A Single Dream is More Powerful Than a Thousand Realities

Descending Towards Madness and War

It was far worse than Gandalf had supposed.

It had been a week.

The displaced citizens of Laketown were safe and recovering. Their malnourished forms were beginning to regain their normal strength. Sullen, sunken faces were filling out, hollowed eyes were starting to shine brighter and the soft laughter of children could be heard echoing down the halls, rising through the tree branches and bouncing off the stone.

Wounds had been bound and attended to by healers.

The elves were very solicitous in caring for their temporary guests.

But the peaceful reprieve could not last.

And war was drawing closer and far quicker than Gandalf believe possible.

He knew that the enemy was moving towards Erebor, but he never suspected that the enemy would be so massive in number. Orcs from Gundabad and goblins from the Misty Mountain strongholds were descending upon the people, upon Thranduil's home, and upon Erebor.

Especially Erebor.

For what purpose, though? Smaug was dead. What could they hope to achieve with invading the dwarf kingdom?

Beorn seemed to believe that it was partially a revenge plot.

"The orcs descended upon that company of dwarves before they even entered the woodland. And they would have followed them into the trees had I not provided...distraction for those filthy black blooded beasts. And when I tracked those who got away, they led me to their leader's remains." Beorn then fixed Gandalf with a hard glare, "The company had been there as well. Those creatures must have understood as much as well."

"It does seem a plausible explanation," Thranduil remarked quietly, as he paced through the room slowly, circling the dias, running his hand over the smooth wood of the throne, "Thorin Oakenshield certainly has a penchant for attracting far more enemies than allies. And with your...involvement with the goblin king, Mithrandir, and freeing Master Oakenshield and the others from the goblin stronghold,

the entire race will fall upon that mountain. Orc and Goblin aligned for a common purpose."

Thranduil stopped his pacing, his eyes narrowing as he gazed at Gandalf carefully, thoughtfully.

"Though, perhaps," He murmured, "That does not explain everything. My son tells me that our scouts have recovered the remains of one of our own guard, slain deep in the forest, far from the path." Thranduil's gaze shifted to Legolas who stood near one of the larger pillars encircling the raised throne.

The blonde elf prince nodded slowly, "It would appear that the body was one of the guards who was in charge of tending to the dwarves during their...time...here. His name was Galion. And from reports by the dwarves themselves, Master Galion was not overly fond of Master Oakenshield and his company." Legolas frowned, "He was...prone to anger against them and attacked the young hobbit when she attempted to free them."

Gandalf's eyes narrowed at the thought.

"And here I supposed the elves to be the most level headed race," He muttered darkly, turning towards Thranduil, "It would appear that the graciousness of your halls have somewhat lessened of late, Thranduil, king. Spies within your own guard? That does not bode well."

"Indeed," Thranduil remarked stoic but with narrowed eyes, a frown marring his perfect features, "It's a curious thing, this evil. Through the smallest cracks it seeps and distorts goodness."

The thoughtful gaze returned to Gandalf's face and the wizard regarded the elf king with an intrigued wariness, gripping his staff tightly in his hands.