To Live Again: The Road to War {Lord of the Rings Fanfiction}|

The Parting Glass

Slopes of Orodruin, Mordor - SA 3441

The final stand before Barad-dur had taken little time to assemble. By dawn the camp had emptied, and every able bodied warrior had descended on the great fortress. Every last weapon and ounce of courage had been poured into the assault. There was no room left for error now, it was all or nothing! Today would be the final chapter on a hard fought tale of war and destruction and every soul, both good and evil, felt this. The knowledge ensured that each fought with a violent desperation; none would die without a bitter fight to the end. No life would be spent without a struggle; every drop of blood spilt was taken by force and not easy given. The time had come, and in the thick of battle no one knew this quite as well as Thranduil.

Of the battalion of hundreds that he had set off with, only a handful survived now. Knee deep in both the bodies of innocents, and of orcs, Thranduil continued to fight on. At this point there was no formations left, all fought together now, their armies had almost been spent. All kinds of evil creations, and gruesome mutated orc creatures had spewed out from the dark fortress, and all lay hewn at the feet of those left standing. But Thranduil was not complacent, he knew better than to hope that he had seen the end of the Dark Lord's tricks and machines. So he showed no fear before each new enemy he faced, even though his heart thundered in his chest and his spirit retreated into himself with every evil curse and show of brutality that he came across. There was no mercy in any of these beings, they had no souls, and because of this they bore no fear towards him. The attacked endlessly and showed no signs of relenting, but Thranduil would not be the first to show weakness!

In the dank and dark landscape of Mordor, on the slopes of Orodruin, Thranduil wrestled bitterly with a particularly large orc. The black skinned, and yellow eyed creature was tough, and as the Prince parried yet another ruthless attack, he absently considered the weariness of his arms. If he did not slay this beast soon it would over power him, and he could not allow that to happen. He would not die on the end of an orc blade!

"My lord!" A brave and feminine voice cut through the ranks, and Thranduil was suddenly aware of an arrow protruding from the beast's neck. Spinning to see who had saved him; Thranduil was pleased to see the chestnut mane of the ever formidable Rista.

"Rista! What are you doing this far forward?" Thranduil questioned urgently, as he scanned the banks of the mountain in search of faces familiar to him.

"My lord Thranduil, there is little left of us," Rista gasped as she clutched her side, the blood soaked leather of her armour giving evidence to her injuries. "The King is managing to hold together the remains of our forces. A few of us got cut off, but I thought if I came to find you, you would return and help us."

"Yes of course," Thranduil nodded almost in reflex, as he surveyed the landscape before him. He had not come across anything more sinister than a highly trained orc in hours, if his King and his people required him, then he needed to be there with them.

Turning on his heel, he gestured for Rista to lead the way through the fray, and the two threw themselves into cutting a clear path for themselves through the masses. It was in the thick of the struggle that Thranduil first heard the cry go up. Shortly after he heard the vibrations of large wings as they collided with the earth, and caused powerful winds to gust through the crowds. Pausing his attack on another ghastly orc, Thranduil turned his vision on the great bulk of a creature not but a few feet from him. He felt it's low growl as it rumbled through the ground, and unsteady the earth below his feet.

"A beast of Morgoth!"

A shrill cry went up again, but it was swiftly drowned out by the whoosh and roar of the evil beast as it snapped and cleared lines with it's fearsome claws. Thranduil felt the blood drain from his face, his whole body trembling in fear as his eyes beheld the great scaly creature that began its torment on the crowds that rushed to bring it down. To his memory, this was a winged beast of times of old, a creature that could be almost akin to a dragon, if not for their smaller stature, more fragile hides, and their inability to breathe fire or ice. But it was young and obviously unbroken. Its movements were erratic and wild, like it had just been unleashed from some prison to cause whatever mayhem it could before it was killed. For it would be killed, it lacked the experience of warfare, and it was too small to overcome a force, but that did not mean that it would not succeed in butchering hundreds before it do so.