~It is a long way to safety for the survivors of the dragon attack. When they face the most terrifying foe yet, unexpected help arrives.~

oOo

Thranduil by Onisakiakika

Dragon Fire

Lungs aching from lack of air, Thranduil slowly surfaced and crawled ashore under the protection of the bridge. He expected to feel agonising pain flare at any moment as the dragon flamed him to death, but nothing happened.

He risked a glance upward, blinking to see clearer. For some reason he could only use his right eye; half his vision was covered in red mist.

The sky was covered in mist too. No, smoke. From the forest fire. That was his chance!

He ran with a strange, cowering gait, keeping low under the smothering fumes, still clutching his box of gems. The situation reminded him of Haven. He did not want to burn to death. If he would die today, any other way was endlessly to prefer than the agony of being burned alive.

He could hear the dragon overhead. It beat its wings with booming sounds and it was still talking. Taunting someone further ahead.

The smoky air became a fiery red. Someone screamed, a shrill, anguished cry.

Bile rose in Thranduil's throat. He did not want to burn.

Crouching near the river, ready to jump into it again if needed, he waited. Would the screaming never end? He wanted the elf to die so his pain would go away. And so Thranduil did not have to listen to him.

The booming wingbeats grew distant. Had the dragon given up? Or was it seeking other targets?

It grew quiet.

He sneaked forward, then halted. Forward, then halted. Tense like a coiled spring.

There was faint light ahead. Black bodies littered the ground, still glowing. One was moving slightly, then it became still. The smell of burned flesh and hair was thick and Thranduil swallowed twice to keep the contents of his stomach down.

He did not want to look. He did anyway. If someone was alive he must do something. Not that he knew what. Try to heal them? Or end their misery?

They were all dead. Then he did not have to decide.

Many were burned into twisted, black lumps, others he recognised. Medlin was one of them. Thranduil could not feel anything about that. No regret, no sadness. He felt numb. There were tears in his eyes but only from the smoke.

He continued. It was growing darker. Night was falling. Could dragons see in the dark?

He saw movement ahead and halted, peering through the mist. Elves. He hurried his gait again, joining them. Nobody made a sound; they only acknowledged him with frightened looks. Amroth and Amdír were there and Thranduil fell into step with his friend.

The others were covered in ash and soot and a couple of them limped, but as far as he could tell nobody was badly injured. But it was hard to see, his vision was still hazy.

He put up his hand in front of his face, trying to blink with first one, then the other eye. A spear of pain erupted in his left one. He must have hurt it somehow. Best not strain it.

They continued, walking through the night, passing more burned corpses on two occasions but also catching up with a few survivors. Now they were around thirty, which would make it harder to hide if the dragon returned, but for the past few hours there had been no sound, nor sight of it. Perhaps it was only active in the daytime.

Slowly, Thranduil was calming down. It seemed they had made it; soon they would reach Amon Ereb and the safety of Fëanor's sons' fortress. He almost smiled at the thought; he had never thought he would associate the word safety with Fëanor's sons.

He felt his tunic, pressing the reassuring bulge that was the box with the keepsakes he had turned back to fetch, kept in place under the shirt by his sword belt. He still had one of his swords too; out of reflex he had grabbed it when Oropher first alerted him of the approaching danger, and the clothes on his body. The rest of his belongings were gone forever.

He could not help lamenting the loss of his many fine tunics and coats. During his stay in Oropher's house he had worn finer fabrics and garments than ever before, but now he was poor again.

A dull ache in his face gradually made itself known. It felt sticky and raw when he gingerly touched it.

"What happened to you?" whispered Amroth, looking at him with sympathy.

"I don't know. I think I may have been burned before I jumped into the river. Does it look very bad?"

Amroth bit his lip. "Awful. Your eye is a red mess and the skin around it is just... gone."

Thranduil swallowed. No wonder his vision was so hazy! He needed a healer, and that soon.

They took a brief break in the morning. The smoke was lessening, driven off by a southwestern breeze.

"Let me help," said Amroth, ripping fabric from his shirt and dipping it in the river.

Thranduil struggled not to make a sound as his friend cleaned the wound. "I hope the Fëanorians have real healers," he muttered.

"I am as careful as I can."

Before Amroth was done, the lookout urgently motioned for them to hide; the dragon was returning.

The group huddled among some boulders, pulling their cloaks over themselves and waiting in complete silence while the massive wingbeats passed over them. Thranduil had never imagined the sound of wings could be so terrifying.

The sound grew distant again and they continued, slower than ever, always alert and on edge, ready to hide. Thank the Valar the monster was so noisy in its flight! It seemed like it was patrolling the area. Were there other dragons elsewhere? Perhaps all over Beleriand?

Thranduil was suddenly reminded that Aerneth was up in the mountains, probably even more exposed than he was. The contorted, burned elves on the road came before his mind's eye. Had she suffered such a horrible death too? Maybe she was writhing in excruciating pain at this very moment, praying for the relief of her soul slipping out and exchanging her tortured body for the bliss of Aman and Mandos' waiting Halls.

The thought made his stomach contract with numbing worry, but also guilt. Everything had happened so fast; he had only thought about saving his own hide. He had not even paused to mourn Medlin. And who were the other victims? Had his father been among them?

If so, Thranduil was free of his oath now... Again he thought about Aerneth. If she was alive, and Oropher dead, then... But first he must survive himself.

Arriving at Maedhros' realm at last, they found it silent and empty, and hazy with smoke from burning copses of wood. They passed homesteads and deserted sentry lookouts, and when they reached the fortress itself on top of the hill they understood why: all that remained was the blackened stone foundation, the rest had been turned into ashes.

They saw no corpses, so the inhabitants must have fled before the attack. Most likely forewarned by their palantíri, Thranduil figured.

Amroth uttered a row of bad words. "What do we do now?"

"We continue to the mountains," said Thranduil firmly. He needed to find his wife.

"Won't that make us more exposed?"

"Not if we continue down the other side," said Amdír. "We could seek refuge in the far east; the land of your grand adar."

"And mine," Thranduil added. In the early days of Middle-earth, Amdír's and Oropher's fathers and grandfathers had left Cuiviénen, their homeland, during the Great Journey of the Elves and travelled with Thingol to Beleriand, settling with him in Doriath.

As nobody had any objections to the plan, they continued north along the Gelion. The road was more narrow here and clearly less used, but they had no problem following it. A wide trail of hoof marks and footprints showed where the Fëanorians had fled.

For the first time they passed through a wood that was still intact, but though the eaves above protected them from dragon eyes, it still did not feel safe. It was probably only a matter of time before this forest was torched as well, and being within it when that happened would be as sure a death as if they were targeted directly.

They ran through as fast as they could on weary legs.

The trees ended and the ground became moist and marshy. They took another brief break before venturing out there, waiting for sunset. By now they were fairly certain the dragon was only active in daylight.

After a couple of hours splashing across puddles and jumping between tufts of grass along the barely visible path, they saw light in the distance. More fire. And directly in their route.

They shared exasperated glances but then continued. What else could they do? Hopefully it was only another copse of trees burning. It could not be the dragon. It must not be the dragon.

It was not. When they arrived, they found another sorry graveyard of scorched bodies, the largest yet, and the reek so nauseating Thranduil actually did throw up this time. There were several dead horses too, and the light came from one still burning. Oropher had escaped on horseback, Thranduil recalled. If he had not been among the earlier deaths, maybe this was where his life had ended? It was impossible to say considering the state of most of the corpses.

Breathing through his mouth, Thranduil criss-crossed between the bodies. A ginger elf huddled beside one of them, his shoulders shaking with silent tears. Galion.

"Are you alright?" Thranduil asked, squatting next to him. He guessed the one Galion was mourning was his mother. She had been a beautiful elleth with coppery curls down to her waist and almost translucent skin; now the lower half of her body was gone and the rest of it unrecognisable. Only a few tufts of hair remained on the charred head.

"Come." Thranduil gently took his arm. "Her suffering is over. She is with Mandos now, and you will be reunited in Aman."

"We will be reunited," he repeated in a broken voice, rising unsteadily. His leg was badly burned; the pant leg and skin was gone and what remained was a blackened, bloody mess. The pain must be agonising.

"My horse died too," he mumbled, wiping his eyes and smudging them with soot.

They found other survivors besides Galion, all of them injured, a few so severely they probably would not make it. There were both Laegrim from Ossiriand and Noldor from Fëanor's people, but nobody cared who was who anymore. They were all in this together.

Galion explained that his mother and he had ridden as fast as their horses could manage and reached Maedhros' fortress at Amon Ereb the day before, seeking refuge there together with Oropher who arrived just before them. But only hours later a dragon targeted the building, crushing and burning everything. They had just barely managed to escape. And today the dragon caught up with them.

"Were there more survivors?" Thranduil asked, thinking of his father.

"I think so. With the Fëanorians, we were a large company, and there would have been more... corpses." At the last word fresh tears streaked his sooty cheeks.

The group left the gruesome scene, continuing at a slower pace in consideration of the wounded. Thranduil's own injury was throbbing worse than ever. He needed a healer or he might lose his eye, but what if there was none left living? He tried to come to terms with the prospect of being forever maimed.  Looking "awful", in Amroth's words.

He told himself it did not matter; that first of all he must survive, and if he did, he no longer needed good looks. He had no wife anymore, and others' admiration was only useful to feed his pride. Perhaps being ugly was even for the better. If Aerneth still lived she would be repulsed by him and that would make it easier to avoid her and feel less regret.

Unless Oropher was dead, and Thranduil's oath no longer bound him...

Again he felt that tiny wink of hope. Would Aerneth take him back then? If she did, he wanted her to desire him like she always had. Perhaps he could hide his ruined face with some sort of mask or makeup.

In the evening Thranduil started to feel a new ache, this time in his stomach. Hunger. He realised he had not eaten anything for days, and of course nobody had had time to bring food along. But there was no help for that now. They had to continue to a safer area and then they would have to hope they could find something edible before they starved to death.

At least the ground was more solid; the marsh had given way to grassland with a scatter of trees. His boots were helplessly ruined with mud and stinking bog water but it was a relief to feel his feet slowly drying.

Shortly after sunset a faint, familiar sound reached their ears: the clash of weapons and guttural yells. Orcs! But who were they fighting?

They hurried their gait and soon saw the cause of the sound. Near the river a large group of elves, many on horseback, were battling at least twice as many orcs. It appeared to be an even match; the elves were outnumbered but better equipped and better fighters.

Thranduil's warrior training came into effect and he instinctively ran to their aid, sword drawn, with Amroth at his side. Other lesser injured elves among them followed as well.

The newcomers were enough to turn the tide completely. Thranduil had only killed one orc when the rest of them fled.

Nobody followed; they were not interested in chasing orcs under the dire circumstances. Morning was approaching and a battle would draw the dragon's attention.

Thranduil cleaned the black blood off his sword and sheathed it while he regarded the others. Most appeared to be Noldor, with Fëanor's emblem and colours, but then he saw a blond ellon astride his horse: his father, uninjured and unruffled.

His first emotion at the sight was disappointment, but it was soon replaced with guilt. What kind of twisted son wanted his father dead?

There were two richly clad, now all too familiar ellyn together with Oropher; one red-headed and fierce, lacking a hand since his escape from Morgoth long ago, the other dark and brooding. Maedhros and Maglor, the only remaining sons of Fëanor. Thranduil had last seen them at the beach in Haven where Maedhros cursed the fleeing Elwing, and before then he met them in battle outside the gates of Menegroth, desperately trying and failing to defend Doriath against their unprovoked attack.

Helpless rage filled him. They had destroyed so much, killed so many. Even innocent children like Elwing's twins and her brothers.

But Oropher had sided with them and Thranduil was bound to him by his oath. Firmly pushing the disgust and anger down, he took his place at his father's side.

Oropher grimaced. "You look absolutely disgusting. Maedhros, this is my son whom I mentioned. I promise you he normally is very handsome."

"In these extraordinary circumstances I do not expect beauty or finery from anyone," Maedhros said drily, regarding Thranduil with a sympathetic look in his pale eyes. As if he pitied him for having such a father. "Suilad, Thranduil Oropherion."

He forced his lips to curtly return the greeting: "Suilad."

Maedhros turned back to Oropher. "Well, now that the orcs are taken care of, let us hurry to cross. You get your people, and I will get mine."

Thranduil noticed a simple bridge of boulders and planks spanning the river. Had the orcs been guarding it? Or were they also fleeing from the dragons? He imagined those monsters did not care much who they flamed, be it friend or foe.

"Is that the dwarf road?" Amdír cut in, indicating a meandering path at the other side of the makeshift bridge. "We are heading to the land beyond the mountains."

"It is," Maedhros confirmed. "But you will be safer if you stay with us. There are caves in the mountain colony where the dragons cannot reach us."

"How do you know that?"

He smiled briefly. "Trust me."

There was no time to talk more; guttural voices and yells indicated the orcs were returning. A bit surprised, Thranduil drew his sword and turned towards them. It looked like the same bunch they had just chased away. What made them come back? Did they not realise they still had no chance?

Then suddenly a fiery light erupted in the midst of the orcs: a huge face with curved horns and burning pits instead of eyes and mouth. He towered over them as he rose to his full height, spreading a pair of shadowy wings that filled the air with smoke and heat. In one hand he had a whip, in the other a sword, both burning with blue-tinted flames.

A balrog.

All strength left Thranduil, leaving him numb and shaking. It was not the fearsome face that terrified him, nor knowing how strong and powerful the demon was; it was the pure, unbridled evil. It filled him with a dread more profound than anything he had ever experienced.

The balrog lashed his whip, splitting the air with a thunderous crack. Fires erupted where it landed.

The sharp sound woke Thranduil from his daze. He had to get his father and himself away from here.

He turned around, but Oropher had already fled – or perhaps the horse bolted. Thranduil ran after them.

He heard more whip cracks but did not turn to see whether the balrog followed.

Then he halted abruptly, and around him others did the same. A loud, rumbling noise like thunder filled the air as something new approached. Creatures as tall as trees, with crooked limbs and bushy heads, more numerous than he could count. New monsters of Morgoth?

No. They were ents!

The ancient tree-herders were so many they looked like an entire forest on the move, and their heavy footfalls made the ground tremble with their passage. They marched straight towards the fire demon.

It looked dangerous. What if he burned them down?

That appeared to be exactly what the balrog had in mind. Roaring with fury, he cracked his whip again and again, setting a leafy head aflame with each lash. But the burning ents just dipped the fire in the river and returned, hairless and smoking but undaunted. Thrashing their fronds and stamping their root feet on orcs as they went, they poured against the balrog in a never-ending tide.

Some caught fire again, and a few failed to put it out and fell. But still there were hundreds left and they did not waver.

Thranduil gained new courage by their onslaught. Together with other warriors, he began to attack fleeing orcs, enabling the ents to focus on only one foe.

The balrog was forced backwards. One step. Two steps. He reached the simple bridge and suddenly turned, running across it with a flowing gait. There he stopped and roared, voice full of malice and glee as he lashed his whip a final time. It landed on the bridge, breaking it into pieces that flowed away with the current. Then he ran up the mountain and down the other side, and was gone.

The ents cheered in their booming, rushing voices, triumphantly waving their branch-like arms after the fleeing demon, but Thranduil was silent. He regarded the river with a sinking feeling. It was wide and fast, and many of them were injured. How would they be able to cross it without a bridge?

Oropher was looking at the river too. "I think it is shallow enough for horses. Here, hop up behind me."

"We cannot leave the people," Thranduil objected.

"We have no choice."

"But..."

"Come. That is an order!"

"I know you, young one," a whooshing voice interrupted. It was one of the ents, and the one she spoke to was Galion. "You are the polite one who loves to grow things."

He bowed. "Madam Fimbrethil. Thank you for saving us just now."

"Hruuum, we came not to save you, though I am glad if we did. We are leaving this land and that... hoo, atrocious fire-thing, was in our path. We hate fire. We cannot stand it. And now... fire-breathing dragons in the sky! Killing our beloved trees. Hooooom. It breaks our wooden hearts, but against this new evil we are helpless." She glanced at the sky and growled something incomprehensible. Possibly a curse. "You must not root your feet in the soil; it is on its way."

Now Thranduil heard it too. Wingbeats. The dragon was returning.

"Thank you for the warning," Galion replied morosely. "We will try to... swim, I suppose."

"Branch and twig! You cannot; look at your poor leg. Let me carry you."

"That is very kind, Madam. Many more of us are injured, and others lack horses. Could you ask your friends to help them across the river? But hurry... please."

"Hoom! I do not like to haste. But... for your sake, and your love of Yavanna and all that is growing, I will do as you say."

She returned to the gathered ents and soon their voices filled the air like wind ruffling leaves and the grating of branch against branch.

Thranduil wanted to stay and see what would happen but hard fingers gripped his arm. "I said, come!" hissed his father.

There was nothing to do but obey. Thranduil leapt up behind Oropher, who sternly drove the poor horse out into the water. Others with horses followed, but to Thranduil's relief, so did the ents after only a brief conference. Elves straddled their massive shoulders and heads, and more wounded ones were carried in their gnarled hands.

At the other side the strange procession continued up the mountain; first the horses at a gallop and after them the thunderous passage of the ents and their burdens.

It did not take long until they saw houses and corn fields in the distance. They had reached Gil-galad's colony, at last.

But where were all the people?

❈ ❦ ❈

A/N:

Translation: Suilad = greetings

Apparently the War of Wrath needed even more chapters than I thought! In the next one, Thranduil must see a healer... and lucky him, there is a capable one in the colony. ;)

PS. Where do you think the balrog went?? :)

Image Credits:

Thranduil by onisakiakika on DeviantArt, https://www.deviantart.com/onisakiakika