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.