Eight: Beauty of Dawn


So much death…

Thranduil moved quickly through the corpses carpeting the grasslands. The Dagor Dagorath was over at last, the threat of Sauron and Morgoth ended for good, but the elf had no time to celebrate with the survivors. He was looking for someone, one very particular someone. "Vlad?!"

The vampires had proven to be invaluable allies time and again throughout the centuries, first with the Battle of Erebor, then with the discovery of the One Ring and the War that followed. Despite Gandalf's continued belief that they would turn on their people, they never had, taking good care of the people they led (and even ones they didn't). The Twin Cities had prospered under their rule, and their knowledge of the Old World science and technology gave them an advantage that others didn't have.

"Vlad!"

Their alliance endured long, but eventually the dwarves died off, and the empires of Men began encroaching on Eryn Lasgalen. When his people began fading, Thranduil knew then that it was their turn, at long last, to sail.

The trip took weeks and weeks of preparation, time that the Elvenking used to wear Vlad down and convince him to come with them to Valinor. The vampire was insistent that the Valar would not tolerate his presence, but in the end he threw up his hands and relented. In retrospect, that should have been a very clear sign that he was planning something, but Thranduil didn't see, his joy blinding him to the possibility of deceit.

They made love one last time on the shores of Middle-earth, despite Vlad's protest that sex on a beach was highly unsanitary. He listed off possible infections between kisses while Thranduil pressed him down into the sands and pushed inside him. At the height of passion, the vampire bit him, as he sometimes did, and drank from him, making the elf climax and pass out.

When he woke, he was on one of the ships bound for Valinor.

And Vlad was not.

"Vlad?!"

Thranduil had demanded an audience with the Valar, and asked that they permit Vlad and Sahar entrance into Valinor. (The elder vampire had offered immortality to his children, but they had turned him down and ultimately passed away.) His request was refused, no matter how many times he asked.

But over time, even the Valar grew old and weary, and the guarded weakened at the Door of Night. Morgoth broke free at last and returned to Arda, gathering his commanders and armies from the secret places of the world, and marched on Valinor. The Sun went almost completely dark, emitting only a dim blood red light, and the Moon became a void that blocked out the light of the stars as it passed.

In response, the halls of Mandos and Aulë were opened, Elves and dwarves returning in droves to the lands of the living. Men and hobbits came back as well, from a place no one knew. For a time there was rejoicing with the reunions of friends and lovers, parents and children, husbands and wives. But their joy soon turned grim, for war was upon them, the Last War, and the Prophecy of Mandos foretold that there losses would be terrible indeed.

"Vlad! Answer me!"

But then bats had begun fluttering out of the darkness, bearing messages from the last Night Lords, knowledge of the Enemy's plans and the dispositions of the troops. It brought hope to even the most pessimistic warriors.

The skirmishes before the Dagor Dagorath were absolute routs. Morgoth's men were slaughtered to a one. Even when the Final Battle – the Battle of Battles – arrived with the forces of darkness invading Valinor, everyone was ready, and in the end their losses were not so heavy as they might have been otherwise.

Sahar had already been found and reunited with her lover Eglaneth, the two women embracing and kissing as if they were not surrounded by an ocean of corpses. But Vlad… Vlad was still missing.

"Valar damn it, Vlad! Where are you?!"

Thranduil had glimpsed him on the battlefield a few times. In many ways he was hard to miss, as there were only so many handsome men with fangs and claws, splattered in blood and gore and attired in dragonscale armor and wielding a dragonbone sword. Even the Valar had feared to face him as terrible as he had seemed.

Now he was gone, vanished into the stillness after the battle –

A whisper on the wind. A bat flew out of the dark to cling to his armor. "Master hears you, Master's mate," the little creature whispered, "Master is sorry, but he is too tired to call out to you. He is this way."

She took off, and Thranduil raced after her. They travelled for miles it seemed, until at last he spotted Vlad slumped against a large rock cracked right down the middle by the battle. He was still enough that he looked to have passed into his corpselike recovery state, but he stirred and opened his eyes when the elf knelt next to him. He blinked, then smiled.

"You damned fool," the Elvenking whispered, and pulled the vampire into his arms.

"We won?" the vampire rasped.

"Yes. Thanks to you. Less than a tenth of our force died. The enemy was slaughtered entirely, every last man and beast."

"And the gems? The Silmarils?"

"They've been recovered." Thranduil looked to the north, and saw a distant glow starting to appear in the hills toward the remains of the Two Trees and the Ring of Doom. "It will happen soon. Arda will be reborn, and we'll all be at peace."

Vlad sighed against his throat. "Shame I won't be there to see it."

"What? What are you talking about?!"

"I'm a creature of darkness, Thranduil," he breathed, clutching at the elf's cloak, "When the light comes, it will destroy me. Me and Sahar, and all the others."

"No," the king protested, holding Vlad tight enough that their armor ground together, "It's not – it can't – the blessing of that sun goddess-"

"Amaterasu's been gone for millennia. The fact that the enchantment's held on this long is a miracle." The vampire managed to pull the pendant out from under his armor. It was a simple-looking piece of deeply colored citrine, worn smooth on all sides by its long years of service. "Her priestesses have come back, yes, but even they can't save me from this."

"No-That's not-"

"It's already done."

The glow of the distant hills was growing brighter with every second.

"I don't want us to end this way," Thranduil choked out, tears blurring his vision.

Vlad just smiled, and pulled him down into a kiss.

Rays of light from the Ring of Doom blasted away the darkness. The power of it shattered the crystal, and Vlad screamed in agony as he started to burn, armor and flesh alike blistering and boiling. Even when Thranduil threw himself over the vampire, trying to shield him from the light, its purity still reached him. The Impaler weakened fast, his struggles slowing, and he met the Elvenking's gaze one last time, his eyes glowing bright red as his powers tried to heal him-

-and then the world went white.


Thranduil woke in his forest. He was standing hidden in the trees, watching his wife picnic by the riverside with Legolas, Gimil, Tauriel, and Kíli. They were all laughing at something the red-haired dwarf had said, something he probably hadn't intended to be amusing if his indignant protests were anything to go by.

The Elvenking felt his lips twitch upward, despite the sorrow he felt.

To him, love had always been like fire, and he loved both his wife and the vampire in different ways. With her, it was a warm hearth in the dead of winter, burning deep and comforting, easily fueled, easily sustained. She had been so easy to love, and so hard to forget. It warmed every part of him at all times, left him content even in the blackest moments, knowing that she loved him too.

With Vlad it was a raging inferno, unstoppable, uncontrollable. The flames blazed through every part of him, burning away everything that mattered but those stolen moments with the vampire – but fire cleanses, and once his passion was slaked, it left him feeling clean and clearheaded. He could go for months without feeling the tiniest spark, but then something would remind him of the Impaler Prince, or they would see one another again, and the fires would come roaring back as if they had never gone.

But now they never would.

Unbidden, his gaze blurred with tears once more. Though he squeezed his eyes shut to stop them falling, they defied him and slid down his cheeks, silent expression of his grief.

And his last memory of Vlad was him burning. Not the simple sorrow of old age, or the sharp swiftness of battle, but slow, writhing agony. The Valar were cruel to end him – and Sahar – in such a way, however inadvertently, after they had done so much to help them.

Arda was restored, but at a cost too great for him. Thranduil lowered his head, and let his tears drip into the soil.

Footsteps behind him. A familiar hand on his shoulder. The Elvenking looked – and inhaled sharply, fresh tears filling his eyes.

It was him. The Impaler Prince reborn as an immortal elf, elegant and graceful in ways he had never been, but still undeniably himself. He grinned as bright as the sun, his teeth no longer fangs but still sharper than normal none the less.

Thranduil jerked him into an embrace, one that the former vampire quickly returned. Then he pulled back, tilted his head, and pressed their lips together in a gentle but fierce kiss.


These are days and nights of venom and blood
Heroes will rise as the anchors fall
Brave the strife, reclaim every soul
That belongs to the Beauty of Dawn