Lonely Dragon {Legolas x Reader}

Shadows of War

The makeshift camp of Laketown's survivors bustled with activity. Despite their exhaustion and grief, the people moved with grim determination, packing supplies, gathering the essentials for the long march ahead. Children huddled by small fires, while men and women prepared to leave the wreckage behind. Bard moved among them, his voice steady but firm.

"Take only what you need," Bard instructed as he passed through the camp. "We have a long march ahead."

Nearby, Legolas stood watchful, his keen eyes scanning the horizon. He sensed the growing tension, the silent threat looming over them. Something was coming—something darker than even Smaug's shadow. He turned to Bard, his voice calm but urgent. "Where will you go?"

Bard paused, looking out across the dark waters of the lake. The Lonely Mountain loomed in the distance, its towering form still visible even with the morning light casting long shadows across the land. He spoke softly, but his words carried the weight of hard decisions. "There is only one place."

Alfrid, ever the opportunist, shoved his way forward, a sly grin creeping across his face. "The mountain!" he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. "You are a genius, sire! We can take refuge inside the mountain. It might smell a bit of dragon, but the women can clean up. It will be safe, warm, and dry—and full of stores! Bedding, clothing... maybe even the odd bit of gold!"

Bard's eyes flashed with disgust. He grabbed a bundle of sticks from the ground and shoved it into Alfrid's hands. "What gold is in that mountain is cursed," Bard said sharply. "We will take only what was promised to us—only what we need to rebuild our lives."

With that, Bard turned and walked off, leaving Alfrid standing there, clutching the sticks awkwardly. Alfrid, too proud to carry them himself, dumped the bundle into the arms of an old woman already laden with supplies.

"Here—pull your weight!" Alfrid barked at her, ignoring her scowl as he scurried off.

Legolas watched the exchange in silence, but his mind was elsewhere. His gaze travelled out across the lake, past the ruins of Laketown, toward the distant mountain. His brow furrowed in concern.

"News of the death of Smaug will have spread through the lands," Legolas said, his voice tight with worry.

"Aye," Bard agreed, packing the last of his belongings. He knew Legolas spoke true—there would be others now, drawn by the promise of Erebor's wealth.

"Others will now look to the mountain," Legolas continued, his tone grim, "for its wealth, or its position."

Bard studied Legolas for a moment, noting the elf's guarded expression. "What is it you know?"

Legolas hesitated, his elven instincts warning him of dangers still unseen. "Nothing for certain. It's what I fear may come."

Bard could see that Legolas wasn't just concerned about the wealth of the mountain. His eyes kept shifting, as if searching for something—or someone. And Bard wasn't stupid. He had seen that look before.

"I upset her," Bard said suddenly, breaking the silence.

Legolas turned, his expression confused. "Who?"

"(Y/n)," Bard replied, his voice heavy with guilt.

Legolas's eyes darkened. His usual calm demeanor wavered for a split second as he narrowed his gaze on Bard. "What did you do?"

Bard took a deep breath. "I was the one to kill Smaug."

Legolas froze, his breath catching in his throat. He knew what a dragon's death meant to (Y/n) and her people—he knew the sacred bond between her kind and the great fire-breathing beasts. Killing a dragon wasn't just an act of battle. To (Y/n), it was something far more profound.

Long ago, before the world knew peace, when the Dracagoth ruled the lands of Mordor, killing a dragon was considered an act of war. A declaration that no dragon, no creature of flame, was safe. And now, Bard had done just that. He had severed a bond that (Y/n) would never forgive.

Legolas clenched his fists, trying to quell the rising tension in his chest. He knew that Bard had done what he must, but (Y/n) would not see it that way. Her people had a long memory, and Smaug's death—despite the destruction he had caused—would be a wound to her soul.

Far to the north, the rocky plains stretched endlessly toward the Lonely Mountain. The cold wind swept across the barren land, carrying the scent of battle and blood. At the head of a vast company of Orcs rode Azog, the Pale Orc, his massive white warg snarling as it bounded over the rugged terrain. His eyes gleamed with hatred and anticipation, his one remaining hand clutching the reins tightly. His other arm had been replaced long ago—a deadly blade now took its place, gleaming in the dim light.

Azog's destination was clear. The Lonely Mountain stood tall in the distance, a beacon of wealth and power. But he sought more than gold. He sought revenge. He sought dominion.

Bolg, riding his own snarling warg, came charging in from the direction of Laketown. He dismounted swiftly, his face twisted with the cruelty that marked his kind.

"Woodland Elves!" Bolg growled, his voice rough. "The King's son and a She-elf—they tracked us down to Laketown."

Azog halted his company with a single raised arm, the blade glinting in the light. His eyes narrowed.

"And you killed them?" Azog asked, his voice deceptively calm.

Bolg grinned savagely. "They fled, squealing like cowards."

Azog's smile twisted into a snarl. He backhanded Bolg with his bladed arm, sending him sprawling into the dirt. "You fool!" Azog roared. "They will return—with an army of Elves at their backs!"

Bolg picked himself up, rubbing his jaw, but his expression turned dark with worry. "There is more..." Bolg hesitated, then spat the name with disgust. "(Y/n) was there."

Azog's growl deepened, his eyes burning with fury at the mere mention of her name. The bloodlust that had fueled his campaign for so long simmered just beneath the surface. His master, Sauron, had long wanted (Y/n) to return to her rightful place—leading his armies once again, commanding his legions with fire and fury. Her presence in Laketown was no coincidence.

Azog turned, his voice a deadly snarl. "Ride to Gundabad," he ordered, his words filled with venom. "Let the Legions come forth."

Bolg grunted in assent, kicking his warg into motion as he sped off toward Gundabad, the ancient stronghold of the Orcs. Azog watched him go, his mind already racing ahead to the coming war. His bladed arm gleamed as he raised it high, turning to face the vast ranks of Orcs before him.

"Elves! Men! Dwarves!" Azog roared, his voice echoing across the plains. "The Mountain will be their tomb!"

With a savage snarl, Azog kicked his warg into motion, leading the army toward the Lonely Mountain. His voice carried on the wind, filled with the promise of bloodshed.

"To war!"