Dwarves despised elves; it was not a secret, most people in Endor knew it to be true. Melkor assumed it was because of what happened between them and Elu Singolo at Menegroth: if elves could hold a grudge centuries upon thousands of years long, then surely so could any other race in Middle-Earth. He’d never had much dealings with dwarves in all honesty, they weren’t the ones attacking him, demanding their family jewels to be returned. However, the issue of conversation still remained: his favorite illusion, his favored skin of choice was elvish, and he wasn’t about to change it for anyone. It wasn’t that he couldn’t, or that any of the dwarves were old enough to recognize it, it was a matter of beauty, and he was a vain creature.
So why come all the way out here to Erebor? In all honesty, it wasn’t particularly that far, Thranduil’s sick forest was right over the next hill, and he’d been bothering the Elven King of the Woodland for quite a while. Not that the blonde could truly do much to remember the incident, he’d made certain of that. The last thing he wanted was for someone to recognize him and alert his brother to his presence, that would put an immediate end to play time. But why come all the way out here to bother Mahal’s people? Easy: the Arkenstone. Rumor had it that it was actually one of the lost Silmarils, and in all truth, those were his as far as he was concerned, especially considering all the filthy, annoying sons of Feanor were all deader than doornails. There was no one left to claim them, and he figured he’d step right in and take a look, find out if it was or wasn’t, and if it was, think of some way to make the Great King Thorin Oakenshield of Erebor give it to him.
But, how to make a dwarf who disliked elves trust and want to talk to an elf? He’d heard that Thorin and Thranduil had come to some sort of agreement after the war, but at the same time, it was all speculation. Thranduil never confirmed or denied it, but then again, he never confirmed or denied anything. Ruddy pain in the arse as far was he was concerned. He hoped that this dwarvish king was a bit easier, though he doubted it. In his defense, he wasn’t exactly an elf.
He considered changing his appearance for a moment. He could claim to be a servant of Mahal… A smile touched his lips for a moment: they were all extremely lovely, some far more than others. Unfortunately, the issue with being a servant of Mahal is that it meant that he could make things, and unfortunately, that was the entire problem with his existence: he couldn’t make anything. It was why he loved Mairon so much, he could make anything… and it was beautiful when he was done with it.
Perhaps it was best to just see what he could see. With Erebor rebuilt, and Thorin as their King, many people came and went inside of the great mountain fortress. It was not that far fetched for an elf to come to see the greatness, he assumed. He was not going to be a child though, that never worked out in his favor, ever.
((So. I think you’re awesome. I especially loved your “must not have horrendous English” bit, and I thought perhaps we could write something together. So, this is a bit of an AU, where Thorin doesn’t die. I hope it works. I hope you like it. I sent it this way, because it was just easier than doing a short tiny post in an ask.
~Cheers.))
 Dwarves were, quite possibly, the most stubborn race that graced Middle-Earth, for they were fast in friendship and enmity; strong willed and formidably troublesome to corrupt, Thorin II Oakenshield, King under the Mountain, Lord of Silver Fountains, was perhaps the finest example of his kin. The greatest dwarrow-king of his time had been brutishly tried by the misfortune of his people, his character forged and tempered in the wake of relentless adversities. Though he retained his characteristic quick temper, he had learnt to be wise and understanding through the counsel of his closest friends, for he had seen death behind his eyelids and had almost let go of the last breath of life on the battlefield, to leave the world and the people he had loved so much torn by his foolish actions, and unforgiven.
He was such fool no longer, and he understood it as having been given a second chance by Mahal. He was not particularly devout, but the Allfather’s name featured amongst whispered words in great stone halls more often than it ever had before. He still was not overly fond of Elves or Men for that matter, despite the recent understandings - unbeknownst to him it was an innate trait that caused him to distrust the children of Ilúvatar, save for the gentle souls of Hobbits. All, however, were free to enter his kingdom after being granted passage through Dale, provided that they were respectful and abided by the rules.
 A thusly blessed kingdom, Erebor’s glittering peak was a jewel in the sun and moon light alike, the last stalwart, luxuriant fortress before the Northern wastelands, lifeless brand of the Dark Ones; they dared not venture to those lands, but Thorin set plenty of scouts and sentinels on the task of guarding the borders and keeping the lands deserted, so that the scattered bands of defeated Orcs would not think to reassemble there a second time. Those who entered the kingdom were welcome, yet carefully scrutinised, and guards and onlookers aplenty kept a close eye on every corner of the subterranean capital. Proud, but not incautious was in fact he, who had lived not a sheltered life, but was privy to the dangers and ills that lurked around them, silently waiting under the cover of weaving shadows.
 The thought never left his mind; though he was a king, he rarely sat upon his stone carved throne, and the crown weighed heavy on him, like the lingering strains of a sickening, ancient greed - a reminder of something too ghastly to fathom. The arcane, beguiling relics which had torn his mind from him were locked away, far from his sight yet unsuccessfully so from his thoughts; hollow stood the socket above the seat of kings, and a crack still ran in the middle of it. Erebor’s great wealth was on display for all to see and enjoy, but its heart would never be again.
 But what of the king’s waning heart? It was quiet in his breast, and sometimes he doubted it was there at all; at those times a strangely feverish longing would overtake him, and invisible strings of relentless persuasion would tug at his every limb, compelling him to seek that which could fill the seemingly vacant vault in his chest. Royal duties, social interactions and the endless barrage of diplomatic relations provided a most tiresome distraction during the day; at night he slept little, and nourished himself even less so. When others lay to rest he was wont to roam the magnificent halls of his people, inspecting every crevice and corner, every glittering vein and every curving shadow, every stack and pile of treasure, and unfinished masterpieces, artfully lit by smouldering braziers, crowned by dancing flames. He would keenly gaze at the abating embers of the great forges, bathed in orange glow, and reminisce of a time of hardship wherein he was a master smith and he earned a living through his exquisite trade. He had, after all, the soul of a maker beneath the bearing of a leader, but few were left who remembered him in such a guise.
