"Great. A teammate with the brains of a troll."
Eric groaned and slapped his forehead. With the way Thorin had just mouthed off, not even Gandalf summoning ten more Great Eagles could've saved them from Thranduil's volcanic temper.
Frankly, the only reason the elves hadn't drawn their blades was out of a lingering sense of solidarity as fellow free folk.
Honestly, Eric couldn't blame them. If roles were reversed, he probably would've tossed Thorin in a cell too, then thrown away the key for dramatic flair.
If Gandalf were here, he'd be puffing his pipe with irritation and muttering something along the lines of, "Thorin, you monumental idiot."
Eric tried a diplomatic approach. "Your Majesty, as you know, dwarves... aren't exactly master negotiators."
"I'm well aware," Thranduil interrupted coldly. "They're as stubborn as granite, and let's not forget - they broke the oath first. And now Thorin has the gall to accuse me of abandoning them?"
His voice had taken on that regal venom that could freeze a Balrog in its tracks.
"Even if I did let them go," Thranduil continued, "we'd be setting ourselves up for another tragedy - another king descending into madness."
Eric had no counterargument to that. He sighed. The dwarves had gone back on their word, and that betrayal had long poisoned elven-dwarven relations. And at the root of it all? Greed.
Dwarven greed, stirred and bloated by a certain dark lord with a nasty habit of handing out cursed rings like party favors. If anyone was to blame, it was Sauron. But pointing fingers wouldn't solve anything now.
Still, something else had been gnawing at Eric since their conversation began.
"I noticed earlier, Your face... you have a wound."
Thranduil flinched ever so slightly. He hadn't expected Eric to bring that up.
"Yes. A burn," he admitted quietly. "Dragonfire. It never fully healed."
The king's face, normally immaculate, was in truth disfigured - half of it charred and raw. He usually masked it with elven glamour, but to Eric's eyes, it was more obvious: Thranduil's health bar was perpetually stuck below max.
[HP: 27/30]
Without a word, Eric pulled a gleaming golden apple from his satchel. The faint hum of magic caught the elven king's attention immediately.
Thranduil's sharp eyes narrowed. "What is this?"
"A small gift. A token of goodwill, from me to you. It may help... with the wound."
He turned the fruit over in his palm. "It's beautiful. Powerful. I can sense the magic, it radiates with healing energy. But... I doubt even this could cure that."
Even among elves, healing magic wasn't uncommon. Many could simply will their wounds away over time. But this scar had defied every effort. The dragon's fire had left a curse behind, a sickness that resisted even elven restoration.
Eric smiled. "Still, worth a try, isn't it?"
Crunch.
After a moment's hesitation, Thranduil bit into the apple.
To his surprise, it wasn't metallic or strange, just sweet, fragrant, and strangely nostalgic. Then the magic hit him.
Warmth surged through his veins, spreading to every limb. His illusion magic slipped, revealing the scorched, twisted flesh beneath. The damaged tissue began to stir, fighting back against the lingering dragon's curse.
Thranduil gritted his teeth as magic and malice clashed on his skin, pain and tingling crawling across his face.
But the apple's power pressed on. The healing light overwhelmed the curse, and slowly, miraculously - new skin began to knit over the wound.
[HP: 30/30]
"Well, looks like it worked," Eric said casually, as if he hadn't just handed the king an artifact of divine restoration.
Thranduil stared in stunned silence, fingers brushing his now-smooth cheek.
"I... it's gone. After all these years... it's truly healed."
His voice trembled. There was a softness to it that Eric hadn't heard before.
"You have my deepest thanks, Eric. This wound... it has tormented me for decades."
[Reputation with Woodland Realm +500]
Current Reputation: 1000 (Ally)
Thranduil stood straighter, his regal tone returning. "From this day forward, you are an honored ally of the Woodland Realm. Should you ever need it, we will answer your call."
An oath was spoken.
No fanfare. No loud declarations. Just a few solemn words and a promise that carried real weight.
Eric could tell by the notification in his interface: this was no idle elven courtesy. They meant it. If before the elves respected his strength, now they saw him as one of their own - a comrade worth raising arms for.
"I appreciate it," Eric replied. "But aid goes both ways. If you ever have need, I won't turn a blind eye."
Then, with a casual pivot, he added, "I heard there's a gem in Erebor that used to belong to the Woodland Realm."
Thranduil's expression froze. This human really didn't believe in small talk.
"That's no ordinary gem," the king said slowly. "It has... significance. I've tried to retrieve it many times. Always in vain. And now that Smaug has taken the mountain, I've all but given up hope."
"What if I brought it back?" Eric asked.
The king raised an eyebrow.
"Then I would owe you a king's promise."
A pause. Then Thranduil added, "About those dwarves… I know you traveled with them. I'll see that they're unharmed. But I can't release them - at least not yet. Not until my interests are addressed."
"I understand." Eric nodded. "Still, not all of them are as... pigheaded as Thorin. Some might actually listen to reason."
"I'll keep that in mind," the king replied, his tone softening slightly.
Truth be told, there was no way he could just let the dwarves go. The bad blood between their races was ancient, deep, and freshly stirred. And while Eric could probably tunnel through the dungeon wall if he really wanted to, he wasn't sure what consequences that would unleash.
Then again… he had a feeling someone else might handle that part for him.
Their conversation ended shortly after.
Eric left the throne room and flagged down a passing elf for directions.
"The prison wing is that way."
He was just about to go check on the dwarves when a sudden burst of noise drifted from a nearby chamber. Curious, Eric followed the sound until he found a group of elves chatting animatedly near a large storeroom.
"We're preparing for the festival!" someone was saying.
A familiar voice rang out behind him. "You're just in time."
Eric turned to see Legolas, casually tossing a fruit up and down in one hand.
"Festival?" Eric asked.
"The Starfall Feast," Legolas explained. "An old tradition. It's set for seven days from now. You're welcome to attend."
Eric shook his head. "Tempting, but I've got business. Gandalf and I are meeting in Dol Guldur seven days from today."
Besides, partying while your companions are rotting in elven jail didn't sit right, even if said companions did kind of deserve it.
Still, his worries were about to be interrupted.
Someone had come looking for him.
"Bilbo."