Right, after a happy Chapter, I think it's time to destroy the peace and quietness again. Because I'm mean and because I can.
I've tried to estimate how many more Chapters I will need before the story comes to an end but I guess I won't be able to tell. Maybe ten, maybe twenty, I'm drowning in ideas and you will come to read all of them so I hope you're prepared and looking forward to it as much as I am.
Thanks to everyone who reviewed, faved and liked and enjoy the next Chapter!
Bilbo shivered a little and pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders.
Though the fire in the hearth was still ablaze and lighting up the Hall of Thrór, the temperatures within the City of Erebor seemed to have dropped, when the two wanderers had brought snow and a foul mood with them. No harps were heard anymore, not even a quiet song or hum, for the Dwarves sat scattered across the Hall and they all watched the Elvenking suspiciously, their fingers always playing with the hilts of daggers, swords and axes.
Thranduil sat at the end of one of the large stone tables close to the fire. The flames cast a red and orange glow on his light blond hair and the pale skin and if he had been fazed by his situation, he didn't show it. His crown was of a dark bronze with diamonds and white pearls forming beautiful patterns on the delicate metal, reminding Bilbo of snow and ice. The Elf sat tall, a mug with grog before him that he hadn't touched however.
Across from him stood Thorin directly by the hearth and he remained standing, for he refused to sit at the same table as his nemesis. Ever since their arrival, Thranduil hadn't spoken a word but simply nodded a greeting to Thorin that the Dwarf had not returned. He brooded, his gaze cold and unfriendly and Dwalin and Balin were most cautious, ready to step in for their King's safety anytime.
The only one completely oblivious to the tension was Bard however, for the archer sat by Thranduil's side, enjoying the grog and the warm feeling it burned through his innards. He took part in some delightful chitchat with Bofur, Dori and Ori, complimented Bombur's recipe for the grog and occasionally rubbed his frozen fingers together. Kíli sat with his brother, watching the Bowman warily and Fíli did not dare to join into the conversation, for he was afraid that Kíli might be insulted. Thus he stayed by his brother's side and occasionally glanced over to the strange visitors. Both brothers had turned to ignoring Thranduil, for neither had forgotten or forgiven Kíli's imprisonment and Fíli had a hard enough time, restraining himself from beating the living hell out of the Elvenking for harming his younger brother.
"Nice place this", Bard established, content with the heat of the hearth and the strength of the grog. "Pretty vast I suppose. Has anyone gone lost yet?"
"Only temporarily", Bofur nattered, not noticing that Bard found his accent most amusing. "Our concussed duck over there lost his way about ten times but he was quickly found really. Quite a noisy bugger he is. And we think his brother might be a bloodhound or truffle pig or the like, for he finds him everywhere. So no casualties really, nobody has dropped down the mines yet."
"Good to hear, very good", Bard smiled, looking over to Fíli and Kíli.
The youngest Dwarf of the company crossed his arms before his chest, sulking badly and even Fíli didn't seem as delighted anymore.
"First a sparrow, now a duck. Soon enough they'll have all kinds of birds listed. I'm not really that puffed up am I?" he asked, looking at his brother but Fíli had his own trouble dealing with the nicknames.
"Quit your complaints", he muttered. "At least you're not a truffle pig. And stop getting lost, I won't be looking for you anymore."
"I can't help it that this place is so big!"
Bard chuckled quietly at the table and Kíli shot him a dirty look before he eventually shut up, leaning against his brother in a childish manner.
"Well, at least everyone seems to be sound", Bard noticed, counting the Dwarves. "And the company is even complete. My dear Lords, you find me pleasantly surprised."
"Enough with the patter already", Thorin interrupted the merry conversation harshly. "I suppose you did not venture here in that weather to compliment us on the interior fitting. Speak your mind or leave."
"Very well", the Bowman still smiled and took no offense from the uncourteous words. "Like I said already, we came here as former and future allies of the Kingdom of Erebor and mean no harm or disrespect."
"Yet you are already lying to me", Thorin growled.
"Lying?" Bard watched him surprised. "I wasn't aware of any lies."
"One of you came here as a former and hopefully future ally of the Kingdom of Erebor, that I believe. The other one however never was an ally it seems", Thorin bluntly declared, not even trying to hide his animosity towards Thranduil. "Thus one of you is welcome in these Halls, whereas the other might care to inform us of his true intentions. Unless he wants to be kicked out in the snow again that is."
Balin sighed heavily. He was most discontent with Thorin's stubbornness and rude behaviour, worried about the future prosperity of Erebor, if the Elves of Mirkwood one day really should linger to the West as enemies. Some other Dwarves however, Dwalin, Glóin, Fíli and Kíli amongst them, nodded in agreement, watching the Elvenking carefully.
The King of the Woodland Realm met the gaze of each Dwarf and returned it with utter self-assurance. He seemed rather bored by the commotion, possibly tired from the journey and not at all pleased with the Dwarven hospitality but still he had not complained. And not even Thorin's harsh words seemed to faze him much, for he took his time to finally turn to the King of Erebor and look him in the face.
"It is a shame, Thorin, son of Thráin, that you think so little of my people and myself", Thranduil finally began, his voice sounding so fair and glorious like sunshine and Bilbo's heart suddenly began to race in his chest. Each word rolled off the Elf's lips with such grace and beauty that he soon felt as if someone had wrapped him up in cotton and velvet. "I indeed did not come here to offer you insult or harm in any way, thus I am rather surprised by your cold greeting."
"Winter is closing in, what kind of greeting did you expect?" Thorin retorted and some Dwarves chuckled, yet again showing no respect whatsoever for the great King at their tables. "If it is not insult you offer, what do you want then?"
"To pay my respects to the King who has reclaimed his righteous throne and to acknowledge the gratitude you showed after I had sent help to your nephew when he was injured", Thranduil replied, still unfazed. He even bowed his head a little, though it might have been a mocking gesture, rather than a true sign of subordination.
"My gratitude?" Thorin seemed most puzzled for he could not recall any gratitude he ever felt towards the Elf. Then it dawned on him and he shot an evil eye at Fíli, who quickly took a sip from his grog and innocently stared at an apparently very interesting spot somewhere on the wall.
"And since you seem to prefer no further sweet talking, to inform you of a common claim that the Guardian of Esgaroth and myself are entitled to make to you", Thranduil ripped the Dwarf from his thoughts, all of them focussing on a most painful punishment for the youngster.
"A claim?" Thorin repeated and a quiet whisper spread amongst the Dwarves once again. "What claim might that be?"
Bard cleared his throat, emptying his mug of grog only to have it quickly refilled again by Dori.
"A fairly blunt claim I'm afraid", he casually began. "Word had spread quickly of Smaug's death and as you might imagine, my kin rejoiced and celebrated. Esgaroth is most grateful for your bravery and applauds your success, Thorin. I however, I must admit, am not as content as I had hoped I would be."
"Go on", Thorin demanded, curious as to what the Bowman might ask of him.
"Dale was the city of my ancestors. A most glorious city as you might remember, for I know that you visited ever so often with your siblings."
Thorin nodded in agreement.
"While Erebor had been claimed by the dragon, Dale has been destroyed. Barely any houses remain and many of us wish to return to their home as well. You might know what that feels like."
Again Thorin nodded.
"Unfortunately", Thranduil continued, leaning back in his chair. "The Kingdom of Greenwood has suffered under the dragon attack as well, for it has lost the two most prosperous trading partners that day. Esgaroth, though a wealthy city, is nothing compared to the former glory of Erebor and Dale. We wish to renew the trade of course, but I'm afraid we need to ask for compensation first."
"Compensation?" the Dwarf suddenly picked himself up until he stood tall by the hearth. "You're still not making any sense, Elf. And neither are you, Bowman, and I am slowly growing tired of this game. Speak clearly what you ask of me, both of you. Like I said before, if you're unwilling we have a large hole in the wall that the masons left and you're free to walk through it." He pointed at the direction of the Gates.
Everyone held his breath, waiting impatiently for the reply. Bilbo nervously looked from one Dwarf to the other, a bad feeling spreading in his stomach and soon hanging there like a rock. Whatever it was that was happening here, it would not end well.
"We both ask for a share of the Treasure of Thrór, large enough to repair the damages to our Kingdoms, caused by the dragon Smaug", Thranduil finally stated bluntly and with utter surety.
In the following silence, one could hear the chilly air crack and crisp and the snapping of the flames in the hearth seemed extraordinarily loud. Every single Dwarf gaped at the Elvenking and the Bowman and none would believe what he had just heard. Even Thorin stood speechless for a long time and the longer he stared at Thranduil, at the cold, beautiful face and the longer he repeated those words in his head, that had been said as a matter of course, the more it began to boil in his innards until his hate became so fierce, that nothing could have ever becalmed it.
"So that's how it is", Thorin's voice was nothing but a low rumble and some Dwarves already drew their weapons, getting up from their spots. "You've come to my doorstep to beg."
For the first time since their arrival, a hint of emotion rushed across Thranduil's face, for the tone and wording of the Dwarf displeased him.
"I do not beg", he outright corrected Thorin and that alone did not go down well with the King under the Mountain. "But I do claim what is rightfully mine."
"Rightfully?" never before had Thorin's voice sounded that dangerous and now even Fili and Kili rose from their spots, their weapons drawn.
"Bard of Laketown, descendant of Lord Girion of Dale", the Dwarven King began quietly but he sounded husky and impatient. "Though I do recognise a claim to the treasure on your part, I do not believe it to be rightful. My upmost priority is the restoration of my Kingdom and I care little for Dale or your kin. I will not promise you any part of my treasure, but should enough be left once Erebor has returned to its former glory, I will reconsider your claim."
Bard's fingers gripped the mug of grog tightly and he was grinding his teeth but did not reply. The shining blades of the Dwarves made him nervous and he deemed it most unwise to protest now, for it could quickly end with a cut throat and no further chance to restore Dale as well. He therefore gave a quick nod and remained silent.
"Now to you, King of Mirkwood", and Thorin spitefully used the foul, new name of Thranduil's Kingdom, much to the Elvenking's dislike. "When Smaug attacked Erebor, was it your or my people that were burned alive? Was it your or my people that had to flee from their houses in fear, losing family and friends, seeing their beloved trampled to death or eaten whole? Was your home destroyed or mine?"
Thranduil opened his mouth but Thorin did not leave him a chance to speak, slamming his fist onto the stone table until his knuckles crunched.
"Did your people or my people wander through the wilderness for twenty years, not belonging anywhere?! Did your or my people die when they tried to reclaim their rightful Kingdom, fighting a gruesome war for more than six years within the tunnels of Khazad-dûm?! Did you lose half of your family or did I?! Was it your or my people that spent over a hundred years, building a new home in unfamiliar territory, suffering from grief and homesickness?! And now the last question, Elvenking!" The words resounded in the hall and Thranduil flinched a little. "Was it your or my people who idly stood by and looked upon all this suffering, whilst their home lay secure within the borders of a cursed forest?!"
Thorin seemed to have grown in size with every word and every word had riled the other Dwarves up more and more. For all of those years, they had carried the burden of being homeless and unwanted alone. Nobody had supported them, nobody had cared and they had gone through all the suffering without anybody's support. And they had survived and they had won and nobody would ever stand as proud as the Dwarves of Erebor. Undesired from the day of their creation onwards to the present day, they had endured and grown stronger and stronger and Thorin knew that nobody would look down on him ever again. He had his fair share of disrespect and he had enough of it.
"I suggest you leave my halls immediately and dare never to return to my Kingdom in my lifetime, Thranduil of the Woodland Realm! For should you dare to step into my City once more-", he drew his sword and held the blade right at Thranduil's throat and the Elvenking stared at him bewildered. "I will guarantee you that the blow of my blade will reach high enough to send your head flying!"
Bard witnessed the scenario, pale as a sheet of paper. He had not imagined to be warmly welcomed and immediately handed a fair amount of gold, no, the heir of Girion was naturally optimistic but not stupid. But this, he had not anticipated. And though he had known of the resentment between the Elves of Mirkwood and the Dwarves of Erebor, he had not known how severe it was.
When Thranduil rose from his seat, he carried the most dignified look on his fair features and he looked at Thorin like he would have looked at a horrible little Goblin, full of disgust and ire. He did not say another word but turned on his heel and left the Hall of Thrór, Bard following him in some distance. And while Thranduil walked down the massive corridors or Erebor and towards the Gates, he heard the Dwarves singing in the large Hall and their song was undoubtedly mocking him and rage began to boil within him as well.
The mountain throne once more is freed!
O! Wandering folk, the summons heed!
Come haste! Come haste! Across the waste!
The King of friend and kin has need.
Now call we over mountains cold,
Come back unto the Caverns old!
Here at the gates the King awaits,
His hands are rich with gems and gold.
The King has come unto his Hall
Under the Mountain dark and tall.
The Worm of Dread is slain and dead,
And ever so our foes shall fall!