Unlike the refined, almost austere cuisine of the Noldor, the Elves of the Woodland Realm had tastes more akin to those of mortal Men. Their banquet table was laden with delicacies, most of them hearty and rich in meat.
King Thranduil, ever the gracious host, brought forth his treasured stores of Elven wine—aged and rare—pouring it freely in honor of his guests. Goblets clinked in merriment as laughter rose through the vaulted halls. Conversation flowed as easily as the wine, and all present partook with glad hearts.
When the feasting was done and the wine had settled, the servants moved deftly to clear the table, transforming it into a place of council. Elven attendants poured fragrant teas into crystal goblets, and from a quiet alcove, a troupe of elven maidens played sweet and subtle tunes upon their harps and flutes, casting a dreamy enchantment over the chamber.
Thranduil took the head seat and turned his gaze toward Thorin Oakenshield.
"Long ago," he began, his voice calm and deliberate, "I knew that one day, you would return—with Dwarves at your side. Your purpose is not difficult to divine. You seek the Arkenstone—the gem of kingship, the jewel that grants the right to rule."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"What I did not foresee," he continued, "was that you would have with you two great Wizards, and even a mortal King. That you would muster a host encamped in the upper vales of the Anduin—that, I must confess, has earned you my respect."
He leaned forward slightly.
"If you have come to see the ancient pact between our peoples honored, then I will offer my aid."
A hush fell over the room.
"But…" Thranduil's voice turned solemn. "When Erebor is reclaimed, I will ask that what once belonged to me be returned—a white gem necklace, entrusted long ago to your grandfather, and never returned. To me, it is as precious as your Arkenstone."
All eyes turned to Thorin.
He remained still for a long moment, his face unreadable.
Then he nodded. "Agreed."
A silent breath escaped Gandalf. He had feared the stubborn Dwarven prince might spurn the Elven king's request out of pride.
Beside him, Kaen Eowenríel allowed himself a small, pleased smile. Since meeting Thorin, he had gently guided the Dwarf in the ways of kingship—hoping to shape him into a true sovereign, one worthy of both crown and legacy.
And now, Thorin had taken a step that showed promise. He was no longer the brash, embittered warrior ruled by old grudges. He had begun to think as a leader, weighing the good of his people over his own pride.
Unlike the tale told in the books, where Thranduil's words ignited only fury and condemnation in Thorin's heart—now, there was understanding.
Thranduil's eyes glimmered with quiet approval.
"Well spoken. You've grown, Thorin Oakenshield."
But Thorin was not done.
"There is one question I must have answered," he said, voice low but steady. "Why did you turn away, back then? Why did you watch in silence while my people suffered and wandered for a century?"
Thranduil's gaze did not waver.
"Do you truly wish to know? After all this time, does it still matter?"
"It does," Thorin said firmly. "It is the knot in my heart—I've carried it for a hundred years."
"So be it," Thranduil replied, and his voice softened—not with warmth, but with the weight of old memory.
And thus he spoke.
To the Dwarves of Durin's line, a feud might last a few centuries before time and generations dulled its edges. But Elves… Elves do not forget. To them, what others call history is but yesterday's sorrow. Thranduil had been born in the First Age, in Doriath, the great Sindarin kingdom west of Beleriand, across the seas of time.
In his youth, he had witnessed the betrayal of the Dwarves. The Dwarves of Nogrod, greedy for the Silmaril, were hired by Thingol, King of Doriath, to set the gem within the Nauglamír necklace. But when the work was finished, a dispute arose over ownership, and the Dwarves slew Thingol and sacked the peaceful halls of Menegroth. Doriath fell.
Though the invading Dwarves were later defeated and driven from Beleriand, many escaped eastward, and some found refuge in the halls of Khazad-dûm, eventually merging with the House of Durin.
In the early days of the Second Age, shadow crept into the forest from the south, and Oropher, Thranduil's father, was forced to lead his people north, abandoning their ancestral lands. The Old Forest Road, a trade route built by the Dwarves of the Iron Hills and Erebor, did not come into existence until the Third Age.
Then came tragedy—Khazad-dûm fell to the Balrog. The Dwarves became wanderers and divided into two kingdoms: one in the Iron Hills, and the other in Erebor, the Lonely Mountain.
Time passed, and Thranduil entrusted a white gemstone—his beloved queen's final heirloom—to Thorin's grandfather, asking that it be set into a necklace by Dwarven craft.
But when the necklace was complete, Thorin's grandfather refused to return it.
It nearly came to war.
Yet Thranduil, being wise, refused to draw his people into bloodshed over a single jewel. He swallowed his anger—for the sake of peace.
But from that day forward, the alliance of old was broken.
As he finished the tale, Thranduil's eyes swept the room. Twelve Dwarves sat in silence.
"And now I ask you," he said quietly. "If I had slain Durin, razed Khazad-dûm, and stolen your Arkenstone… would your people have still honored our alliance and come to my aid, had my realm been in peril?"
Silence.
The Dwarves had never heard this history—not from their fathers, nor their fathers before them. Perhaps it had been buried, or perhaps it was shame that kept it untold.
Thorin turned toward Gandalf and Saruman, seeking confirmation in their ancient eyes.
Gandalf gave a small nod but did not speak.
Saruman, ever less restrained, said plainly, "It is true."
The Dwarves sat stunned, their faces shadowed by guilt. The sins of their fathers now weighed upon them, heavy and undeniable.
Thorin's breath grew short. His face contorted with emotion—grief, regret, shame. For so long he had clung to rage, and now, it crumbled beneath him.
The bitterness he had carried like armor now seemed a mockery.
He had no right to blame Thranduil. No right at all.
The Elvenking had shown more restraint than many would have.
Bang!
Thorin's fist slammed upon the table, a cry of blood springing from his knuckles and staining the polished wood.
Then—he stood.
And for the first time, he bowed deeply to Thranduil.
His voice, rough and choked, carried through the hall.
"As prince of the House of Durin, I offer my deepest apology for the wrongs of my forebears. Though I knew them not, their actions were wrong—and I shall make amends. When Erebor is restored, your white gem necklace shall be returned to you, and I will see to it that just recompense is made."
Thranduil's face lit with an emotion rare to see—genuine joy.
"Thorin Oakenshield… I have said it before, but it bears repeating: you have surprised me."
He studied Thorin with fresh eyes.
"You are not your forefathers. You are not the stubborn brutes of old who thought only of forges, mead, and war. You have the makings of a true king."
"If you had spoken thus in the days of old, even without that necklace, I would have marched beside you."
"And if you can remain this man, then perhaps—just perhaps—the rift between our peoples may begin to heal, starting with you and me."
Indeed, if Thorin's heart remained thus changed, the scars of ages could one day fade.
For fate had already set its course: in years yet to come, Legolas, son of Thranduil, and Gimli, son of Glóin, would forge a friendship that would eclipse the hatred of millennia.
Only Kaen knew of this distant destiny.
Now, with solemn hearts, the Dwarves followed their prince's lead and bowed together to Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm.
The Elvenking, in turn, looked upon them for the first time without scorn. There was distance still—but no longer disdain.
He rose.
"In that case," he said, "speak your needs plainly. If they are within reason, I shall give you all the aid I can."