Chapter Text
Thranduil has never favored emerald green.
Moss and pine and sage are his cafetans, basil and shamrock his robes, fern and juniper his sashes. He is bound so intimately to his forest, protecting it as he does with his own magic since he lacks a ring of power, and his attire reflects his beloved realm, but he has always favored green’s more natural and muted shades, rather than the bright garish of emeralds.
But the accursed thirteen then woke a dragon, slain by Laketown’s bargeman turned bowman turned king, and that reluctant king now stands behind Thranduil in Dale’s steadiest dwelling. Girion’s heir drapes Girion’s necklace on the Elvenking’s neck. They do not gleam unearthly as the white gems of Lasgalen did, nor are they so finely wrought, but they are still warm from the King of Dale’s hands as they rest against the Elvenking’s throat, as warm as Bard’s breath ghosting along Thranduil’s ears.