First off I don't own any characters in Lord of the Rings, or the Hobbit, or the Silmarillion. Though there will be OC's.


The last time I had seen my King he was leaping off to save some injured troops from a fire serpent. We had been separated, a failure for me as his guard, and I had not seen him since.

"The King! Have you seen the King!" I yelled in desperation pushing through stunned elves. Everyone around me was injured and battle-weary but no one has recently seen the king.

"Has anyone seen the King!" I was becoming desperate the battle was over and the King should have returned.

I was stopped suddenly as someone grabbed the edge of my cloak. I turned to the elf that had grabbed me, he was lying on the stretcher. I bent down to catch the words he was desperately trying to force out.

"He saved me and my Squadron from a fire serpent and let us escape." He stopped, desperately gasping air. "We tried to stay and help but he ordered us to go. We were injured and struggling."

He stopped again, his eyes becoming unfocused and his mouth gaping. I grasped his shoulders and shook him harshly, perhaps too harshly considering his state, but he was my only clue to the whereabouts of the King.

"Where? Where was that!"

The weary elf again focused on me, his mouth opening and closing as he attempted to form words.

"North, we were North."

I barely stayed long enough to hear the end of his sentence. I dashed off, ordering two foot soldiers to follow me as I headed north.

"My King! King Thranduil!"

The two soldiers and I swept the battlefield. We came across other soldiers that were struggling back to the camp and we pointed them the right direction but we continued. We checked the bodies of fellow fallen soldiers and came across many with blank stares of death. The deaths of fellow elves saddened me but I did not let myself linger, the mourning of their death came later. I continued my search, praying that I would not have to mourn the death of my king.

We were nearly to the edge of the battlefield and still no sign of pale blonde hair or shining silver armor. I did not let myself lose hope, the king was a warrior and would not fall so easily, perhaps he was merely helping a fellow elf return to camp. We would find the king.

I was checking for life in another foot soldier, and praying for his spirit when there was none to be found when my fellow searcher called, "I have found the king!"

I immediately sprinted to his side but stopped short when I saw the state of the great king of Mirkwood.

He was barely recognizable and could have easily been overlooked. His silver armor had been burnt to a black, the left side of the chest plate and the vambrace on his left arm were melted and warped. His rare pale blonde hair, the same shade as his son who was waiting at home, was soaked in blood and mud. The most noticeable change was the left side of his face, it was burnt so badly it was barely recognizable as elven. If there had been anything in my stomach it would have come up at the sight of the horrific injury marring a beautiful elven face.

The foot soldier was kneeling on the king's burnt side and seemed scared to touch him as if he would damage him further. I dropped to the king's right, unburnt side. His head was turned to me and I could see that his eyes were closed, never a good sign for an elf. I pressed my fingers to the king's neck just under his jaw. Praying to the Valar that I would find a pulse. I could not tell if his chest was rising and falling with breath due to the damaged armor. I bowed my head and concentrated on my fingertips. And there, and faint flutter. Not nearly strong enough but enough to prove that the king still lived.

The other foot soldier had arrived, the one who had the foresight to bring a litter. He was standing at my side, waiting for an order.

"He lives, but just barely. We must rush him to a healer."

The litter was placed on the ground next to the prone form of the king. I braced the king's head as the two soldier lifted his shoulders and legs respectively. He made no sound as he was lifted, and no movement was evident. The three of us rushed the king back to the camp, hoping he would survive the short journey.

As soon as the camp came into sight I was yelling once again.

"A healer! A healer! The king is injured!"

When we reached the border of the camp we were swarmed by a pack of elves in the uniform of a healer and I recognized a few to be royal healers. I was separated from the king's side as he disappeared into the camp, carried away by those who could best help him. And I hoped they could.


I have only actually only read the Hobbit, but I'm working on the Silmarillion and will eventually get to Lord of the Rings. I recently discovered that I have a slight obsession with elves, cause they're badass. And I think Thranduil is awesome so I wanted to write about him. I also wanted to write some fluff between him and Legolas so I figured a horrific injury that is kind of canon works as a place to start.

This piece will be pretty short, if I finish, no promises, I'm horrible at starting things and not finishing. I start something when I have inspiration then stop when I run out and get distracted by something else.

Sorry to anyone who has read my other stuff, I may finish now that I'm in a writing mood. I think I'll finish Swordfighting at least, no promises on Over the Sea, it was planned to be long but that was awhile ago.