Lonely Dragon {Legolas x Reader}

Fool of a Man

A/N: Okay, I want to address something. (Y/n) may not be physically in some chapters, but I have tried to explore a way that makes her absence heavily known. That whilst she may not physically there, she is a weight on everyone's minds, really emphasising on her impact.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

In Dale, the air was thick with the tension of impending war. The people, once refugees from the destruction of Laketown, now prepared for a battle they had never imagined. Hammers rang out as blacksmiths sharpened swords, and the steady thrum of boots echoed through the streets as men drilled for combat under the watchful eyes of elven commanders. The sounds of clattering metal, barked orders, and hushed whispers of fear filled the air. It was the calm before the storm, but the dread was palpable.

The townspeople hurried about, collecting supplies, fastening makeshift armour, and securing what little provisions they had. There was no telling how long they would last if the battle stretched into days. And they all knew—it would be a fight for survival.

Suddenly, the sound of galloping hooves broke through the din. People jumped out of the way as Gandalf galloped into town, his grey cloak billowing behind him like a storm cloud. His face was set in grim determination.

"Let me through!" Gandalf's voice boomed as he urged his horse forward.

"Make way!" he commanded, and the people scattered, confused and startled by the wizard's sudden appearance.

Gandalf dismounted swiftly in the main courtyard, his sharp eyes scanning the scene before him. He looked around in surprise as men drilled with swords and companies of elves marched by in disciplined formations, their armour gleaming in the early morning light. It was a town on the edge of war.

Before Gandalf could take in the full scale of what was happening, an obnoxious voice reached his ears.

"No, no, NO! Oi! You—pointy hat!" Alfrid stormed up to Gandalf, his face twisted in irritation.

Gandalf turned slowly, his eyes narrowing as he fixed his gaze on Alfrid.

"Yes, you," Alfrid sneered, waving a dismissive hand. "We don't want no tramps, beggars, nor vagabonds around here. We've got enough trouble without the likes of you. Off you go! On your horse!"

Gandalf's eyes flashed dangerously, but before he could respond, Bard strode up, his expression stern.

"Who's in charge here?" Gandalf demanded, his voice sharp with urgency.

Bard met his gaze evenly. "Who is asking?"

A short while later, Gandalf sat in a large tent at the centre of the camp, the fabric walls flapping gently in the wind. Opposite him sat Bard, grim and tired, but resolved, and Thranduil, the Elvenking, his posture regal and unmoved by the chaos surrounding them. The elves and men had formed an uneasy alliance, bound by the shared threat of the coming conflict. Outside, the sounds of preparation for war continued unabated.

Gandalf's face was tense as he leaned forward, addressing the two leaders with urgency. "You must set aside your petty grievances with the dwarves. War is coming! The cesspits of Dol Guldur have been emptied. You're all in mortal danger!"

Bard's brow furrowed, his voice calm but questioning. "What are you talking about?"

Thranduil's eyes flicked to Gandalf with a knowing glint. "I can see you know nothing of wizards," he said, his voice smooth and measured, as though he were speaking of something far off. "They are like winter thunder on a wild wind, rolling in from a distance, breaking hard in alarm. But sometimes, a storm is just a storm."

Gandalf shook his head, his voice rising with impatience. "Not this time! Armies of orcs are on the move. And these are fighters! They have been bred for war. Our enemy has summoned his full strength."

Thranduil remained still, his expression unchanging. "Why show his hand now?" he asked quietly, though his gaze betrayed more curiosity than indifference.

Gandalf stood, his hands gripping the edge of the table as he stared down at the map spread before them. "Because we forced him!" he snapped. "We forced him when the company of Thorin Oakenshield set out to reclaim their homeland. The dwarves were never meant to reach Erebor; Azog the Defiler was sent to kill them. His master seeks control of the mountain. Not just for the treasure within, but for where it lies, its strategic position."

As Gandalf spoke, the three of them left the tent and walked outside, their boots crunching on the gravel path as they made their way to a high point overlooking the camp. From there, the great gates of Erebor could be seen in the distance, gleaming in the light of the sun. The mountain loomed, a silent sentinel, watching over the preparations for war.

"This," Gandalf said, gesturing toward Erebor, "is the gateway to reclaiming the lands of Angmar in the north. If that fell kingdom should rise again, Rivendell, Lothlórien, the Shire, even Gondor itself will fall!"

Thranduil's gaze shifted to the mountain, his face still calm but his eyes dark with thought. "These orc armies you speak of, Mithrandir—where are they?"

Gandalf opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. He had seen the signs, felt the dark power stirring, but he could not yet see the armies themselves. He knew they were coming, but he could not say when or from where.

His silence was enough of an answer. Thranduil's gaze turned cold. "You speak of a threat we cannot see."

Gandalf's frustration was clear, his hands gripping the hilt of his staff. "Fine," he said through gritted teeth, "where is (Y/n)? I need to speak to her!"

At the mention of her name, Bard and Thranduil exchanged a brief look. Thranduil's expression hardened ever so slightly, though his voice remained calm when he spoke.

"She left, with her people and the dead dragon."

Gandalf turned sharply, his grey eyes flashing with surprise. "She left? Why? She must have known war is coming!"

Bard, standing beside Thranduil, sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping with the weight of guilt. "Because of me," he admitted, his voice low. "I was the one who killed Smaug."

Gandalf's eyes widened in disbelief. "Fool!" he spat, his voice filled with both anger and exasperation. "Do you not understand what you've done?"

Thranduil, who had remained composed throughout the conversation, finally interjected, his voice cutting through the tension. "He did what had to be done."

Gandalf rounded on him, his expression fierce. "No," he said slowly, his voice trembling with the weight of the realisation. "No... he has severed the most important ally."

For a moment, there was silence, the weight of Gandalf's words settling over them like a shroud. Thranduil's gaze was sharp, but even he could not ignore the truth behind the wizard's accusation. (Y/n) and her people, the Dracagoth, had been powerful allies. Their bond with dragons and their ancient magic had made them a force to be reckoned with—one that could have turned the tide of the coming war.

And now, they were gone.

Bard, his face pale, looked at Gandalf with regret in his eyes. "I did not mean for this to happen."

Gandalf's voice softened, though the edge of frustration remained. "It doesn't matter what you meant. What matters is that the armies of darkness are coming, and you've lost the one ally that could have stood against them."

Thranduil's face was impassive, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of concern. Even the proud Elvenking knew that losing (Y/n) and her people was a dangerous blow to their defences.

Gandalf turned away from them, his mind already racing with possibilities, with the consequences of (Y/n)'s departure. He knew she would not have left lightly, but the anger and grief that had driven her away would cost them all dearly in the days to come.

As the sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows over the city of Dale, Gandalf stood silently, his gaze fixed on the mountain. War was coming, and now, they would have to face it without one of their greatest allies.

And deep in his heart, Gandalf feared it would not be enough.