Dawn broke over Dale, casting a pale light over the ruined city. The survivors of Laketown huddled in makeshift camps, the air heavy with the sounds of infants crying and the low murmur of worried voices. The wounded lay on tattered blankets, and the healthy did what they could to tend to them, but resources were running dangerously low. The scent of fear and desperation lingered in the cold morning air.
A group of men sat nearby, their faces grim with exhaustion and hunger.
"These children are starving!" one man said, his voice sharp with urgency. "We need food!"
Another man, his voice barely a whisper of hopelessness, added, "We won't last three days like this."
Percy, one of Bard's trusted men, approached him, his brow furrowed with concern. "Bard, we don't have enough," he said quietly, the weight of responsibility hanging heavily on his shoulders.
Bard, his own face drawn and weary, nodded. "Do what you can, Percy," he replied, though he knew the situation was becoming dire.
A woman, her voice cracking with worry, called out, "We need more water."
Bard turned to her, his tone firm but compassionate. "The children, the wounded, and the women come first."
He began walking towards where Alfrid had been stationed as a lookout, but as he approached, he found Alfrid slumped against the wall, fast asleep. Bard's expression darkened with frustration, but he held his tongue.
"Morning, Alfrid," Bard said sharply, causing the man to jolt awake. "What news from the night watch?"
Alfrid rubbed his eyes and scrambled to his feet, trying to mask his embarrassment with bravado. "All quiet, sire," he reported with a yawn. "Nothing gets past me."
Bard shot him a look of disbelief but said nothing as he moved toward the archway that led out of the makeshift camp. Alfrid, still groggy, followed Bard, only to realise that Bard had stopped suddenly, his eyes wide with surprise.
"Except for an army of elves, it would seem," Bard muttered under his breath.
As they stepped outside, the courtyard before them was packed with rows of Mirkwood elves, dressed in full battle gear, standing in perfectly ordered lines. The discipline and grace of their formation were a stark contrast to the disarray of the Laketown survivors. Slowly, the townspeople began emerging from their shelters, their eyes widening as they took in the sight of the elven army.
Bard, recovering from his initial shock, descended the steps and approached the elves. As he moved forward, the lines of elves parted smoothly, stepping back to make a path for him. At the end of the line, King Thranduil rode up on his majestic elk, his regal presence commanding the attention of all. Behind him, (Y/n) sat upon her striking black unicorn. The sight of them together—Thranduil's gleaming armour and (Y/n)'s dark, enigmatic figure—was both awe-inspiring and unnerving.
Bard approached, his eyes flicking between the two. "My lord Thranduil, my lady," Bard said respectfully, bowing his head slightly. "We did not look to see you here."
Thranduil inclined his head with an air of distant authority. "I heard you needed aid."
As if on cue, a wagon pulled up behind the elves, its wooden wheels creaking under the weight of food and drink. The elves began unloading it, distributing supplies to the hungry people of Laketown. A wave of relief spread through the crowd as the townspeople began to cheer, their hope rekindled for the first time since Smaug's destruction.
Bard turned back to Thranduil, his voice filled with gratitude. "You have saved us! I do not know how to thank you."
But before Thranduil could respond, (Y/n) spoke, her voice cold and detached, cutting through the air like a blade. "Your gratitude is misplaced. We did not come on your behalf."
Bard's smile faltered as he looked up at her. The warmth that had touched his face moments ago drained away at her words.
Thranduil, ever poised, spoke next. "I came to reclaim something of mine."
Bard's eyes widened slightly, understanding dawning on him. The jewels. The heirlooms of the elven people, hidden away in Erebor's treasure hoard, stolen long ago. He had heard rumours of Thranduil's claim, but he hadn't realised the full extent of the Elvenking's intent.
The day passed swiftly, and by evening, the elven troops were beginning to march out of Dale, their banners flying high as they moved toward the Lonely Mountain. The air was tense with the unspoken promise of war. Bard, his heart heavy with the knowledge of what was coming, ran to catch up with Thranduil before he could leave.
"Wait! Please, wait!" Bard called out, his voice laced with urgency. "You would go to war over a handful of gems?"
Thranduil paused, his expression unchanging as he looked down at Bard with a cold, regal calm. "The heirlooms of my people are not lightly forsaken."
Bard took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm. "We are allies in this. My people also have a claim upon the riches in that mountain. Let me speak with Thorin!"
At Bard's words, (Y/n) raised an eyebrow, her gaze sharp and unforgiving. "You would try to reason with a dwarf?" she asked, her tone dripping with disdain.
"To avoid war?" Bard shot back, meeting her cold gaze with his own. "Yes."
For a moment, (Y/n) said nothing. Her face remained a mask of icy indifference, but Bard could see the tension in her jaw, the way her hands clenched tightly around Hades's reins. She was still grieving, still angry—at him, at everything. And perhaps that was why her voice held so much bitterness.
Bard nodded slightly to Thranduil before turning and hurrying off, determined to try and prevent the bloodshed that was threatening to tear apart the fragile alliance between men, elves, and dwarves.
As Bard disappeared into the distance, an elven soldier approached Thranduil, whispering something in his ear. The Elvenking's expression remained impassive, but he turned to (Y/n), his eyes flicking toward the horizon.
"It appears your people have arrived," Thranduil said quietly.
(Y/n)'s breath caught in her throat. The Dracagoth had come.
The air was thick with anticipation as the sun dipped below the horizon. In the distance, (Y/n) could see them—the figures of her people, the Dracagoth, moving with the grace and power of their kind. Their arrival stirred something deep within her, a mixture of relief and sorrow. It had been months since she had last stood among them, and yet, they had answered her call, coming to honour Smaug in the way only they could.
The ancient ceremony for the fallen dragon was about to begin, and (Y/n) felt the weight of it pressing down on her shoulders. The grief she had buried so deeply during the journey to Dale now resurfaced, raw and unrelenting.
Thranduil, sensing her unease, placed a hand on her shoulder. "They are here for you, as they were always meant to be."
(Y/n) nodded, though the tightness in her chest remained. She was no longer alone, yet the grief was hers to carry. As she looked toward the mountain, knowing that war loomed ahead, she steeled herself for what was to come. The ceremony, the conflict—it would all come together soon, and she would have to find her place in it.
But for now, she would honour the fallen.
A/N: As a time scale, it took the Dragaoth a night and half a day to get to them, but they were moving "as if their master's whip was behind them"
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Lonely Dragon {Legolas x Reader}
Fanfiction(Y/n) or The Lonely Dragon, a name that was known across Middle Earth. Feared....admired.....worshipped All she wanted was to be normal, but that wasn't the case. She was made to be a weapon of war, the spawn of Sauron himself. His plan B if the Rin...
