lost-or-dead - Tumblr blog

[lost-or-dead]

Let's conspire to ignite all the souls that would die just to feel alive

Summary:

"You have reminded me how to live."

- Thranduil all but suffers through the anniversary feast of the Battle of Five Armies before Bard comes to save him.

For #BarduilMonth2024 over at @bi-widower-dads <3

If there is one thing to know about the elves of the Woodland Realm it is that they would use every opportunity for merrymaking - much to the dismay of their King.

So one would have to excuse Thranduil for not exactly being delighted when a stray barrel of the many that were being carted to one of the clearings in the woods for the festivities tonight came loose, fell as in slow motion, and then smashed right next to him, drenching him in sweet red wine.

The laughter and singing on the barrow ceased immediately and the two Elves responsible for the sloppy knotwork stuttered profuse apologies since they knew of the temper of their King. But Thranduil only told them to keep going through grit teeth and turned to leave so quickly he missed their perplexed faces.

It was his own fault anyway. He should have known better than to wander the grounds on a day like this when the whole realm was in a fever of excitement and things were bound to go wrong. The preparations for the one-year anniversary of the Battle of Five Armies were in full swing.

Now one might wonder how it even came to the Elvenking agreeing to this festivity and to it being held in his realm as well when he originally hadn’t even intended to participate in the battle and wasn’t particularly fond of most of the parties involved either.

There was one man however who could make his principles waver and that was unfortunately Bard the Bowman, King of Dale and therefore the people who had started the debate on an anniversary feast in the first place. Thranduil had known he would have been hopelessly outvoted in the question of whether or not such a feast would take place so he hadn’t even tried and might have come to regret it in the meantime.

His folk, on the other hand, was delighted and who was he to deny Woodland elves their merrymaking only because of his own aversion to it? Maybe the time had come to end their self-imposed isolation and return to friendly relations with the rest of Middle-Earth that surpassed the exchanging of wine barrels. This was a beginning at least.

And if it meant he would have to fulfil his already neglected royal duties and make small talk with self-important nobodies so exhausting it cost him perceived centuries of his life then that was so. The least he could do after that was make sure it was a feast to remember.

Dale wouldn’t work as a location since Bard and his people were doing the best they could with the aid of the Elvenking and the Dáin of Erebor but rebuilding a city is tedious work and they still had a lot of it ahead. Some had suggested the glorious halls under the Lonely Mountain but although Thranduil knew of their splendour and beauty he had not been unhappy when Dáin had declined, justifying it with the fact that even after a year the dwarves were still sorting through the treasures and were not in a position to accommodate guests even though everyone had known he was simply wary of strangers getting to close to what was his. It had left the Elvenking to make the generous offer of hosting the feast in Mirkwood and his very own halls.

This had surprised but delighted everyone (although they wouldn’t have dared to refuse him anyway) and it was settled. But oh, how wrong had Thranduil been to think that this concluded the plans and measures stage of the feast. Everyone wanted a say in it - What would be served? Who would get to supply the wine? What if it rained? Would there be music?

There had been an endless amount of committee meetings and Thranduil would have been on the verge of sailing not to the Undying Lands but down the Forest River into Celduin and the Sea of Rhûn to drown himself on one of his many trips to Dale if it hadn’t been for Bard.

In the aftermath of last year’s battle, he’d had many a meeting with the leader of the new city of Dale, amending mistakes from the past and concluding new arrangements among their respective realms. And if one of those arrangements was a touch more private and only concerned themselves then it was really nobody’s business.

After their rather rocky start, Bard had come to know the Elvenking better and had begun to understand that his sometimes crooked ways and cool demeanour were a product of experience, a way of self-preservation and protecting his people. He grew on him. Of course, Thranduil’s flawless elven looks contributed to that.

And even an Elvenking wasn’t immune to a man as charming as Bard, even if he was in fact a man and not one of his own kin. He affected Thranduil in a way he had not experienced since the death of his wife and naturally, his first instinct at that was to shut himself off. One has to give Bard great credit for not surrendering their arising bond right then and there.

It still wasn’t easy and only Bard’s family and Thranduil’s closest advisors knew about them but they were determined to make it work.

Bard would of course also be at the feast and was the only thing making it bearable for Thranduil (except maybe for the idea of chugging two barrels of wine on his own and blissfully passing out). He was supposed to arrive soon, just before the beginning of the feast, with the rest of the committee.

After having to get redressed due to his wine accident Thranduil welcomed them in his throne room. He thought it might do well to remind those people who they were dealing with. From Bard’s knowing grin he saw right through him.

They discussed some last-minute things that had come up, which took so long that Thranduil and Bard didn’t even get a second to themselves before the actual feast started. The committee greeted the arriving guests - men, dwarves, and elves alike and even a few adventurous hobbits - and showed them to the clearing in the woods where the feast would be held. They had agreed that they would only make use of the Elvenking’s halls if the weather thwarted their plans which Thranduil found very unfortunate since he was proud of and would have liked to flaunt them but it proved to be a beautiful early autumn day.

At first, Thranduil almost enjoyed himself. He revelled in the way people stared at him like an apparition and seemed entranced by his grounds. Guests were still arriving and only starting to mingle so he had time to relax for a moment and drink a first glass of wine in preparation for what was to come. It felt a bit like in the earlier times when his father was still the King and his only duty during merrymaking was exactly that: merrymaking. He should have savoured it more. Now it was all spoilt with diplomatic relations, stiff politeness, and making sure things ran smoothly. As a king one was simply in a different position.

Just as he was about to reminisce his last truly joyful feast, Thranduil saw one of Dáin’s folk examining the trees lining the clearing while mindlessly stroking the hilt of his axe. Damn dwarves. Why did they decide to bring axes to a feast anyway? They could have at least had the decency to hide them as Thranduil did with the long white knife covered by his tunic.

He asked Feren to have an eye on the suspect and was about to go find Bard and his children if only for a quick hello but was intercepted by some brave man who mistook his bared teeth for a smile and wanted to know all about the wine they were serving. Thranduil waved goodbye to any notion of enjoying the night.

He only saw Bard again about two hours later when dusk was about to fall. They had planned a small ceremony (that Bard had vehemently protested against but had been overruled) for the central figures of the winning side of the Battle: Dáin, the rival turned reinforcement, Bard for the army of men, Thranduil for the army of elves and Bilbo the hobbit standing in for the late Thorin, looking intensely uncomfortable. There was a moment of silence for the fallen heroes of the Battle, especially Thorin the former King under the Mountain (It seemed to Thranduil that everyone forgot very quickly that it had been Thorin who had sparked the Battle in the first place, but he didn’t say anything, recalling the diplomacy and politeness required of him.).

Gandalf was mentioned and how sad it was that he could not join the festivities tonight for he had important business to attend to (as usual) but that he had sent something to make the evening even more memorable. Yes, Thranduil had seen the cartons of wizard fireworks and they had led to a very heated (hah) fire safety discussion between him and some daredevils on the committee who apparently wanted to see his forest burn. In the end, they had resolved to use the fireworks far enough off so that Thranduil wouldn’t throw a tantrum but close enough that everyone could still see and enjoy them.

After this little interception of the festivities, Thranduil exchanged a few words with the hobbit for he didn’t meet many of his folk and found them quite interesting, especially his unusually venturesome fellow. It was nice to catch up with him for a while but as they ran out of things to say Thranduil remembered that he was actually still rather cross with Bilbo for managing to free the dwarves and flee from right under his nose. He wondered if he still had the peculiar talent of turning up and vanishing almost without a trace.

Bilbo seemed to sense the tensing mood and excused himself. Just as Thranduil caught Bard’s eye from across the clearing and brightened up a big round head slid into his view. It was a dwarf, one of Thorin’s company if he wasn’t mistaken, and he wanted to talk about tree felling. While standing in the middle of Thranduil’s forest. He wondered whether he could diplomatically fell this dwarf.

He shot Bard an obviously desperate look but the other one was being talked at by some woman now and didn’t look all too happy himself. He could only give him a tiny helpless shrug.

Another two hours later Thranduil was fuming. He’d had more dull conversations than he could count, only one miserable bread roll from the extensive buffet and fewer glasses of wine than during a regular dinner. He regretted this whole affair more every second.

Just as he had finally gotten rid of yet another of the women of Dale who ‘just wanted to meet him’ he saw an elderly hobbit making a beeline for him and was filled with dread. Thranduil had only seen him once before, seeming rather uncomfortable and not straying a millimetre from Bilbo’s side but since then he had apparently flourished (Thranduil strongly suspected the wine).

“Mr Elvenking, sir!” the hobbit called out excitedly and continued speaking before Thranduil could decide what to make of this titling, “I have to admit that this forest made me queasy at first, it did. This is my first time ever leaving the Shire and it’s only for Mr Frodo. You see, I’m not very used to dark, gloomy trees like these.” Whether it was Tharnduil’s intentionally towering stance or the clenching of his jaw, the hobbit seemed to sense that insulting the Elvenking’s woods wasn’t the best idea, so he changed course: “That is of course only the dim talk of a hobbit who has never travelled before, sir. Or is it King?” He left Thranduil no time to reply before he babbled on: “My name's Hamfast Gamgee but everyone calls me Gaffer. I’m Mr. Bilbo’s gardener, you see, so I like to think I know a thing or two about plants and those French roses you have growing over there…”

He seemed to completely forget who he was talking to and started pulling Thranduil along with him to the edge of the clearing. The Elvenking was so perplexed he simply went along. And it was lucky he did so because a few steps before reaching the silly rose Thranduil didn’t care about anyway, they passed Bard who was eyeing him with way too much amusement.

“Get me out of here!” Thranduil hissed at him through a distorted attempt at a smile.

Thranduil might have vetoed them before but he had rarely been so glad about something as he was about the fireworks going off about two minutes into the very one-sided gardening talk with the hobbit.

The Gaffer was immediately mesmerised and stared into the night sky with his mouth agape. Thranduil yet heard him whisper “Gandalf…” before bolting, desperate to get into his halls before anyone got bored with the light show and realised he was leaving.

The cool quiet that encompassed him the second the gates closed was heavenly. Thranduil heaved a relieved sigh.

Then suddenly: footsteps. His head shot up. Did someone notice his flight?

“I was only- oh.” he started to make up a dignified excuse as Bard rounded the corner with a smug smile on his lips.

“Only what?” he asked with raised eyebrows.

“Only looking for you to tell you I will forever be in your debt,” Thranduil replied gravely before breaking into a smile. A real one. “Thank you for saving me.”

He wrapped the surprised Bard in a hug. While Thranduil had significantly warmed up to him and had become less reserved in general, random hugs like this were still a rare occurrence. He rubbed small circles into Thranduil’s back. “I’m glad I could help.”

Thranduil broke the embrace only to press a soft kiss onto Bard’s lips. He leaned against his forehead and sighed again: “What would I do without you?”

Bard chuckled and gently pushed a strand of Thranduil’s hair out of his face. “I think you were doing pretty well over the last few centuries.”

Thranduil drew away to look at him and said earnestly: “I was a shell. You have reminded me how to live.”

Bard gulped. This was definitely more than after-feast-banter and it moved him that he was the one with whom the Elvenking entrusted such intimate words. “It is my pleasure.”

“However I do not want to keep you from the feast, so if you would like to return-”

“Return?” Bard huffed a laugh. “I was as miserable as you. Or close to it at least. I have no desire to return.”

“But your children…”

“Oh, do not worry about them. Sigrid can take care of them for the evening,” Bard decided. He was lucky that his eldest daughter was so reliable. “And last I saw them they were talking Feren's elf ears off, so maybe you should rather worry about him.”

“If Feren is distracted then I might return to worrying about those dwarf axes threatening my trees.” Thranduil almost turned around but Bard pulled him back.

“I am certain that Feren will not be derelict in his duty.” As Thranduil’s doubtful expression didn’t entirely clear he added: “You have done enough. You and I both, honestly. We also deserve to dodge responsibility every once in a while.”

“I am still not even certain I deserve you, meleth nín.”

Bard all but melted at this. Never would he have thought that the Elvenking was capable of such beautiful words when he had first met him. But those had been different circumstances.

“I have something for you.” Thranduil pulled out a small wooden box, the other thing next to his knife that had been covered by the tunic. He opened it and Bard was almost blinded by the jewel inside.

“What is this?”

“It is a ring.” Yes, obviously, now that he wasn’t dazzled from it anymore, even Bard could tell that. But Thranduil was not yet done with his explanation. “It is of mithril and the jewel is said to be made of pure starlight.”

“I do not doubt that,” Bard murmured, still enchanted by the ring. It really was a thing of beauty.

“It belonged to my mother.”

“What?” Bard’s head shot up. “I cannot accept that.”

“I insist.” Thranduil’s eyes were earnest. “I want you to have it.”

He took the ring from the box and laid it into Bard’s hand. Bard was immediately afraid he would drop it; never had he handled something so precious. He still searched for reasons why he could not accept this gift, how it was too much, no matter how much he appreciated it, whereas Thranduil already thought about something else.

“You do not have to put it on,” he said slowly, “It doesn’t have to mean anything if you don’t want it to. I just want it to be yours either way.”

In want of words that could explain how he felt Bard simply put the ring on his finger. Thranduil’s eyes almost shone as bright as the jewel as Bard wrapped his arms around him and squeezed tightly, hoping to so convey what he did not have the words to say.

Thranduil’s kiss was all the answer he needed.

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Gandalf: tell Gimli of the birds and the bees

Legolas: they’re disappearing at an alarming rate

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Aragorn , holding an antique bottle: Is this whiskey or perfume?

Legolas: *grabs and chugs the entire bottle*

Legolas:

Legolas: It's perfume.

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GRAPHIC/GIFSET TAG MEME: favourite clan of the teleri ↳ tagging @princessaredhel ♥

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for barduilmonth we have an actor au (long suffering bilbo is my favorite)

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doodles for chapter 8 of @scary-grace‘s amazing fic show a little faith, there’s magic in the night. thranduil with terrible car sickness is absolutely hilarious 😂

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modern!AU for bard and thranduil

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I use "pointy-eared princess " and "faithless woodland sprite" in my bio because it's some of my favorite dialog/acting in BOTFA. Billy Connelly knocks it out of the park as Dáin. Such a hoot. Lmfao. He's amazing.

I love how even with 15 pounds of makeup/hair/helmet he shines thru.

This. Right. Here.

Thranduils all like, yeah I'm pretty lol.

But when Dáin calls him a pointy-eared princess...oooh.

And I found this meme of Billy Connolly talking about Lee Pace:

We can all agree.. he's beautiful to watch.

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the 'Angry Widowed Dad™' walk

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Thranduil the Elvenking.

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⤐ a son is a mirror in which the father sees himself

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Thinking about that headcanon that Thranduil is blind in one or both eyes bcs of the dragon fire (hobbit movies) so that’s why Legolas just says what he sees out loud all the time bcs he’s used to doing that for his dad

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Winter Gem

Thranduil x Female Elf Reader

Content & Warnings: soft!Thranduil, widowed!Thranduil, fluff, peril & rescue, mild hurt/comfort

Word Count: 1.8k

Seeking something precious for Thranduil, you're caught in a storm. When you don't return, he goes searching for you.

A/N: For @firelightinferno

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // winter 2023 masterlist

“The first snows have arrived.”

“It has come early.”

Thranduil inclines his head in acknowledgement. “Indeed.”

You stand beside Thranduil outside the main gates. Five guards stand nearby but there is no danger. A steady snowfall drifts down from the sky. The snowflakes are slightly gray in appearance, almost like ash on the wind. You frown down at a few of the flakes that land on your leather vambrace.

“You look ready for your hunt,” observes Thranduil, gesturing toward your attire with the tip of his head.

“Yes,” reply softly. “I plan on heading out for a bit.”

His eyebrows rise toward his hairline. “In this weather?”

You glance up from the vambrace and meet his blue eyes. Thranduil’s gaze is startling and sharp. Piercing. Intense. It cuts right down to your heart. His gaze always holds you hostage, wrapping you up in his essence. Most might find Thranduil intimidating, but you know better.

“Is my king telling me I cannot?” You’re teasing him, and Thranduil knows this. His smile is one of soft amusement.

“As long as you return to me. You are free to do as you wish.” Even though Thranduil’s tone is gentle, you understand the deeper meaning.

Thranduil lost his wife many years ago. Other than his son, Legolas, you are his comfort. He wants you to be free, to enjoy the pleasures of life, but he also wants you to be safe, to return to him at the end of every leaving.

Thranduil glances over his shoulder. The guards on duty discreetly glance away, staring off into the distance as if they’ve suddenly found something of great interest. Thranduil leans in and shifts his body to block their view of you. He is close enough that it might appear that the two of you are kissing, but he does not meet your lips.

In the end, Thranduil is private about affection. He does not like to share your tender moments together in front of others.

“Enjoy your hunt. I eagerly await your return.”

You give him a half-hearted, sarcastic bow that immediately puts a wide smile on his face. Thranduil watches you until you disappear into the trees. Perhaps he lingers longer than that, wondering if you will turn around and come back to him.

It is true. You are on a hunt, but not for what he or anyone else is likely expecting.

Over a week ago, Thranduil went out in the woods with some of the guards on patrol. It’s the first time he’s been out beyond the walls in some time. Many patrols that ventured into the northern regions reported back on a strangeness in the air, and the scent of evil. Thranduil decided to investigate.

While tracking, he lost something precious.

Around his neck on a chain, Thranduil kept a silver ring. Within the ring is a precious gem, a blue stone so pale it almost appears white like a burning star. The chain that held it snapped while he and the guards chased a group of spiders that had made their way south.

He remembered it snagging, and while he did not show any distress upon telling you of its disappearance, you also know how much that ring and jewel means to him. It was a gift from his wife when they were newly married. She had a matching one, but upon her death, Thranduil moved it from his finger to around his neck.

This hunt—your hunt—is about that ring. You have a fairly good idea about where it might have fallen, and there is no reason for it to have moved since then. Few enter these woods unless they follow the road, and that is on rare occasions.

Tracking is your specialty, and your time is not limited due to the falling snow. But you’ve tracked in worse weather. The snow is unfortunate, but you can still search as long as it remains at its current pace. The tree cover will keep much of the snow in the higher canopy. There will be time yet before the snow completely covers the ground and you lose the trail.

Heading north, you retrace the path the patrol took. Yes, a week has passed, and nature reclaims much, but not everything is hidden so quickly. There are small disturbances that indicate the path ahead.

As you begin to draw nearer to the area Thranduil mentioned, the snow starts to pick up. It becomes thicker, not staying above in the canopy but instead making its way to the ground. It’s not ideal, but you can manage.

Thranduil mentioned two tree trunks growing together and then breaking apart. When you happen upon it, the snow comes down in thicker sheets. On the ground, it’s sticking. Collecting. Time is running out. Elves have good eyes, and you focus in on the ground, gnarled roots, and underbrush.

Near the base of the tangled tree, you notice a slight sparkle. Approaching it, you go down on one knee, brushing away some of the snow.

“Found you.”

The ring is there, resting in the roots. It appears undamaged, and that is a relief. Picking it up, you tuck it into an inside pocket, protecting it from the elements.

The snow crunches under your boots, and the wind howls. For the first time, you shiver. Cold is not and has never been an issue. Elves can withstand a great many things, including winter weather.

Frowning, you turn into the chilly wind. There is a disturbance. Something dark and foul. It sets the edges of your nerves tingling. A simmering suspicion bubbles up from somewhere within you, question whether this snow is natural or not.

Turning on your heel, you head back the way you came. But the snow is heavy, and your fresh tracks are starting to slip away, returning to the snow. As you walk, the snowfall becomes a storm. The wind whips up, swirling the snow around until you cannot see more than a few feet in front of your face.

Your instincts were right. This storm is not natural. It is too early for it, and storms like these are rare in the Woodland Realm.

The toe of your boot catches in a downed tree branch and you slam face first into the snow. It’s freezing. Temperature isn’t usually a deterrent for the elves, but this is beyond cold. It’s as if you’ve been swallowed whole by a massive glacier.

You walk and walk, and you have no idea if you’ve gained any ground. There are no visible signs, and you’re not sure how far you’ve gone, or if you’re simply walking in circles. The snow is deepening or perhaps you’re imagining it. Everything seems darker, like the world is closing in.

You’re not dressed for this sort of weather.

And you’re tired. So tired. Your knees and thighs burn, and sitting down for some rest doesn’t seem so bad. It’s fine. You can take refugee within the deep roots of a tree. You can stay warm there until the snow dissipates. Then, you can return. Thranduil will understand.

As if opening for you, the roots of a nearby tree expand, showing safety from the storm. You slink into it, curling up into a ball.

You drift in the howling wind. There is a haze that sits on your eyelashes. Whether you dream or not is irrelevant. Numbness oozes into your limbs, and that only forces you to curl up tighter, wanting to pull away from the cold.

A hand touches the side of your head. It is warm. Gentle. The fingers slide up to brush your hair out of your face. You hear your name but it is a whisper. Distant. So far away it doesn’t seem real.

There are arms around you. Lifting. Steady. And when you inhale, the scent is familiar. You know who it is instantly.

“Thranduil,” you murmur, and the answer is a gentle squeeze of your hand.

“I found you, my star.”

There are only short moments of consciousness. There is snow. Cold. The antlers of an elk. The gates of home, and then warmth. So much warmth that the numbness begins to recede.

You are brought back to the living world near a roaring fire. Beneath you is a makeshift bed comprised of pillows and soft blankets. You shift, and feel bare skin against bare skin. Slowly, you push yourself to sitting.

Your leather gear is gone, replaced with a soft robe that traps in the heat.

“You’re awake.” Thranduil’s voice is a gentle, comforting hug.

Turning toward his voice, you watch as he glides across the floor. Thranduil wears silver robes of starlight. In his hands in a small tray. On it is a steaming cup of tea and an assortment of food. Bending at the knees, Thranduil settles in beside you, placing the tray down on the blankets.

“You came looking for me,” you say, and your voice nearly cracks with emotion.

“Did you think I would not?” he asks, arranging the food around on the tray.

You know, deep in your heart, that Thranduil would come, but you also believed in your abilities as a tracker. “When did you start to worry?”

Thranduil lifts the cup off the tray and presents it to you. “When the storm picked up. Something about it felt unnatural.” You take it, and bring the warm beverage to your lips. “I gathered some guards and we set out. It is good that we found you in time.” He pauses. “I’m not sure my heart could take any more loss.”

The heat of the tea spreads throughout your body, the chill slipping away quickly. “I do believe you are correct. That storm was not natural.”

Thranduil nods. “There is a growing darkness to the north. The scouts on patrol have spoken of it often but have been unable to get close enough for more details.”

“Perhaps I strayed too close,” you murmur.

“Perhaps,” replies Thranduil, reaching out to take your hand. He lifts it, and brings it into his lap. Using both hands, he rotates your wrist until your palm faces the ceiling. Then, he guides your open palm to his lips, placing a soft kiss in the middle of it.

Instant warmth shoots out from that spot, running down your arm and piercing your heart like an arrow. Slowly, he curls your fingers in, creating a loose fist, and then brushes his lips against your knuckles before pulling away.

He does not release your hand. “I know why you left.”

“Thranduil—”

“You did not need to explain. I understand why.” Thranduil reaches out and cups your cheek, turning your face toward him. “I am thankful that you found it, but you are also precious to me, and losing you is a far greater loss.”

You turn into his touch. “That ring is important to you.”

“Many things are important to me. But the ring is just that. A thing. You are breathing. You are here. I would like to keep it that way.”

Your eyes drift close and you revel in the warmth of his touch. “Are you mad?”

“Never.”

“Will you hold me?”

“For as long as you like.”

taglist:

@foxxy-126 @glassgulls @km-ffluv @sweetbutpsychobutsweet @singleteapot @firelightinferno @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @protosslady @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @ninman82 @therealbloom

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elrond sipping his tea: how nice of you to join me for breakfast, thranduil. it’s certainly been a while hasn’t it. you remember bilbo, the hobbit from like seventy years ago? he has a kid now. i know you would just love frodo

thranduil:

thranduil: elrond, where’s my son

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I find it fascinating that they let Legolas go on the journey, because speaking in terms of politics, letting the only known Prince of Mirkwood go on a life-threatening journey to Mordor, presumably, without letting the king of Mirkwood know, is batshit insane.

Random elf: my Lord, are we sure about this?

Elrond: Yup. Because if he does die and the mission fails, Thranduil will kill us faster than Sauron will.

[lost-or-dead]

Y'all

Imagine if Bilbo lost his lil acorn once Smaug was dead.

Throin sees Bilbo looking around all panicked, digging through some pile of gold or gems, and asks about it, and this is where he learns about the acorn.

So of course he offers to help look, while they're looking for the Arkenstone, and eventually they've got the whole company looking for both. Thorin's head seems a little more clear suddenly, so everyone's more looking for the acorn than the arkenstone, because yeah they're looking for the arkenstone, but they'll know it when they see it, they have to CONCENTRAIT to find a lil acorn, and it's important they find IT soon or it'll get crushed, or die or rot. The arkenstone has lasted this long. It'll last a little longer.

And because they've all got he mindset if "yeah thats a bit of gold, but it's not an acorn. Sure sure some pretty gems but it's not an acorn!" In there heads, they stave of the gold sickness.

When Fili shouts, "I found it!" They're all rather disappointing when they realise he means the Arkestone. Thorin pockets it, but they return to their search for the acorn right away.

Then, one day, Thranduil shows up demanding the white gems and Thorin's standing up on the barracks like "Sure, if we come across them."

And Thranduil's like "what do you mean if you come across them?"

"There was a dragon in the mountain for over a century! He wasn't exactly cleaning and we're a bit preoccupied with our own search at the moment! I'll send them your way once we find them! If takes a day or a year, you'll live!" And then he disappears from Thranduil's sight.

Only to reappear after a moment, looking slightly irritated. The hobbit is by his side looking, perhaps hopeful? With a roll of his eyes, Thorin says, bitting out the words like they physically hurt to say "If you would like, perhaps you could send a select few of your most trusted guard, and if they might help us in our search, they can also look for your gems as well?"

Thranduil has never been more caught of guard in his life. Did a dwarf, one whom he'd had imprissoned in his dungeon less than a month ago, just invite his people into his most recently reclaimed treasurey?

"I'm sorry. What?" He blinks up at the dwarf- most elegantly, he assures you.

"Elves have very keen eyes, do you not?" Asks the little hobbit. "We're looking for my acorn, you see, that I got from Beorn the skin changer, I seem to have lost it in the dragon's chase, and we fear it'll be crushed. Throin says your box would likely be in the front of the treasurey, and we haven't searched there yet, though Smaug did follow us through there, so it's a fine place for your people to start. It would be greetly appreciated."

And really. The argument could go on, Thranduil's really not sure he believes there IS an acorn, but if it gets him those damned white gems, fine. He sends Tauriel and her guard, and Legolas volunteers himself.

When Bard shows up asking for aid for the town Thorin throws his hands up. "Your just as bad as the elves! We just got our montain back! Fah! At least you asked for nothing so specific!" And practically chucks a chest full of randomly scooped up gold and gems over at the man. "But if there is an acorn in there, you are to return it immediately!"

There isn't an acorn.

"Why would there be an acorn?" He asks Thranduil that evening as he takes tea with the Elven king who's made camp outside the Lonely Mountain as a statement to the dwarven king he doesn't mean to leave without what's rightfully his, regardless of their compliance.

"His husband appears to be rather attached to it." Thranduil shrugs. "I don't pretent to understand the ways of haflings, but if the hobbit has half so strong a love for that which grows from the earth, as the dwarves do that which is mined from it, and I was a king who'd dragged my consort half way across Middle Earth to risk his life battling a dragon for its hoard, I'd think it wise to have the Mountain turned upside down for one measly acorn as well."

Dain shows up and is about ready to storm the peacefully-aiding-the-humans-at-this-point-because-we're-here-what-else-do-we-have-to-do elves on principle, but Thorin puts a stop to it quick.

It takes Dain a day and a half to realised that Thorin did infact say "they were all looking for an Acorn," yesterday, and several minutes to understand that he was saying "no, we found the Arkenstone days ago," today.

And of course, the orcs and goblins show up and are defeated by the forced of them all, united under Acorn Peace Treaty of 2942

Sadly, weeks go by, and they do not find the acorn. They do eventually find the Gems, and Legolas and the majority of the elves return to Mirkwood, Legolas having made good friends with the Company, especially Gloin (this is a suprise tool that will help him later) but Tauriel remains, and if Thorin wasn't smitten with the hobbit, he might comment on just how close Kili is growing to her. At least she's respectful. Might just teach that boy a think or two. The opposite is, of course, true, and Tauriel becomes just as much a menace as the princes.

As the weeks go by and proper cataloging of the treasury commences, every dwarf who comes to help is shows a picture of the acorn every single morning, and promised a just reward for its discovery.

Eventually, Bilbo has to concede they aren't going to find it, but, well, by then he's not exactly planning to return to the Shire for long enough to care for a sprouting tree.

He does return long enough to stop all his things being auctioned off, no he's not a ghost, thank you very much, and have Bag End transfered to his cousin Drogo and his wife, before setting back out for Erebor with the things he intends to keep.

It's years before anyone thinks of the poor lost little acorn again, decades, infact.

One day, in the early morning of the 21st Durin's day after the reclaiming of Erebor, a dwarf comes rushing from the treasurey to find the Royals preparing for the celebration.

"Is it one of these, your highne- uh, Bilbo, your lost acorn?" He asks, stuttering over the title he knows the hobbit dislikes. "I can't really.... tell them apart."

And Bilbo just blinks, because in the cupped palms of the dwarf's are perhaps 15 or 20 little acorns...

"Where did you find these?" He asks.

"They were in the back."

"The back?" Thorin repeats, then catches himself and shoos the dwarf back the way he came "Show us."

They all- Bilbo and Thorin, the princeses, and a handful of the company who'd been present- follow the dwarf down into the treasurey, and then through the treasurey, past all the neat piles of gold and the many chests of organized gems and stones and all manner of other treasures, until they're presented with a very familiar back door.

Or rather, a hidden passage, tucked away in an alcove, where another handful of acorns' the few the Dwarf who'd brought them the first had likely missed- are scattered about.

"You did... just have the one, right Uncle Bilbo?" Fili asks.

"Or course I just had the one!" Bilbo retorts. "I couldn't have possibly carried that many with me all the way from Beorn's!"

With a resigned sort of sigh, as he begins to piece together the answer to a decades old mystery, Thorin steps forward and follows the tunnel up, up, up, and out of Erebor, the others- save the dwarf who brought them, dismissed by Bilbo with a smile, a thanks, and an oh, no, you may keep those- right behind.

As they walk, the acorns start to increase. Though there's never so many as to begin piling up in the tunnel, by the time they reach the end, the majority of the ground is covered in a solid layer if the little things, and the crunch underfoot as they all emerge onto the ledge which they had all once stood, with batted breath in the moon light as they realised they were at last, truly home.

"Was that here last time?" Kili asked, studying the impressive Oaktree shading the entire ledge that sat in front of the secret entrance to Erebor.

The trunk of the tree was wide and solid, sitting right up against the mountain side, and rather winning the battle of wills against the carved stone architecture of the dwarves. Its limbs grow twisted and wild, up and out in all directions. It's easily 250 or 300 feet tall. There is all sorts of life flittering about in its florishing branches, all covered in brilliant green leaves, and fresh green little acorns.

The growned all around them is covered in acorns as well, so many more than the tunnel.

"No." Thorin says, watching a squirrel dash down from the trunk of the tree, shove several acorns into its cheeks, and dash back up the trunk. "No it was not." He turns to Bilbo, and raises an eyebrow. "Lost it after the dragons chase, you said?"

Beet red and look quite flustered, all Bilbo can manage out is a squicky little "oops."

"'Oops' indeed." Thorin returns, smiling fondly.

[lost-or-dead]