(A/N: Many, many thanks to my beta, Nieriel Raina, who corrects my egregious errors in spite of her own busy schedule. I offer this chapter to you, dear readers, in exchange for your good wishes and felicitations upon my own Little One, who is riding Sonny’s Two-Eyed Jaxx for the first time at UGA this weekend. If any blue ribbons are earned, they shall go in proxy to NiRi. – Le Rouret)

19. The Elvenking

“This is how I see it, your majesty,” said Kaimelas. “This fork is the River Running. This salt cellar is the Lonely Mountain, and this servillete Eryn Lasgalen.”

“Very well; where is Dale?”

“That greasy wine blot. It serves Girion right. And Esgaroth is this wilted leaf of parsley.”

“Apropos.”

“Thank you; I rather thought so. When we come out of Eryn Lasgalen we will be about here – “

“O no,” interrupted Thrás, gesturing with his knife. “If we are with the Elves, we might hug the forest line and come out further south – “

“The villages thereabouts have been pillaged and destroyed,” argued Kaimelas, “and numerous indecencies and atrocities performed, which are laid upon the Dwarves’ heads. We must avoid that area at all costs, lest your detractors seek to find proof of your culpability against you.”

“Inconvenient!” grumbled Dwalin; a bottle and a half of wine had softened his opinion of Kaimelas considerably, and the Elf estimated another couple of goblets might make him think charitably of the Elvenking himself. “So we must march south-east – “

“If we flank the Forest River we will run right into Esgaroth,” said Kaimelas.

“But will that venue not be watched?” asked Thrás worriedly.

“Perhaps, but Baranil’s scouts are famous for their cunning and accuracy. Also did my lord instruct me to lead the army there; he will meet us, I hope, with further speerings of Malbeach’s malfeasances.”

“From what you have told me, we scarcely need any more proof against him,” rumbled Thorin, shaking his dark head. “That filthy rake! And I remember Dúrfinwen your lord’s mercer; if aught has happened to her, as we fear, shall my heart be heavy indeed.”

“To be honest, your majesty, I do not think me she has survived,” said Kaimelas with a sad sigh, putting his fork down. “Nor she nor Melima nor Belias nor Belegtilion. Esgaroth is become a dark and fearful place; there is some horrible malevolence there, far surpassing any work of Man I have yet had the misfortune to encounter.”

“Well, let us stamp it out then,” said Thorin with a grim smile. “So we will come out down the Forest River, heading east toward Esgaroth – “

“Thranduil has few steeds; they will likely walk, which is expedient for you. I would suggest you and your advisors and body guard travel in the van with the Elvenking and his retinue, with your troops arrayed behind the van, and the Elvish pikes to either side; the archers may fan out on the north and south and pick off any wishing to flank us.”

“Sound enough so far,” admitted Ori; he leant over the table and frowned at the disarranged cutlery and salt. “I think we ought to have a bigger salt cellar for the Lonely Mountain.”

“You have had too much ale,” complained Nori. “You are getting silly.”

“Then I have not had near enough,” laughed Kaimelas. “More ale, Ori?”

“I will not complain,” said Ori, and smiled as the Elf refilled his mug. “Getting up tomorrow morning is going to be difficult, I fear! How goes the muster, Dwalin?”

“We are ready,” said Dwalin disinterestedly. “Seven hundred fifty to go to Eryn Lasgalen, and that hundred down to rescue that silly prince fellow. And I think I shall go to bed.”

“You are getting as bad as Bifur,” laughed Nori. “To bed for all of us, then! I bid you a good night, O valambassador; you have been informative and persuasive. At dawn I suppose we will see if you are useful too!”

“It is my aim to be useful, O Nori!” said Kaimelas with a grin. “Sleep well!”

Sundry Dwarves bid their king and the Elf good night, and wandered away from the table upon the dais. Most of the rest of the court had left, and only a few servants were about, picking up the trenchers and sweeping up the scraps. Thorin sat back in his great gilt chair and folded his hands on his stomach; he settled his chin in the plush darkness of his beard and fixed his black eyes upon Kaimelas.

“Glóin tells me you have heard of the disappearance of the Arkenstone,” he rumbled.

Kaimelas glanced cautiously at him. “I have,” he admitted. “Gimli Glóin’s son did reveal it to us.” When Thorin said nothing, but simply fixed him with his thoughtful stare, Kaimelas said, “How did it happen, your majesty?”

“As far as I can discern, it occurred during a synod I held in the Spring,” said Thorin. “I invited delegates from Eryn Lasgalen, Esgaroth, and Dale, and many men from the surrounding regions came as well. I did not trust Malbeach,” he added, frowning. “I mistrusted him from the moment of his accession. Sly, smooth, foppish, flattering; I wished to see him at conclave with sundry others, to discern whom he favored, and whom he might plot against. I will admit to you, O ambassador of Dol Galenehtar, that the Elves sent by the Elvenking did not appeal overmuch – “

“Let me guess,” said Kaimelas, making a face. “He sent Valanya and Morsul.”

“Valanya,” said Thorin, raising an eyebrow. “Also several others, but Valanya in particular made himself noxious to several of my advisors – Dwalin, sadly; also Bofur and a few others who think poorly of Thranduil’s economic policies – and there was a goodly bit of quarrelling. Though as I think on it, Kaimelas, I am forced to confess that Malbeach sought to ‘mediate’ the disputes; I am sure with his forked tongue he did stir up the more mischief.”

“He has sought ever to sow discord, has he not?” smiled Kaimelas. “So you discovered the Arkenstone was missing after the synod?”

“We did,” growled Thorin. “Oakenshield’s tomb was plundered. Also is Orcrist gone, and several chambers attached to the tomb were looted. Naturally, Dwalin and Bofur proclaimed the Elves had done it, and sent an armed company after the Elvish delegates; there were heated arguments, and it came down to blows I fear; fortunately Fundin and Óli stepped in, as did Methlon and Belias, and wiser heads prevailed. But the Elves’ baggage was never searched, and so many in the Lonely Mountain suspect yet that the Elvenking had coveted the Arkenstone, and sent his delegates to steal it.”

Kaimelas regarded Thorin carefully. “And are you of that estimation, your majesty?” he asked.

“I am not,” growled Thorin, his eyes flashing. “Do you believe the Dwarves raped and slaughtered all those women to the south?”

“Good heavens, no!” exclaimed Kaimelas, shocked. “The very idea!”

“Well, Valanya appears to,” said Thorin. “I saw a letter sent by him to one of Girion’s delegates, purporting to support the theory.” At Kaimelas’ disgusted look he smiled. “By your estimate, ambassador, how many Elves will be willing to let bygones be bygones, and join with us to destroy Malbeach? And in your opinion, does the Elvenking believe Malbeach’s lies?”

“I like you,” said Kaimelas, playing thoughtfully with the handle of his ale mug. “You ask such direct questions. Well, as I said before, your majesty, I am no mathematician; nor may I speak for the Elves of Eryn Lasgalen, for it has been nigh twenty years ere I left the Elvenking’s service for his son’s. In Dol Galenehtar, did a man suggest to our people that Dwarves were evil and untrustworthy, yet the chariest one among us would scoff and call the man a simpleton at best, at worst, a liar. But in Eryn Lasgalen, who can say? We Elves do not change our minds very quickly, and it has been but eighty or ninety years ere the Accords of Rhovanion were signed under Radagast’s aegis. Some of Thranduil’s folk remember all too clearly the destruction of Doriath, and are none too fond of Dwarves. But if Thranduil and Edlothiel tell them to fight on the side of the Dwarves against Malbeach, I tell you this much; they would rather cut off their own hands than disobey.”

“And will Thranduil tell them to join with us?” asked Thorin.

“He had better,” said Kaimelas, swallowing the last of his ale and setting his mug down with a thunk. “He might be enchanted by Malbeach and his wife, but I shall wager my sword that Edlothiel will not be, and to her I may appeal. We might have to tie him up and leave him behind, and let the queen lead us; but either way, your majesty, my lord and Gimli and Bandobras and Tamin are wandering round alone down there, getting up to who knows what kind of mischief, and I will be damned if I let Malbeach’s malevolence destroy them!” He looked so determined that Thorin laughed, and clapped the Elf on the shoulder.

“Good!” he rumbled. “If that is the way of it, then let us to bed, so that we might commence with the sun and get this scheme underway!” He rose, and Kaimelas rose as well; the two regarded each other approvingly, dark eyes glinting with purpose. “Sleep well, ambassador.”

“You as well, your majesty,” said Kaimelas with a bow, and the two parted.

O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O*O

It is difficult to hide seven hundred fifty armed Dwarves, even in the arms of Erebor. The sun had not yet reached its zenith when Kaimelas espied to the south a small troop of men, flying under the pennant of Dale.

“Damn!” he said to Glóin and Thorin. “I knew we ought to have circled north.”

“We would have added two days to our march,” said Glóin practically, fingering his mattock, “and time is short enough.”

“What shall we do?” asked Nír, shading his hands and squinting over the landscape. The men were moving slowly on horseback, their armor shining in the sun.

“It might be more practical to simply kill them,” said Kaimelas. “If Girion has signed accords with Malbeach, he will certainly tell his spurious ally we are on the move.”

“Perhaps they might think we are attacking the Elvenking,” suggested Thrás. “After all, is that not what we feared Thranduil’s scouts would believe?”

“Possibly,” said Kaimelas unhappily. “I would still rather kill them.”

“You are very bloodthirsty, are you not?” asked Dwalin. “I suppose that is the difference between a valambassador and the regular variety. I am no lover of Elvish things, but I confess I prefer this sort to the other.”

“Well, we will have an opportunity soon enough,” said Kaimelas, frowning across the rolling landscape. “They approach.”

“Conceal yourself from them, O ambassador,” said Thorin firmly. “Let them think we travel alone. We will tell these men we go to confront Thranduil and get back what is ours. Girion will tell Malbeach, and Malbeach will gloat, thinking he has set Erebor and Eryn Lasgalen at daggers-drawn. Then he will be all the more surprised when we attack Esgaroth as one.”

“If your majesty insists,” said Kaimelas. “I still think killing them is more efficient, but your plot is rather clever, too.” He slipped with Nír and Ibun over the crest of a hill, and Thorin sent out Glóin and Thrás with a white flag of parley. The Dwarves waited anxiously; then they saw the horsemen approach, with the two Dwarves walking among them. To Thorin’s surprise, the head of the troop was Girion’s son Bard. The lad was scarcely out of his boyhood, and gangly and awkward; but he brightened upon seeing the Dwarvish king and scrambled quickly down from his horse. His armor was overlarge and ill-fitting, and he clanked loudly when he approached and bowed.

“Your majesty,” he said.

“Your highness,” rumbled Thorin. “What brings the son of Girion so far afield?”

“My father was too ill to come, so he sent me out to find out what you are doing,” said the boy, ignoring the older man behind him who gestured to him to hold his tongue. “He knew you were on the march and wanted to ask if we could be of any assistance.”

“Assistance?” asked Thorin with a smile. “In doing what? How do you know we are not simply out on maneuvers?”

Bard looked at the even lines of heavily-armed and armored Dwarves standing in the bright sun, and smiled. “Are you?” he asked, a little wistfully. “It sounds like fun, I must say. I would rather believe you are out on maneuvers than – “ He stopped, and turned very red.

“Since you already think you know what we are doing, I scarce need to elucidate, do I?” rumbled Thorin disapprovingly. “And did your father send you out to join us, to see if he might profit by it? Tell your father that I do not appreciate being spied upon; if he wants to know what I am doing, he may ask me legitimately, and not send his folk to skulk round watching our gates. Furthermore, you shall say to him that he is not the one who was robbed, and if any plunder is forthcoming, it belongs to us. Do you understand?”

Bard looked very uncomfortable and embarrassed and distressed. “But – but,” he stammered. “Is this really necessary? I mean – “

“Enough,” said the older man behind him, rather sharply. “Prince Bard, it is not your right to dispute with a king of Thorin Stonehelm’s wisdom and authority, whether he should or should not do anything. He has refused our help. You are supposed to thank him, wish him good luck, and politely excuse yourself.”

“I am?” asked Bard; he looked very troubled. “Even if I do not think – “

“Yes, even if you do not think,” the man snapped. “To horse, your highness! Let the Dwarves go on their way. Their disputes with the Elvenking are no concern of ours.”

Bard looked unhappily at Thorin; to the Dwarves’ secret amusement his lower lip pouted out a little. “Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose Gith is right – he usually is. Good journey, then, and er, good luck with your venture, your majesty.”

“Your highness,” growled Thorin, his eyes glittering angrily. The lad sighed, and turning, he mounted his great steed. His troop started off to the south, but Thorin saw, ere they disappeared over the crest of a small hill, the boy turn and watch them, his mismatched armor glinting; then he gave a small wave, and vanished.

“We might as well keep marching,” said Thrás to his king. “Otherwise they will know we are waiting for someone. The ambassador and those two young scalawags can catch us up.”

“Very well,” rumbled Thorin. “Give the orders to proceed!”

The trumpet sounded, and the Dwarves started off again at their even clattering pace; sure enough after an hour the forward scouts espied three figures seated upon a little grassy hillock watching them. Kaimelas had a stalk of grass between his lips, and Nír and Ibun were smoking. “O there you are!” said Kaimelas, rising to his feet and stretching. “We were beginning to wonder if you had got lost.”

“Of course; the way betwixt Erebor and Eryn Lasgalen is so fraught with short-cuts,” said Thorin with a throaty chuckle, his eyes twinkling. “How I wish we were as swift as you, O ambassador! Then we could make our first big push the faster, and arrive at the Elvenking’s gates at dawn.”

“It would look better to arrive tomorrow evening,” said Kaimelas seriously, tugging Nír to his feet, for the Dwarf had been drowsing. “Save your strength today, and march slowly tomorrow; were you truly attacking Thranduil’s caverns would you arrive at dawn, fresh and ready to fight. But a friendly visitor shows up right before dinner-time, hoping to be invited in for a drink and a sup.”

“Well, I suppose you know Thranduil best,” growled Thorin. “I wish I knew what we might expect when we get there.”

“As do I, your majesty,” Kaimelas agreed.

So following Kaimelas’ wisdom, they camped upon the rolling hills, building bright fires and singing their war-songs cheerfully. Kaimelas wandered from fire to fire, sampling this or that bit of food, or taking a dram here or there of pomace or wine or beer; but ever was the Elf on the lookout for the Elvenking’s scouts, and betimes would melt into the grass in the starlit darkness, seeking his own. Several Dwarves grumbled at this, suspecting him of betraying them; even Dwalin however bid them hold their tongues. “That is not the way of a valambassador,” Dwalin said huffily. “He has dealt with us honestly enough so far, and I do not think I brag when I say I might feel a fellow is forthright or no. Nír trusts him, and I trust him too.” And anyway Kaimelas was disappointed; he trudged back to Thorin’s camp fire with a face crestfallen. “Either they elude me, or Thranduil has pulled everyone in from the reconnaissance forays,” said the Elf. “In the first case, I am confounded; in the second, concerned.”

“Well, then, let us take care tomorrow to march loudly,” said Thorin ere he wrapped himself up in his blanket to sleep. “If any scouts are about, at least they will know we do not approach in stealth!”

When dawn pinked the sky the next morning, Kaimelas was not with them. “He slipped out a few hours ago,” said Ibun, who had been guarding the western perimeter. “He did say to me he felt someone was nearby, and wished to discern who it might be.” Ibun looked worriedly over the fields where the Elf had gone and plucked at his yellow beard. “I hope naught has happened to him! I have got so used to him; I would miss him if anything tragic occurred.”

“You are as bad as Nír,” complained Dwalin, but he related Ibun’s report to Thorin. “You do not think he has abandoned us?” he asked carefully. “I know I said I trusted him, but – “

“Trust him, then,” growled Thorin, pulling on his boots irritably. “Or don’t. But make up your mind which it will be.” He shot Dwalin an angry look, and Dwalin hurried away.

By the time the Dwarves had broken camp and were preparing to move, two forward scouts came running back. “The ambassador returns to us!” one of them panted; “and he brings a second Elf with him, a tall forbidding fellow in armor.”

“Is it Thranduil?” asked Thorin hopefully.

“Nay! The Elvenking is golden-haired,” said the Dwarf. “This one is dark as night; darker even than the ambassador. He has a stern look to him too.”

“Well, let them pass,” rumbled Thorin. “If there are but two I do not think they pose much of a threat!”

So the bodyguard stood aside and let Kaimelas and the strange Elf in. The Dwarves watched him warily, for they did not recognize him; he was clad in shining leather armor, heavily intaglioed with green leaves; he was tall and proud and dark, but his black eyes were deep and expressionless. Kaimelas took him straight to Thorin; he was grinning from ear to ear.

“I did not find you a scout after all, your majesty!” he said gloatingly, leading the tall Elf forward. “Look whom I have found! This is Baranil, Thranduil’s captain! He is the head of the militia of Eryn Lasgalen.”

“Your majesty,” said Baranil, bowing low.

Thorin inclined his head to him. “Captain Baranil,” he said in his deep voice. “I am very gratified to meet you. I suppose the ambassador has brought you up to date on our plans here?”

“He has indeed,” said the Elf. His voice was deep too, but smooth and low, and when he smiled all the grimness fell away. He glanced at Kaimelas, and the jet eyes twinkled. “Ambassador! You could have knocked me over with a feather. Wait ‘til Galion hears about this, Kassah!”

“Well, am I doing well at least?” demanded Kaimelas. “I know you always used to tell me I was the worst at espionage you had ever trained, for I simply could not prevaricate or tell an untruth. Ambassadorial duties seem a tad less obfuscated to me.”

“I think you are doing very well,” said Thorin. He turned to Baranil and said, “In fact, if the Lord of Dol Galenehtar concedes, I shall have Kaimelas to regulate trade agreements hereabouts; his honesty is refreshing.”

“But grating at times,” said Baranil with a smile.

“Pah! Never that,” said Thorin, waving his hand dismissively. “So, Captain, what do you think of our plan? Think you your sovereign shall fall in with us, or do we waste our time asking him to come out and play? For we could easily turn south here, and march upon Lake Town ourselves.”

“I would not recommend it,” said Baranil soberly. “At our last estimate Malbeach has upwards of three and a half thousands at his command, and who knows how many of Girion’s fighting men will come over to his side? Nay; let us go to King Thranduil; something must needs be done, for the situation hereabouts is desperate; it cannot go on this way. I have sent the rest of my party to my lord and lady to apprise him of our coming. You will all be welcome; our lady is distressed, and to know allies march to our aid will raise her spirits considerably; and as you may know, when Queen Edlothiel is relieved do all round her benefit.”

“So I surmised,” growled Thorin with a smile. “Lead on then, Captain Baranil! Glad am I to foregather with you, for in this way we might discuss our campaign, and you may acquaint me with your lord’s mind.”

“Alas! I wish I could,” said Baranil with a grim shake of his dark sleek head. “Think you the situation is bad in Erebor? It is worse for us. You will see when we get there.”

Baranil walked through the fields with them, and Kaimelas taught Nír and Ibun and several other young Dwarves some Elvish marching songs. As the sun dipped low over the dark stippled eaves of Eryn Lasgalen, the Dwarves entered the forest. The great arched branches curved up over the Elven road like a green arcade, winding through the dim shimmering trees; in the gloaming the nightingales warbled and the insects hummed. Glóin, Nori, Ori, and Dwalin smiled to see the change in the forest since the first time they had penetrated the gloomy blackness; there was regret there too, that they had had need to traverse Mirkwood ere Dol Guldur fell.

“Looks much better, doesn’t it?” muttered a grinning Glóin to Dwalin, who was marching along with a bemused expression on his face.

“Hm,” was all Dwalin offered in return.

The sun could not pierce the great hoary trees all round them, but the forest’s gloom was no longer oppressive; the marmalade light filtered through the green, and the bright frothy ferns and mossy glades shimmered. Birds flitted from brake to branch, and somewhere nearby they could hear the cheerful chuckle of a stream, and smell the moist loamy banks. At last they gained the great way, and walked up the smooth paved road beneath the tall pale birch trees to the bridge over the Forest River. The bridge spanned the river in one smooth arc, and the Dwarves trooped over it, looking critically at the stonework, as though seeking something to disparage. Thence they went up the great staircase to the gate, a huge half-circle sunk deep into the side of the green hill. On either side of the gate was a legion of Elvish soldiers, garbed in white leather armor and bearing tall shining pikes. Their lieutenant, cloaked in green, called out in a loud voice, and the legion snapped to attention and presented arms. As Thorin Stonehelm passed the lieutenant, the Elf called in a loud voice:

“Eryn Lasgalen welcomes his majesty, Thorin Stonehelm of Erebor!”

“Hail!” cried the legion as one, and Thorin proudly strode through the open gate.

The Great Hall within was thronging with Elves, men and women both, garbed in beautiful robes and tunics and bright armor. They left the broad carpet to the dais open, but pressed forward, eager to watch the King Under the Mountain approach their sovereign. Upon the dais seated on two carven chairs were the King and Queen of Eryn Lasgalen, clad in green and gold. The queen sat straight and tall upon her throne, glimmering like abalone and silver; but Thranduil was hunched as though with pain, and his golden hair was unkempt, and fell over his face.

Baranil gestured to the party, and they paused. “Let the King Under the Mountain and his retinue continue,” he said; “my lieutenants will see to your troops’ billeting.” Thorin nodded, and a tall pale Elf dressed in black approached. “Methlon,” he said to the grinning lieutenant, “are the quarters and feasts prepared?”

“They are, O Captain,” said Methlon, smiling at the Dwarves. “And as much ale as you like!”

The Dwarves cheered then, and eagerly followed the lieutenant out. Then Baranil said to Kaimelas, “As you are the ambassador, Kaimelas, do you approach the thrones first to bring Thorin Stonehelm to our lord.”

“As though they’d never met before,” muttered Kaimelas discontentedly; he disliked ceremony. “But I warrant the queen has something in mind.”

“Not she but the king,” said Baranil, and Kaimelas raised his eyebrows in surprise. But he turned to Thorin and his party and said,

“Now, follow me in proper order, if you please, and let us get this fussing about done quickly. I am hungry and want my supper.”

“An it please you,” smiled Thorin, and they set off down the walk.

The dais was low and trimmed with rushes and ivy, and canopied with green and white, and there was a fountain to the left of the king’s throne. Thranduil stared blankly with heavy-lidded eyes as the party approached, his hands clutching the arms of his throne; Edlothiel was pale and looked strained, and gazed with desperate hope at Kaimelas. He took a deep breath and bowed before his erstwhile king and queen.

“Your majesties,” he said, feeling very worried on Thranduil’s account, and mighty foolish on his own. “I, Kaimelas, Ambassador of your son Legolas of Dol Galenehtar, do bring to you in these troubled times a friend and ally, his majesty, the King Under the Mountain, Thorin Stonehelm.”

Edlothiel turned to her husband, who stirred; his eyes were bleary and unfocused, and it did not appear he seemed to note or even to care who stood before him. “Thank you, ambassador,” he said; his voice was thin and reedy, and so unlike his usual blustery shout that Kaimelas’ throat tightened. But he stepped aside, and Thorin strode forward.

Thranduil lurched unsteadily to his feet. Kaimelas reached to steady him, but the Elvenking jerked unevenly away from him. Then he fell to his knees and gestured to Thorin.

“The King Under the Mountain,” he said weakly, blinking blindly round.

Thorin stepped carefully up the dais steps. Thranduil was shockingly thin; his cheeks were sunken and gray, and he looked as though he had not slept in months. His piercing gray eyes were clouded and indistinct, and his head wobbled upon his neck. He groped forward, and took Thorin’s hands in his own, shakily laving them in a basin of fragrant water; then he fumbled with a cloth and dried them. He was breathing unevenly, and when he with trembling fingers replaced the cloth, Thorin said under his breath:

“Your majesty … are you quite feeling well?”

Thranduil looked up then, his groggy eyes struggling to focus; then his gaze met Thorin’s, and his face cleared. He blinked and swallowed, staring at Thorin as though seeing him for the first time; then he clutched at Thorin’s sleeve with sudden violence.

“Stay with me – stay with me!” he hissed desperately. “I have been ensorcelled – it surpasses even my wife’s powers to break it. I cannot sleep, I cannot eat – the dreams, they are visiting me in the daytime now – but stay, I beg you; I have not been clear in mind for – I know not how long. But you, you pierce through the fog. I know not how, nor care! Stay until the enchantment is lifted!”

Thorin stared at him in surprise, and from the other throne Edlothiel stifled a little sob. Thorin looked quickly over at her; she watched him with tear-filled eyes, her hands clutching her skirts tight. “Please,” she mouthed to him; and setting his jaw Thorin covered Thranduil’s shaking hand with his own.

“We are allies,” he rumbled, loud enough for everyone by the dais to here. “Of course I am staying.”

Thranduil sagged then, as though all his strength had been bled away; then he opened his eyes, clear gray once more, and smiled.