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One year after the Battle of Five Armies, Lonely Mountain, the royal grave yard of Erebor.
Thranduil stood at the newly built grave yard, staring at the grave stone in front of him. It was his first time after the battle to visit here. As the king of Greenwood and a member of the great alliance, he was of course invited to attend the royal funeral, but missed the time due to a sudden attack by giant spiders from the north. He hadn’t sent representatives since he was sure after so many years of mutual hatred and conflict, the dwarves would feel relived not to have him on the funeral, and watch them crying for their king.
The grave yard was taken good care of, covered by lovely green grass. And the grave stone was perfectly carved to match a heroic king. It carved Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, king under the mountain. He killed Azog at last, managed to revenge for his grandfather and his nephew. But he hadn’t managed to survive and witness his people regain the glory and prosperity of their kingdom. Now every country of the free world were eulogizing his deeds and moaning his tragic death. He lived as a hero, and died as one too.
But I never really liked you, from the first time we met till now.
Thranduil said to the grave stone.
As a long-live elf Thranduil had very vague idea of time passing. He could still remember when he first visited the lonely mountain, long before the dragon took charge of it. It seems just yesterday that the grandfather of Thorin cheated him and ruined their alliance. Days later the young dwarf prince was captured by his son, and sent to his hall, it took him sometime to recognize Thorin, since he was already a grown-up, with thick beards covering his muddy face. But he recognized those blue eyes when Thorin raised his head and stared at him. They were full of anger and hatred, burning like flame.
Most of the elves in Greenwood would for sure remember that day, when their beloved king almost lost his temper and shouted at a dwarf. As a long-live species they’d already learned not to waste their time remembering faces of other species, and be patient to all of them. Anyhow, they would disappear before you even noticed, no matter you liked them or not. But that day Thranduil did lose his temper when Thorin called him a coward, a sore loser of the mighty dragon fire. It was a shame shouting at someone that you could recall his face as a baby, but at that point, Thranduil just couldn’t control himself. He felt a little bit remorse when he calmed down. Hence, that night he went to see Thorin again, after they poured all those ugly words they could think of to each other’s face. He admitted that he was intended to make some compensate, not for the sake of Thorin, but for himself.
Lying in the narrow jail under the palace, Thorin looked still quite angry. Thranduil doubted whether that was his only emotion. He spoke rudely before Thranduil could start.
“Don’t embarrass yourself again, Thranduil, I shall never accept your bloody deal.”
Thranduil didn’t get offended by his rudeness; he remained silent for quite a while, and signed, out of tiredness and something more complicated, “You will die before you reclaim your kingdom.”
Thorin seemed quite shocked by this sudden tenderness. The anger in his eyes faded a little as he spoke again, while his words were cold as usual.
“Never thought you would care about my life. After all, in your eyes, we dwarves are all ephemeral. All of our lives, all of our fights and struggling are just a blink for you.” He replied without even looking at the elven king; his tone was cold, and decisive as steel, “Just laugh at my grave as you may, I don’t care.”
Thorin rolled back deeper into the jail and fell asleep, didn’t even care about the elven king standing outside. Thranduil gazed at him for a while, and left quietly.
Later that night, Tauril reported that the dwarves had escaped. He ordered his soldiers to chase them down, but deep inside he knew he couldn’t stop them from fighting against the dragon, couldn’t stop Thorin from being consumed by the dragon sickness. He should have expected that, the dwarves were as stubborn as stone, not even death could change their minds. Their lives were momentary compared to the immortality of elves, but their fighting spirit deserved to be memorized and honored.
He nodded at his best soldiers, and ordered them to march for the great war. This time they will fight side by side with their old enemies, for the free world of all men, dwarves and elves.
That day was doomed to be remembered till the end of the world. The dragon was killed by a human archer; the lonely mountain was once again ruled by dwarves. Evil was defeated, at least for a short time. People of the north regained their peaceful and prosperous life, sing the song of a great victory. But all that didn’t mean anything to him. All he could remember was the night in Mirkwood, outside a shabby jail, how the dwarf prince looked at him in determination, and smiled stubbornly.
Just laugh at my grave, I don’t care. His voice echoed, between the mountains where he dedicated his life and soul.
“I didn’t laugh.”
Thranduil gazed at the grave stone and replied, to someone who would never hear, to someone he respected as a king, and a true hero, to someone he failed to build friendship with.
“And I never will.”