The Woodland Realm—longest-standing and most untamed of all the Elven kingdoms in Middle-earth.
In the early days of the Second Age, the Sindarin noble Oropher, spurning the Valar and finding the lands of the Noldor in Eriador too confining, led a portion of the Sindar eastward. Journeying from the drowned lands of Beleriand, across what is now the Western lands, and over the Misty Mountains, they came at last to the depths of the great forest—what would later be called Mirkwood.
Here dwelt the Silvan Elves, descendants of the Nandor, who, like the Sindar, were a branch of the Telerin Elves and thus kin. Long ago, both peoples had given their allegiance to Thingol, the High King of the Teleri and later of Doriath. When news spread that Thingol had been slain by Dwarves, the Silvan Elves in this forest turned to Oropher. They chose him as their king, and in the southern reaches of the forest they founded the Woodland Realm. However, as the shadows began to deepen in the south, and the power of the Dwarves grew, Oropher led his people northward.
Toward the end of the Second Age, Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth, and Elendil, High King of Men, forged the Last Alliance to confront the Dark Lord Sauron. With the understanding that the fall of one race would imperil all, Oropher led his people into that great war. He and his army fought bravely, but Oropher, rushing ahead of the main host, fell in battle before the final siege began.
After his death, his son Thranduil returned to the forest with about a third of their warriors, now crowned King of the Woodland Realm. He led them back to the northern kingdom his father had established, near the source of the Forest River.
Inspired by Doriath, the ancient Sindarin realm of the First Age, Thranduil ordered the construction of a subterranean palace, built into a great hill. Its chambers were carved out of the earth, and the Forest River flowed through its great halls. The palace was protected by enchantments and patrols to defend against the encroaching shadow from the south.
Eighty percent of the population were Silvan Elves—the beating heart of the realm, forming its lower and middle classes. Deeply attuned to the natural world, they excelled in archery and hunting and lived a life more rustic and primal.
The remaining twenty percent were of Sindarin blood—rulers, nobles, and the upper echelon. They preserved the knowledge of ancient Doriath: artistry, magic, and martial prowess equal to that of the Noldor who yet dwelled in Middle-earth.
Unlike Lothlórien or Rivendell, the Woodland Realm bore no Elven Ring of Power. Their defenses against the shadow lay instead in the magic of the Sindar—and in the fearless valor of the Silvan warriors, unafraid to sacrifice their lives.
Led by Legolas, Tauriel, and others of the Elven host, the expedition made safe passage into the Woodland Realm.
It was as though they had entered a green and hidden paradise, cloaked within the shadows of the forest. Even in autumn, the leaves overhead remained fresh and green. Unlike the dense tangle of the outer woods, here the trees stood apart, allowing sunlight to filter through in soft golden shafts.
The ground was carpeted in lush grass and dotted with blooms of many colors. Enchanted streams wove through the glades, their water crystal-clear, and the occasional call of a stag echoed through the woods like music.
On the fortified banks of the Forest River, massive trees and boulders formed natural ramparts. Moss grew thick upon them, green and vibrant—a silent defiance against war.
The road beneath their feet was paved in smooth stone, winding through the realm in graceful curves. They walked long, with many stops along the way, for the Woodland Realm was vast. Reaching its heart was no matter of hours or even days.
Even after entering the forest and mounting the Elves' trained deer, it took three full days before they arrived at the underground palace of the Woodland King.
The main entrance was a grand gate of rune-carved stone, hewn into the cliff that bordered the Forest River, and connected to the opposite bank by a single stone bridge. Beneath the bridge, the river flowed in winding grace, and the surrounding trees rose tall and thick—an elegant fortress hidden in the very bosom of the woods. Though simple in form, the structure radiated a profound mystique and majesty.
Legolas led them inside.
What lay beyond the gate was a vast network of caverns and halls, with wide corridors connecting echoing chambers. Sunlight, ingeniously refracted from the outside, lit the passageways in warm beams, while the deeper corners were illuminated by bioluminescent moss glowing soft blue.
Along the grand colonnade stood guards in ceremonial armor, their spears gleaming, unmoving as statues. They were the King's elite.
Deeper and deeper they walked until at last they reached a grand hall, soaring and ancient.
At its center, seated upon the throne, was a figure both beautiful and solemn—a solitary presence, regal and enigmatic.
He looked up, and a soft smile touched his lips.
"It has been long, Gandalf the Grey… and Saruman the White," Thranduil said.
Gandalf returned the smile and bowed slightly. "Indeed, it has been many years, King Thranduil."
Saruman nodded as well, a polite curve to his lips. "A millennium has passed, and yet your majesty remains undiminished."
Stepping forward, Kaen Eowenríel bowed his head respectfully. "It is our first meeting. I am Kaen Eowenríel, sovereign of the Kingdom of Eowenría."
At that, Thranduil's eyes fell upon him.
A fellow king.
Thranduil did not remain seated, but stood and descended from the high dais, a rare gesture of courtesy.
"I have heard that you are the pupil of Lord Elrond himself," he said, with a note of surprise. "It is no small marvel. I never imagined that Elrond's first disciple would be a Man—and a king, no less. You bear a fair countenance, like that of the Eldar."
"I am honored by your praise," Kaen replied, smiling. "In truth, I had long heard tales of your beauty and nobility. Now that I see you, I know the tales did not lie."
Thus did the two kings meet, testing the waters with words both courteous and shrewd. And from their exchange, it was clear: so long as no boundaries were crossed, theirs would be a peaceful rapport.
Then Thranduil's gaze turned.
He looked to Thorin Oakenshield, who had not bowed, nor had his Dwarves. A century had passed since last they met.
"So, we meet again," Thranduil said evenly. "Welcome to my realm, Thorin Oakenshield."
Thorin inhaled deeply. "Aye," he said in a low voice. "And the last time we met, you stood by and did nothing—while my people suffered."
"If your long journey was made only to reproach me," Thranduil replied, "then I fear you will be sorely disappointed."
He shook his head and gave the Dwarves no further heed.
Turning to the gathered company, he said, "I suspect your purpose here is no small matter. And I would wager it has much to do with Erebor, the dragon, and its hoarded gold."
"Come," he added, motioning, "let us speak further in the banquet hall. There, with food and wine, we may find a more fitting setting for our talk."
"With pleasure," Gandalf said.
With Thranduil at the lead, they made their way toward the grand hall prepared for feasting.
As Kaen passed Thorin, he murmured, "I know what weighs on your heart. At this feast, you may yet learn the truth of what happened so long ago."
Thorin gave a solemn nod, but said nothing.