Beware of pissed off hobbits
That had been one of the last pieces of advice given to the elves by Yavanna. It had been amongst other well intended advice from the Valar, so much so, that it wasn’t exactly the elves fault that they forgot it. Especially concerning the events that surrounded much of their history between when the advice had been given and when the advice had actually been useful.
Someone should have written it down somewhere. Maybe they had, maybe it was simply just lost in the vast archives of the elves, maybe it had been burned, maybe it had been used as impromptu toilet paper.
Whatever the case may be Thranduil did not have that important tidbit of information.
Yet staring into the unamused expression of a being who was less than half his height, Thranduil wanted to strangle whichever of his kin had forgotten to keep that information from him. It would be useful, very useful indeed, because something that small should not be more terrifying than Mithrandir. It should not make him feel like he had somehow done it the most egregious wrong. Like he had somehow managed to take the sweets from a small child, kill a horde’s worth of small defenseless animals, kick some elderly mortal, and burn a meadow of lovely wildflowers and grass that was home to friendly woodland creatures.
He had never felt more desperate to amend whatever wrongs he had committed and to amend for them now with such passionate urgency that he wondered if there was no small feat of magic being used on him.
He was Thranduil! He was an elven king to be feared, he was to be given respect and awe.
This…this hobbit made him feel much like a naughty child who had been declaring himself king wearing nothing but a pair of overturned undergarments on his head and a sheet for a cloak standing on the kitchen table with a wooden spoon as a scepter. He felt like he should take off his crown and go back to his room and wait there until the hobbit had chosen to forgive him.
He hadn’t even met this hobbit!
This hobbit had no sway over him!
Mithrandir was a traitor for not meeting his eye and helping him to get out of this mess!
Beware of pissed off hobbits
“He doesn’t even want me in there.”
It was all Thranduil could think of to say to try and get out of this mess. They were the words of a man trying desperately to grab a hold of anything to float before being swept off to sea.
It was only after the words left his mouth that Thranduil realized that he had not grabbed a hold of a rope and was clinging to safety. No, he had grabbed a hold of a poisonous snake that was about to bite him in the face. That was attached to a great more fearsome monster that would devour his soul.
In the shape of an unassuming plain faced hobbit.
“Get in there and fix them this instant!”
The Halfling pointed at the royal tents as he stomped his foot.
“I didn’t do that to them though! It was Azog! Blame him!”
He wasn’t whining. The king of the woodland elves didn’t whine, nor did he sulk.
“Get. In. The. Tent. And. Fix. Them.”
The words were ground out and Thranduil sent one last painfully desperate look at Mithrandir who was just serenely smiling in his direction but not actually at him before sweeping into the royal tent.
He was being kind! Offering a branch of peace, not being cowed by a creature half his size. He was doing this of his own free will, not because a Halfling had terrified him. He was doing this because he was an elf and elves were above such petty grievances, not because he was certain he didn’t want to face the horrors the hobbit would inflict on him should he refuse to heal the halfling’s adopted family.
“What…are…you doing in here? Get out.”
“Believe me Thorin, son of Thrain, King Slowly Bleeding to Death Next To And Not Under The Mountain, I would very much rather not be in here and tend to my own people. But I am not going to…anger your husband further by refusing his express command.”
“Wife.” The dwarf king grunted, still eyeing the elven king with a measure of distrust.
“He’s a…oh yes, I forgot. Well now I can understand how you escaped my dungeons with a dwarven woman in your midst.”
“Hobbit. He’s a hobbit. Don’t mistake him for a dwarf. Bad things happen when you do.”
“Sounds like someone learned that lesson the hard way.”
Thranduil muttered that last one under his breath. Antagonizing Thorin would only given him a small amount of pleasure compared to the pain he would undoubtedly experience at the hands of the hobbit. That was something he wished to avoid. Hence why he was in here and looking at Thorin’s wounds with a frown on his face.
It was days of work ahead of him, in repairing the broken king. Honestly Thranduil didn’t think he could completely repair the man, some injuries couldn’t be healed. Except there was a hobbit, an angry hobbit, waiting outside the tent. That tiny creature whose wrath was more terrible than a dragon’s (which Thranduil had learned could also tame a dragon) was waiting outside, for him. He would die if he didn’t save Thorin and his nephews. He would suffer atrocities worse than what Morgoth could ever imagine.
He didn’t know what a Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was, but Thranduil never hoped to find out what particular manner of torture device it was.
Especially since it was horrific enough to make a dragon forgo its evil nature and submit to a hobbit. Smaug the Terrible was waiting outside, close to the mountain and petulantly whining about how he was sorry and he didn’t mean to cause such trouble and that the dwarves really didn’t need all that gold and he was going to be very very very good if only the Halfling could forgive him. The dragon was promising to be on his best behavior so long as he wasn’t left alone.
Thranduil didn’t know if he should be impressed or terrified that the Halfling had effectively tamed a dragon.
Beware of pissed off hobbits
That was probably the soundest most crucial piece of advice given to the elves. Pity they only remembered it now.