Author's Note: Heya guys, a bunch of my exams are through and I just received a message that I passed one with flying colours, so ... I'm happy, and I'm writing again, so have this as a thank you for your support!

Enjoy!


Moss green/Mud brown

Thranduil knew he was being followed.

It was a silly thought, really – New York was a huge city, and millions of people lived here. He shouldn't even have noticed the man among the crowd that surrounded them as soon as he left Central Park. But he did, and the man followed him. It took Thranduil a little while until he got a glimpse at him in a reflection of one of the large glass facades, clad in a much too large coat, torn jeans and heavy boots. He was clutching something to his chest, but before Thranduil could see it properly, he bumped into someone and he had to concentrate on his path again.

He reached the station where usually took the subway, and while he walked down the stairs he thought that his pursuer – damn, that sounded like one of those spy-movies – would certainly lose him, once he vanished in the madness of New York's underground. He cursed his curiosity and waited for a few seconds, until he saw the man, standing a bit helpless and maybe even disappointed at the base of the stairs. Before he could catch Thranduil staring at him, Thranduil pulled out his phone, acting like he was texting someone, and then slowly began to walk, making sure the man could see and follow him. For a few seconds Thranduil thought about how stupid this was. Allowing a stranger to tail him? Was he mad? But there was something, a gut feeling that told him he would rue this day forever, should he lose this man in the crowd. At first he thought the man was waiting for an opportunity to ambush him, but he always kept his distance. So why follow him? Why follow him?

There was no way he could check if the man was still behind him, but again, a feeling told him he was, and Thranduil thought about what to do next. The man had looked a bit like a homeless person, maybe he didn't have enough money to use the underground. What if he couldn't follow him anymore? Thranduil cursed silently, but there was no going back now. He entered the station and stood waiting on the platform.

Seconds passed, people flooded in, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Thranduil felt his heart beat in his throat – he'd lost him. Maybe this was as far as he wanted to go, maybe this was as far as he could go, being homeless and all. No, he was making assumptions again, and that wouldn't-… There! A mud brown coat, ruffled black hair and searching – blue? But not the same shade of blue as Thranduil's, almost grey – eyes. Thranduil quickly averted his gaze, trying to look bored or at least indifferent, but he had to wipe his sweaty palms on this own – green, moss green – coat. Why was he nervous? This was stupid, typically him, getting into situations like this, what was he thinking?

The train rushed past him, roaring, wiping out his thoughts and picking up loose strands of hair, swirling them around like dry autumn leaves. He felt his breath quickening. This was a critical moment. If the man lost him – or he lost the man, he didn't know the difference anymore – then there was no hope of ever knowing why he was following him. It would all remain a mystery. And that thought almost made him panic – breathe, Thranduil, breathe – he almost got pushed away by the crowd, but in the end he managed to get in, maybe with a few elbow-stabs and shoves more than usual.

In the confusion he had lost sight of the man, and when the train moved again, for a short second he was certain he'd lost him. But when he caught a glimpse of mud brown, just to his right, he almost laughed in relief.

Train noise rattled in his ears, shaking his trembling mind. Someone stabbed his elbow into his ribs and he rubbed the sore spot afterwards. Occasionally he questioned his decision to move to New York, but hey, it made his job so much easier, so in the end it had always been a reasonable choice. Even if it meant that he had to suffer crowds and just people in general.

With a sigh he peered through the gap between two bodies and studied his pursuer's face. The man looked uncertain and slightly agitated. Maybe he was questioning his choices too, Thranduil mused. Whatever his reasons though, they had to be pretty convincing, because he didn't budge and didn't waver. It made Thranduil all the more curious.

When the cool female voice announced his station, Thranduil gently made his way towards one of the exits. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the man preparing himself to do the same by tucking his package – a large, brown envelope – under his left arm and gently nudging a woman to the side, so he could walk past her.

As soon as he was out of the train, Thranduil realised that it was probably a bad idea to lead the man to his apartment. Damn, he should have thought about that earlier. He felt another surge of alarm flood over him, and nervously fingered his phone in the pocket of his coat. There were almost no options left, unless …

Thranduil stopped at the exit and turned around, immediately fixating his gaze on the man. He walked a few more steps until he looked up and caught Thranduil staring, which made him jerk to a halt.

"Why are you following me?"

The man's eyes widened and he clutched his bundle tighter.

"I'm sorry, I-…"

"Tell me why I shouldn't call the police right now," Thranduil threatened and pulled out his phone.

"I-I was just …" He swallowed hard and blinked nervously. "I'm a painter," he spluttered eventually.

"What?" Thranduil froze and stared incredulously.

"I'm a painter," the man repeated, straightening himself. "I saw you, and … I don't know … God, this sounds crazy … I want to paint you. I did some sketches, but I wanted to ask … for permission."

"So you just followed me across half of Manhattan." Thranduil shook his head. Maybe this man was schizophrenic or something. He didn't look like a real threat though.

The man nodded hesitantly and then suddenly started to fumble at his package.

"What are you doing?" Thranduil asked alarmed, and held out his hand in a protective stance. Did he have a gun after all? No, he wouldn't kill him, would he? He didn't look like a murderer. Besides, there were cameras and people all around them.

"I did some sketches earlier, but I never caught your face," the man said and held out a blessedly harmless piece of paper. When Thranduil didn't move, he shook it a bit and cautiously took another step towards him like he was trying to approach a wild animal.

"What do you want me to do with it?" he asked, still not reaching out to take the paper. "And I still don't understand why you followed me. Who are you anyway?"

"My name is Thorin Oakenshield and I'm a painter. I would like to paint you – with your permission."

Thranduil blinked.

"Paint. Me."

"Yes." The man's – Thorin's – brow furrowed, and he lowered his arm shortly before stretching it out again.

"Why would I let you do that? I don't know you, this could be a ruse, a kidnapping, a-…"

"My name," he cut him off, "is Thorin Oakenshield and I'm a painter. I'm currently homeless, as you can probably see, but sometimes I sleep at my sister's. She has two boys, aged nine and eleven. My father and grandfather were painters, too, but they were more successful than me, because … because they had their Arkenstones."

"Arken-what?"

"Arkenstone. It … enabled them to become true painters. And I'm … still searching for mine. I hoped that … Oh, this is stupid; why am I telling you this?" Thorin sighed and crammed the paper back into the envelope, all but scrunching it up. Thranduil didn't know why, but the sound drove deep into his bones, making him shudder in something akin to agony.

"What did you hope?" he asked, his voice barely more than a small whisper.

"Nothing. I'm sorry to have bothered you. Have … Have a nice day."

Thranduil stared after the man, who turned without looking at him and all but ran back the way they came. Something tore in Thranduil's chest, and he felt his heart beat furiously in his throat.

"Wait!"

He clawed his way through a sudden wave of people – where did they all suddenly come from? – back to the station, but it felt like one of those nightmares, when you couldn't stir from the spot, no matter how hard you tried. Somewhere he caught a glimpse of a mud brown coat, but when he stumbled onto the platform, the train's door closed and all he could do was stare after it.

Cursing under his breath, Thranduil didn't even remember how he got home. He placed his keys onto the kitchen counter and fell onto the couch with a tired groan. After a few moments he pulled off his shoes – which he threw under the coffee table – and coat – which he threw onto the armchair – before his uneasiness made him stand again. He considered calling Galadriel or Elrond, or any of his friends, or possibly even Legolas, but then he grabbed his laptop and sat on the couch again.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, still hesitant. He couldn't just let his go, it would haunt him for days on end. This was the right thing to do … right?

Thranduil sighed and almost shut his laptop again, but then he typed Thorin Oakenshield into the search engine and stared at the results it showed him. There were none exactly fitting this name, but there was a certain Thráin Oakenshield, who even had his own Wikipedia page. He clicked on it and read: Thráin Oakenshield ['θraɪn 'oʊkənʃi:ld] (17 December 1943 – 23. October 2001) was a contemporary painter who is best known for his impressionist paintings of landscapes. He is considered a master of acrylic painting, and is famous for his panoramic painting of the Rocky Mountains, the "Rocky Mountains Panoramic View".

Thranduil skipped the next part, where other names were mentioned: From Thrór Oakenshield, his father, Oakenshield inherited a large sum of money, which he spent on his travels to faraway places all over the world, in order to get inspiration for his works. His wife, Nís, and their three children Thorin, Frerin and Dís, suffered under his absence, however, and even more so after Nís Oakenshield was diagnosed with lung cancer. She succumbed to her sickness in 1998, only weeks before her husband finished his undoubtedly greatest piece, the "Rocky Mountains Panoramic View". Only two years later, Frerin Oakenshield died in a car accident. Those two events are very likely the main reasons for Thráin Oakenshield's suicide in 2001.

Thranduil let out a hissing breath and blinked a few times before reading on: Despite the Oakenshield family's wealth, Thráin Oakenshield's remaining two children struggled with law suits and debts after their father's death, which left them with little to nothing of the inheritance. His son, Thorin Oakenshield, unsuccessfully tried to follow in his footsteps, yet never managed to convince critics with his work, despite several exhibitions in Berlin, Paris and New York.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Thranduil tried to process what he had just read. Firstly, if that man really was Thorin Oakenshield (and it looked like it), then he had told him (a complete stranger) the truth. Secondly … Why the hell did he want to paint him? This mystery was only getting bigger and bigger, and knowing his own curiosity, Thranduil wasn't going to get any sleep until the mystery was solved. And that meant he would have to find Thorin Oakenshield.

He went to an online directory and typed in the name, only to remember that the man was homeless. Naturally, his name wouldn't appear. He groaned and rubbed his face in frustration, until he remembered that he had a sister, whom he even mentioned during their encounter … What was her name again? Ah, Dís Oakenshield. Her name would certainly appear, it was quite unique after al-… No entries? Thranduil blinked in confusion. Maybe she had married and adopted her husband's name? Thorin mentioned children, after all.

Another quick search provided him with the information that Dís Oakenshield had indeed married, namely a certain Mórin Durin – which meant that Dís Oakenshield was now Dís Durin. And indeed, the Durin family lived in Kingsbridge, Bronx.

A small smile had crept onto Thranduil's lips, though he remained unaware of it until he'd brewed his tea – it was horrible, he should have asked Legolas to brew a whole pot for him – and noticed the strange tilt of his mouth after his first sip.


Author's Note: As always, I appreciate any and all comments :) Thanks!