gandalf, for all his appearance as a weary and weakened old man, possessed a deceptive strength in his body and sharpness in his eyes befitting of a form much younger than he appeared.

He possessed eyes which could pierce through darkness and beyond, peering far into the realm of the Wraiths and all they entailed. This was why, despite not hearing their approach nor feeling their disturbance in the air, the wizard could glimpse the tell-tale subtle shifting of greens and browns in the branches above, the clothing of the Woodland Elves accompanied by the gleam of their golden hair. Like ghosts, they leaped and weaved and danced between the trees with not a sound to be made, and what a stark contrast their welcome was. If he were within the borders of Imladris the elves would have emerged slowly from the trees with warm smiles and welcoming words, if he were within the borders of Lothlórien the elves would have appeared peacefully but abruptly like a refreshing strike to the senses and a call to alertness. However, he was not within such borders.

Those who called Greenwood home tracked him through the trees but did not expose themselves. They stalked from high above, reminiscent of the predatory felines of Far Harad Gandalf likened them to, watchful and curious but reserved. It was not a kind-hearted greeting party like Imladris, nor a serenely guiding parade like Lothlórien; it was a silent and subtle warrior's procession designed to observe and protect him from harm, ever watchful and ever ready to the vigilance of their King. It was their own unique welcome in their wild woodland way.

And so, Gandalf continued forward in the dappled daylight between ancient evergreens, keen eyes spying the shifting shapes up above and sensing the pulsing earthly energy beneath his feet as he traversed the Woodland Kingdom, which was very much alive and very much welcoming in its own elusive way.

*~~~* Echuia – Istonor *~~~*

The Elvenking's Halls were, much like the Silvan elves and Greenwood Forest, a most bewitching sight. It was a cave system which tunnelled through the earth, crafted from wood and stone with a skill even the proudest of Dwarves could admire, and larger than even the great Goblin-Town deep below the Misty Mountains. The pale grey of the stone gave the Halls a vast and bright bearing, where if it were of a darker tone could have settled like a weighted prison around those who dwelled. The giant roots of ancient evergreens wove their way in and around the smooth stone, anchoring as much as they were being anchored. The interplay between light-grey and mahogany-brown was a stunning sight, intertwining gracefully from the cave ceiling and twirling down to a single, fine midpoint to which all paths led. From afar this fine midpoint appeared as a small brown spot, as if the stone and roots were bleeding from the ceiling and congealing down to the smallest of spots. It was only when one drew closer, did they realise their mistake in such an observation.

The fine midpoint was not the end, but rather the beginning of this Kingdom. It was the origin point from which all else grew for it was not a mere dot but rather the great Antler Throne of the Woodland Realm, formed by tree trunks and hardy roots and earthy stone to honour the mighty Elk symbolic of all Greenwood's wildlife. This Throne was the very heart of the forest, connected to all living things within its Realm. From it the roots and stone did not condense down but rather spread out, travelling veins of earthly energy to the soil and trees and life above. Despite these subterranean surroundings, the Halls had never felt isolated from the open forest for the Kingdom and Greenwood morphed seamlessly into one. One living, breathing organism of which the Silvan elves cherished and protected, and it was for this reason that the elves could live concealed from the stars and open skies, for they were never truly locked away from the Realm's energy transference like the Dwarven Kingdoms carved deep underground.

As Gandalf drew closer, respectfully greeting those he passed in the Sindarin dialect, the Istar saw the figure seated gracefully upon the Antler Throne. Quiet and watchful, the Silvan elf observed the great Hall with a piercing blue gaze void of Master Elrond's warmth or Lady Galadriel's compassion. It was the gaze of an eternal warrior King, a soul which had experienced the trials of time – the agony of a heart scarred by the loss of father and wife, the wisdom of a mind confronted by many fearsome foes and the willpower of a spirit which survived wounds born from the hatred and greed in dragon fire. He wore robes of a light grey, near-silver in the way they glistened against the pale grey stone, and an earthly crown woven from branches budding royal-purple berries and blood-red leaves to match the current season. Fair hair which gleamed like cold moonlight against skin as white as winter snow spilled across wide shoulders, sweeping down a form both tall and slender in stature. The lean lines of his body concealed the superior strength and agility found in all elves as he lounged upon the Throne with casual grace. For all his steely and silent bearing, however, he could not conceal the regal refinement and powerful presence of his royal bloodline, for this elf was the mighty Thranduil of Greenwood the Great, the Elvenking of the Woodland Realm.

Thranduil watched in stoic stillness as Gandalf drew near, only the icy blue of his gaze moving to track the Istar's approach and yet, despite his aloof bearing he appeared entirely peaceable, passively observing his visitor's advance with not an ounce of defensiveness. To Gandalf, he had never looked more like the elusive Sjena mačka of Far Harad than in that moment, lounging upon his Throne as they lounged upon their hidden branches, overseeing the land in which they ruled – a secretive concealment of the wild and fierce nature of Greenwood's Silvan elves in the stillness of sheathed claws and unseen fangs. Such a presence provoked a feeling of ever-present danger which loomed like a shadow in the back of one's mind, shivering caution and unrest along one's skin even without the overt threat of violence. It was an entirely instinctual reaction to an anciently lethal predator for the Elves, despite their alluring beauty, were inherently dangerous. Gandalf had long since accepted and adapted to such intuitive reactions when in their presence but was reminded of such when observing those who interacted with Elves for their first time. The Istar had long come to realise that Middle Earth's most lethal predators were often also the loveliest.

Slowing to a halt with a gentle swish of his robes, leaning against his Staff as if he were the old man he appeared and not the powerful White Wizard he was, Gandalf smiled serenely at the King upon his Throne. As he stood before the stone platform which raised the Throne above all visitors, he tilted his head back to meet the Elvenking's intense gaze before dipping into a brief, shallow bow appropriate for one of his standing. A King, Gandalf may not be, but the powerful White Wizard deserving of great esteem, he certainly was. He bowed out of respect and not subservience, raising himself back to standing without the requirement of the King's command and glimpsing the knowing gleam to race through Thranduil's eyes. He was pleased to find the Elvenking humbled, if only slightly by his presence, clear in the way he did not command Gandalf as he habitually did so many others. Rather, the Elvenking stood from his Throne and descended gracefully to the level on which Gandalf stood, approach reminiscent of a large feline prowling from their lofty perch, before bowing his regal head in a show of respect that he awarded very few and believed even less to be deserving of. Gandalf understood the gesture for what it was: the Elvenking was declaring them as equals in his own Kingdom. It was a gesture he would never have witnessed before the One Ring's destruction but, much like the others involved in the Fellowship, their saving of Middle Earth and the Destruction of Darkness had awarded them great reverence amongst all.

"Le nathlof hi, Mithrandir. I mâr nîn i mâr lîn." Thranduil's voice was sonorous, seeming to rise from the very depths of the elven Kingdom and echoing the sentiment of all as he greeted Gandalf and welcomed the wizard into his Kingdom and home.

"Le suilon, Elvenking Thranduil. Le fael." much like the Dwarves, Elven customs were steeped deeply in tradition, their many forms of formal and informal greeting long since familiar to Gandalf. Yet where the Istar greeted Elrond as a friend and Galadriel as a confidant, there had always existed a level of distance from Thranduil. Unlike his son Legolas, the Elvenking remained deeply removed from all but his closest kin, concealing his heart in the depths of Greenwood's Halls. He wished to appear untouchable and unreadable to all but his son, and so untouchable and unreadable he became. Gandalf understood this and therefore never addressed Thranduil as anything other than a distant acquaintance, a King.

It appeared, however, that his expectations were to change when Thranduil stated, "Le a vellyn. Pedathab hi sui vellyn."

Equal amounts delighted and surprised, Gandalf briefly bowed his head, subconsciously switching to Westron in his shock, "A privilege." As startled as he was by this change, he was honored by what the Elvenking was now proposing: the progression from distant allies to something like friends. He understood this decision was, in no small part, due to his companionship with the Woodland Prince and the return of peace to Arda. When he raised his eyes once more to regard Thranduil, the elf was as stoic as always but the slightest upward curve to the corner of his mouth belied his deeper thoughts – he had seen and understood Gandalf's surprise and was amused by it.

"What brings you to my Halls now, Mithrandir?" Despite his earlier declaration, Thranduil's tone remained focused on the duties and protections of his Kingdom. Their past interactions had always been out of necessity during times of war and hardship, never peace. It was only natural for the Elvenking to assume something foul was afoot.

"Nothing to do with Dwarves, Hobbits, Men or Rings, if that is your concern."

"Yet conflict is still a possibility." sharp ears detected what was left unsaid. Quick were the minds of the elves and, despite how fond the Istari were of riddles and vague statements, Thranduil's perception had always been exacting when it came to Gandalf. The wizard huffed another breath.

"I wish to congratulate you on your son, Prince Legolas," he began, watching the stoic silence of the Woodland King overwhelm the subtle mirth of earlier, "He has proven himself to be a fine warrior, leader and friend with a strong heart and steady hand, and fought bravely in all the battles he faced. He has learnt much and, I believe, shall soon be ready to return home from Gondor. He has proven himself worthy of Greenwood the Great, regardless of his impulsive actions decades past." Despite the impenetrable facade upon Thranduil, Gandalf was old and wise and accustomed to the subtleties of the elves, and so he saw the flash of love-pride-pain behind those icy eyes. "Surely, the hurts of old should not hold shadows over the joys of now."

Gandalf watched the amiable welcome of earlier shift toward barbed suspicion. Such were the mercurial moods of the Elvenking: quick to warm and quick to cool, a backlashing of emotional display which even Elrond had found trying on his eternal patience and generosity. Equals and perhaps friends, Thranduil may have declared them earlier, but they were not beyond conflict borne from pride.

"It is unlike you to immerse yourself in the personal matters of others, Mithrandir. I was unaware the private lives of the Elves were part of your infernal trickery. Have you grown bored in your purposeless wanderings now?"

Age and experience had awarded Gandalf with the patience to withstand Thranduil's sharp words and the courage to face his wrath when many others had fled. The Istar calmly acknowledged the spiteful glint in brutal blue eyes and the vicious flash of bared teeth, much like the menacing throaty rumbles of Sjena mačka before they attacked. He was sharply reminded of the wild predatory nature of the Greenwood elves, but the Istar had not navigated Arda for thousands of years, had not immersed himself in the many Races and their intricate cultures, had not rejoiced and mourned and bled alongside all others, only to be cowed by the fierce Elvenking in a long-overdue time of peace. And so, he held Thranduil's challenging gaze with indifference, as if the King's impending wrath were a tickle to the senses.

The snarl on the Elvenking's face only grew at such resistance. "Take care where you step, White Wizard. Even the Ainur have their boundaries. You should not enter where you are not welcome."

"I have been called a meddling wizard before, and so a meddling wizard I shall be." Gandalf calmly dismissed, soldiering on with his original intent, "You must learn to forgive Le–"

"For one who has never born children himself, you seem profoundly wise in an area for which you have no experience. The wisdom of the White Wizard is indeed immense!" the complimentary words were pierced by a tone so sharp it could only be considered mocking. Thranduil turned his back on the Istar, as dismissive in this gesture as he was to those not considered worthy of his Kingdom. Such was the prickly defensiveness of the Woodland Realm and the strategic elusiveness of its Elvenking, for if Thranduil did not wish to address certain matters then he resorted to biting truths and barbed insults in the hopes his opponent would forfeit and retreat. But Gandalf was not so easily defeated.

"Indeed, our mistakes can be haunting, but they can also be powerful lessons. There are not always enemies and shadows wherever you look." Gandalf paused a moment to allow his words to settle, aware Thranduil only allowed him to freely speak his mind due to his efforts in saving Arda. While not one to be swayed by recognition or glory, Gandalf understood their advantages when dealing with prideful Kings and so he would use such to his advantage now. "You must learn to forgive not only your son but also yourself."

"There is nothing to forgive."

"You are no fool, Thranduil, but denial is the highest folly. You cannot continue to bury yourself alive in this forest and allow the passage of time to take care of your foes for you. Time will not win against this enemy!" Rarely did Gandalf raise his voice and even rarer was it toward the elves. His voice rang stridently through the Halls now as the Elvenking's expression began to darken, his shift in mood reminding Gandalf of how Greenwood had once darkened to Mirkwood, when the shadows had settled suffocatingly thick over the once vibrant forest. Thranduil had sealed himself away in his Halls once before and, if Gandalf were not careful, he would do so again. The absence of darkness and terror could not heal the wounds that poisonous shadows, full of ill and foul creatures, had already made. Despite the returned peace in Arda the Greenwood Elves remained wary and suspicious, hoarding their freedom much like a dragon hoarded gold. It would not take much to send them back to their isolated ways.

"You offer advice to a King when you have no Kingdom of your own? Meddling indeed. Perhaps I shall call you Mithrandir the Meddlesome."

Perhaps, Gandalf mused, he deserved that barbed insult, if not for the truth than in retaliation to his own harsh words. He was no King and he never would be, but time and experience had made him privy to the affairs of Kingdoms. He did not need a crown to caution a King, but that did not mean he could not caution them with respect.

With a sigh to calm him own temper, he continued gently, "I understand the passage of time, as do you. I have learned of its pains and pleasures, and I caution you against your current path."

"You know nothing of my current path." while no less vicious, Thranduil's expression had lightened from its previous darkness in recognition of Gandalf's changed demeanour. The Elvenking would allow Gandalf to speak, but that did not mean he would listen.

"I know that in time, your wounds will fester much like the poison from a Morgul-blade. Your heart, your soul, will Fade. Only healing Light can counter the coldness and darkness of the Wraith, just as only love can counter hate. You have soured long enough in your Kingdom, on your Throne. Now, you must extract the poison."

"There is no poison, Mithrandir. Your words are pretty but pointless."

"Very well."

…Very well? Thranduil stared in sudden exasperated confusion, puzzled by Gandalf's response. Was the wizard abruptly and unexpectedly conceding? Was he finally accepting defeat? Or had the King unwittingly fallen into one of the many ploys Mithrandir was so very fond of playing? For once unable to properly discern the meaning behind the Istar's riddled ramblings, he stared in silence as the White Wizard nodded his head and mumbled nonsensically beneath his breath. Even the sharp elven ears of the Elvenking could not always understand the words of wizards.

When next Gandalf spoke, it was with a sly sparkle in his eyes and a merry curve to his mouth reminiscent of so many years ago, when he spoke to a most Humble and Proper Baggins of Bag End with hands soft and belly full and eyes bright, uncomprehending of the looming dwarves and dragon and death. Thranduil felt suddenly wrongfooted, as if he had missed the final step when descending from his Antler Throne and left to stumble in unexpected weightlessness. Where would this fall land him, he wondered, and once more viciously cursed the wizards for their meddlesome ways.

All the while, leaning calmly against his Wizard Staff, eyes powerfully bright and anciently sharp – disconcertingly reminding Thranduil of the Great Eagles of Manwë – Mithrandir stated, "That settles it, then. It will be very good for you, and most amusing for me. I will inform the others."

*~~~* Echuia – Istonor *~~~*

Translations

Croatian (Harad)

Sjena mačka – Shadow Cat

Khuzdul (Dwarves)

naragbuzraban – black onyx (black-deep-stone)

uthakmesem – uncut gem (miner-jewel)

dezeb – diamond

Sindarin (Elves)

Echuia – Awaken

Istonor – Male teacher/Knowledge giver

noss – family

herven – husband

herves – wife

iôn – son

Le nathlof hi, Mithrandir. I mâr nîn i mâr lîn – We welcome you here, Mithrandir. My home is your home (Formal)

Le suilon, Elvenking Thranduil. Le fael – I greet you, Elvenking Thranduil. Thank you/You are generous (Formal)

Le a vellyn. Pedathab hi sui vellyn – You are with friends (Formal). We will speak now as friends

Miscellaneous

Istar – Wizard

Istari – Wizards

Ainur – Holy Ones (encompassing the Valar and Maiar)