Lonely Dragon {Legolas x Reader}

Betrayal

The morning sun struggled to break through the thick veil of smoke that hung over the shores of Laketown. The stench of charred wood and death clung to the air as survivors huddled together, seeking warmth amid the devastation. They were broken, but alive—alive because of one man.

Among the wreckage, a woman moved quickly, handing out blankets to those shivering from cold and shock. Her eyes were sharp, her movements brisk, determined to offer what little comfort she could.

"These are dry," she said firmly, thrusting a blanket into the hands of a shivering man. "You need them."

"Thank you," he muttered, his voice weak with exhaustion.

Alfrid, ever the opportunist, shoved his way through the crowd, his eyes wild with desperation. "Oi! Give me one of them!" he barked. "I'll catch my death in this cold!"

The woman glared at him, pulling the blankets away from his reach. "Oh, find your own! You're not in charge now, Alfrid Blackspell!"

Alfrid's face twisted into a sneer. "That's where you're wrong," he hissed. "In the absence of the Master, the power cedes to his deputy, which in this instance is my good self. Now give me that blanket!"

He reached out and snatched at one of the blankets, but the woman held firm, tugging it back with a snarl of defiance.

"Master's deputy?" she scoffed. "Don't make me laugh."

With a quick yank, she freed the blanket from his grip and, with a swift motion, began hitting Alfrid with it.

"You're a sneak-thief, more like! I'll be dead before I answer to the likes of you!"

Furious, Alfrid lunged forward and grabbed her arm, his face contorted with rage. "Maybe that can be arranged!" he spat, raising his hand as if to strike her.

Before he could land the blow, another hand caught his wrist in a vice-like grip. Alfrid flinched, his eyes widening as he realized who had stopped him. Bard, face stern, leaned in close, his voice low and dangerous.

"I wouldn't go turning on your own, Alfrid," Bard growled. "Not now."

With a swift movement, Bard spun Alfrid around, sending him stumbling backward. Alfrid tripped over Bain's outstretched foot and crashed to the ground in an undignified heap. Bain and the woman exchanged a satisfied smile.

"DA!" The joyful cries of Bard's daughters, Sigrid and Tilda, broke through the tension. They ran through the crowd and threw themselves into their father's arms.

Bard dropped to his knees, gathering them both into a fierce hug. "It's alright," he whispered, his voice thick with relief. "It's alright."

As the townspeople began to gather, a man stepped forward—Percy, the old gatekeeper who once checked papers at the docks. His voice boomed across the crowd. "It was Bard! He killed the dragon! I saw it with my own eyes! He brought the beast down! Shot him dead, with a Black Arrow!"

The crowd erupted into cheers. People surged forward, laying their hands on Bard in gratitude, their voices filled with awe and thanks.

"You saved us all!"

"Thank you, Bard! We owe you everything!"

But amidst the joyous celebration, a cold fury was building, unnoticed by the townsfolk. From the edge of the crowd, (Y/n) pushed forward, her eyes blazing with rage. Her steps were measured, but her body shook with an anger so deep it felt like fire coursing through her veins.

"You!" Her voice was low, dripping with malice.

The crowd fell silent as (Y/n) stalked toward Bard, her gaze locked on him like a predator eyeing its prey. Bard instinctively took a step back, confusion and apprehension written across his face. The townsfolk, sensing something dangerous in her approach, retreated, creating a wide circle around them.

(Y/n) kept moving, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword, her eyes never leaving Bard. Her steps were heavy, each one echoing the rising storm of fury within her. Her body felt tense, coiled like a viper ready to strike. The dragon she had sworn to protect, the bond they shared—Smaug, one of the last of his kind—had been slain, and this man before her was the one responsible. The fire within her burned hot, urging her to end him where he stood.

Her voice, when it came, was sharp and dangerous, cutting through the silence like a blade. "I told you I would help with the dragon... I gave you my honor... my thanks." Her words dripped with betrayal and pain.

Bard swallowed hard, glancing at the sword hilt she gripped tightly, then back at her face. He saw the rage in her eyes, a rage that promised death. "Please..." he began, his voice trembling slightly, unsure if any words could prevent what was about to come.

But (Y/n) was beyond hearing his plea. She unsheathed her blade slowly, the sound of steel ringing through the air, drawing a collective gasp from the townspeople. Bard's daughters clung to him in fear, their wide eyes darting between their father and the imposing figure of (Y/n).

Her hand trembled, not with fear, but with the overwhelming urge to kill him. The sword in her hand felt like an extension of her fury, her desire for vengeance. All it would take was one swift motion—one cut—and it would be over. Her breathing quickened as she stepped closer, the tip of her blade inches from Bard's throat.

Bard flinched, his eyes squeezing shut, bracing for the inevitable sting of steel.

Instead, there was the sharp sound of metal snapping. The weight of the dragon-tooth necklace fell from Bard's neck. When he opened his eyes, (Y/n) stood before him, clutching the broken tooth in her hand. For a fleeting moment, sorrow flashed across her face—an echo of the bond she had with the dragon. But it was gone as quickly as it had come. Her expression hardened, and she glared at Bard with venomous hatred.

She had wanted to kill him. Every fiber of her being screamed for it, the desire for revenge nearly choking her. But something held her back—something deep inside her, a flicker of the person she had become over the years. A part of her knew that this path, the path of vengeance, would only bring more ruin. And despite everything, Bard was not her true enemy.

"You are no friend," she hissed, unsheathing her sword with a smooth, lethal motion.

Bard's heart pounded in his chest. "Please... no..." he whispered, his voice barely audible.

(Y/n) raised her sword and pressed the cold steel against Bard's neck. The sharp edge bit into his skin just enough to draw a thin line of blood. The townspeople gasped, but none dared intervene—except for one man who rushed forward, foolishly thinking he could stop her.

Without even glancing at him, (Y/n) flicked her wrist. In one swift movement, a dagger flew from her hand, burying itself in the man's foot. He howled in pain as he was pinned to the ground, his hands scrambling uselessly at the blade.

(Y/n)'s eyes never left Bard. Her grip on the sword tightened, her arm trembling as she fought the final battle within herself. One swing, and it would be over. But what would it accomplish? Smaug would still be dead, and this man's blood on her hands would do nothing to bring him back. The fire within her still raged, but now, for the first time, she felt the weight of what she was about to do.

"No," she growled, her voice low and filled with a new kind of determination, one that surprised even herself. "You are going to live, Bard. But know this—you live because I let you."

With a sharp, final motion, she sheathed her sword, the tension in the air snapping like a bowstring. She turned, her cloak swirling around her as she walked away. Before she could disappear into the crowd, she yanked the dagger from the man's foot, ignoring his scream of agony.

The townspeople, once filled with joy and relief, now stood in stunned silence. None dared approach (Y/n) as she strode away, her presence a storm that had torn through them all. The heavy weight of her wrath hung in the air long after she was gone.

Bard stood frozen, blood still trickling from the shallow cut on his neck. His daughters clung to him, their small faces filled with fear. He watched (Y/n) leave, the look of sadness and terror etched into his features. She had saved him once, but now, he wasn't sure if he had truly survived.