dragcnslayr:

underoakandbeech

He REMEMBERS these trees from years before, from a journey in youth dared through the ominous tall forest green. Shadowed verdant looming high above, shards of marigold and honeyed sunlight peering through the great leaves of fall. HIGH still reach the trees, their branches grasping toward each other but shades of green stand muted and bare among them, dark grey and aged bronze colour the bark that surrounds their path. The King of Dale wonders if perhaps it was only youthful folly that so idolized the shades of Mirkwood, the once known Greenwood as he was taught by his father who learned these ancient titles from fathers before him. LONG always has been the line of Girion and ever near to that old realm of elvish making have they stood. and to the mountain, their northern neighbor and two so richly entwined in the success of the other. 

perhaps had any son of Durin survived the war that ravaged already poor
countries, people suffering still years later when the fire has died but the burns
linger , his voyage now may bear a shorter walk, shorter ride.  perhaps only
if had he been able to salvage some sense of peace in the aftermath of battle,
some common understanding between kings in need for their people. the bitter
ache of his heart for all who were lost in the fire thinks no such thing possible,
though he accepts with grace and courtesy all good nature between the current
king-DAIN- and himself. for the necessity of their people. 

                                              in all thoughts, this seems the preferred choice. THOUGH
                                            WISER it would have been to send his request in parchment,
                                            to save his men the turmoil of the journey and spare his people
                                            the absence of their ruler–no, not yet. The ceremony still awaits,
                                            for some weeks more he will remain only Bard, the bowman.
                                            And a bowman or king may still be prone to the sentiment
                                            of Man. This request is not given lightly but in the spirit of
                                            lasting friendship between realms of Elf and Man. 

                      YET NOW he stands in company to the Elvenking, a contrary of thought
                      to the easy comfort with which he speaks. “ My children will be greatly
                   pleased to see you and your people in Dale once more, Your Grace. I think
                           they long more to see your kin than to see the ceremony for
                                 which they come.” 

The darkness that has so plagued the Woodland Realm has ebbed slightly. It is not as
palpable as it was in years past. Still, a heaviness lingers in the air, for the forest is not
healing, not yet. The quiet before the storm, Thranduil believes, yet perhaps there is
enough time to prepare before the tides of war comes crashing down upon them all again.
A hundred years may be a blink of an eye to them, yet with the ways of Men, advancement
in the ways of war could very well be had.

Yet now is not the time for such thoughts, not when there is peace and there are  
celebrations still to be had. War is only one probability for the future, and it will
not happen in Bard’s lifetime, he is certain, nor perhaps in his childrens’. Thus
Thranduil will make no mention of it, simply continue to strengthen the alliance
and trade agreements between the Woodland Realm and Dale, perhaps between
Erebor too, for a UNITED north against future threats.

                           A rare smile graces his lips as he looks down upon the
                           future KING of Dale. An invitation written on parchment
                           would have done nicely, yet this meeting was not unwelcome.

       “Perhaps they do. I have little doubt that my own children left a lasting
        impression on yours.” Though neither would be in attendance to the
        coronation. Legolas was far away from here, as was Tauriel; he with
        the Rangers and she in Dorwinion on an errand.