High above the eaves of the Mirkwood, the shadow of the dragon eclipsed the sun.
Keith heard the frantic blare of the conch shells and saw the silver glint of Elven warriors moving through the trees like ghosts. His gaze locked onto the high terrace where Thranduil stood.
"Thranduil! I have not come for war. Lower your bows," Keith's voice boomed, carrying a resonance that vibrated through the Elven-king's very bones.
Thranduil had already woven the illusion back over his face, hiding the charred ruin of his scars behind a mask of cold, ethereal beauty. "Then for what purpose do you violate my borders, Fire-drake?"
"To make a friend," Keith rumbled, "and perhaps to strike a bargain."
With a thought, Keith reached into his system storage. He manifested a shimmering, crystalline object: the White Gem Necklace of Lasgalen.
Thranduil's composure shattered. His eyes widened, fixed upon the glittering stones. To the King of the Wood-elves, those gems were a piece of his soul, a legacy of his lost wife. Decades ago, his obsession with those stones had fueled a bitter feud with the Dwarves, indirectly leading to the fall of Erebor and the ruin of the North.
The King fell silent, his mind a whirlwind of calculation and desperate desire.
Keith broke the silence. "I am told these belong to your house. I see no reason to keep what is not mine. Shall we see them returned to their rightful master?"
Thranduil's heart hammered against his ribs. "And what is the price of such a gift?"
"Could I perhaps come down to discuss it?" Keith asked, his tone almost conversational. "Hovering like this is quite exhausting, you know."
"..." Thranduil stared up at him, momentarily speechless. He had never heard a dragon speak with such... mundane exhaustion. It was unsettling.
The King looked down at his archers, all notched and ready to loose. If he showed fear now, his authority would be diminished. But the gems were right there—and the dragon had not yet breathed a spark of fire.
Does he seek to draw me close for a killing blow? Thranduil wondered. He weighed the risk against the reward. Finally, he straightened his back. "Descend then, Smaug."
"Much obliged," Keith replied.
He landed with practiced grace a short distance from the King's terrace, the ground trembling under his weight. He gently placed the necklace upon a flat stone. "A fine piece of jewelry, truly. Certainly not something those greedy Dwarves should have hoarded in the dark."
Thranduil loathed the Dwarves, but he was too wise to be baited into an agreement. He stood as close as he dared to the creature that could turn him to ash in a heartbeat, wanting only to hear the terms and end this encounter.
"The price," Thranduil repeated, his voice a cold blade.
"You are a creature of little patience. You won't even offer a guest a cup of wine?" Keith teased, sensing the King's mounting irritation and fear. "Very well, to business."
"You know I have established my sovereignty. My kingdom is currently... lacking in infrastructure. I wish to trade these gems for your cooperation."
Thranduil tilted his head, his brow furrowing. "That is all?"
Was the dragon truly this simple? Had a century of sleep addled his wits?
"I require vast quantities of food, fine wine, and a workforce to rebuild Dale and the exterior of my palace," Keith explained. "Erebor needs a face-lift. Those two massive Dwarven statues at the gate? Dreadful. I want them gone."
He is serious, Thranduil realized with a start. He truly intends to build a nation out of ash and a few hundred mortals. It seemed a fool's errand, but the gems were real.
"A king's time and the labor of the Firstborn are not cheaply bought," Thranduil began, his mercantile instincts kicking in. "Food and wine are one thing, but to send my people to labor for a dragon..."
Clatter—shhhh—
Keith didn't wait for the counter-offer. He tilted his head back, "regurgitating" a massive pile of gold coins from his system storage directly onto the terrace floor.
"I trust this covers the 'unfairness' of the trade," Keith remarked. "And perhaps it might even buy me that drink."
Thranduil stared at the gold. The bargain was struck. To refuse now was to invite the very fire he sought to avoid.
"I shall have it sent up," the King said through gritted teeth.
"Legolas," Keith called out, his voice booming toward the courtyard below. "Bring up a cup of your finest woodland vintage, if you please. My thanks!"
In the courtyard, Legolas—who had been standing with his bow drawn—stumbled in shock. "What...?"
Thranduil's eyes flared with alarm. How did the beast know his son's name? Had they met before? The mystery of this dragon only grew deeper.
A few moments later, a wary Legolas arrived with a large, fragrant chalice of elven wine.
Gulp—
Keith took the chalice in his teeth, tilted his head, and let the liquid slide down his throat.
"Exquisite," Keith lied; truthfully, he could barely taste a drop at his scale, but the gesture was the point. "Old neighbor, I shall expect the same when I return. Until next time."
With a sudden snap of his wings, Keith took to the sky.
Thranduil and Legolas stood in the silence he left behind, their faces etched with confusion.
"Father," Legolas whispered, "what has happened to the world?"
"He has gone mad," Thranduil replied, though his hand gripped the white gems with a trembling intensity.
Thranduil moved with the legendary efficiency of his people.
By mid-afternoon, a flotilla of elven boats laden with wine, grain, timber, and hundreds of skilled Elven craftsmen set sail toward the ruins of Dale. By three o'clock, the column of Elves arrived at the city gates.
Bard met them, his eyes wide with disbelief as he learned of the dragon's "negotiation."
As the news spread through the camp of refugees, the atmosphere began to shift. The crushing weight of fear began to crack, replaced by a strange, bewildered gratitude.
"The beast... he did this for us?"
"He sent the high and mighty Elves to build our houses?"
"He told us to plant fields... we'll have fresh greens and fruit by summer."
"Perhaps... perhaps serving him isn't so bad after all."
The common folk of Middle-earth were not so different from those of Keith's old world. Loyalty was rarely a matter of philosophy; it was a matter of full bellies and a warm roof.
[Loyalty +5]
[Loyalty +8]
[Loyalty +12]
Back at the foot of the Lonely Mountain, Keith was busily devouring a roasted sheep in single bites. He watched the notifications scroll across his vision and looked toward the rebuilding city of Dale with a satisfied, almost maternal smile.
Everything was going exactly to plan.