Thranduil lifted the flap of his tent and came face to face with Thorin, reaching for the same flap. Knowing dwarves tended to shout, Thranduil put a finger to his lips as invited Thorin inside.

Thorin stepped into the warm air and glanced around the spacious interior, lit by the red glow of a fire. Brenen was nowhere in sight but Legolas lay asleep on the cot at the far wall.

"Even with an army of elves, dwarves, and men I fear we will not be able to take on a dragon reborn from death," Thorin said.

Thranduil offered the King Under The Mountain a goblet of wine and refilled his own. "It will be a battle to shake the skies. And one Middle Earth will not soon forget."

"You do not fear death?"

Thranduil said, "Fearing death makes it harder to bear, Thorin. I have faced Sauron and lived. I have fought for this world and lived. I have battled the serpents of the North and lived. I do not enjoy war, but I do not fear it."

"It is difficult watching your loved ones die," said the dwarf.

"The duties and responsibilities of a King lie heavy on his shoulders," Thranduil said. "It is not easy to lead your people to battle, knowing many of them will not walk back to their families."

Thorin nodded. He glanced at Legolas as the elf shifted in his sleep and managed to lower his voice. "Despite the duties of a King, I come as a friend. I know what it is like to lose one's homeland. I am sorry Mirkwood is gone."

Thranduil said quietly, "Thank you. It will take time but the forest will grow back. In burning Mirkwood, Smaug signed his death warrant. He made it personal and every elf standing at my back has fair reason to hate him."

"But how does one kill a dragon already dead, ada?"

Thranduil turned away, scolding, "Legolas Thranduilion, it is not your concern to worry about such things. It is your concern to sleep!"

Legolas flushed. "Honestly, ada, I cannot possibly retain my pride with you acting like I am ten! It is my concern to worry, ada, as every elf outside is worrying. What if Smaug comes here, ada, now?"

"Nothing is unkillable."

"But—"

"No buts, ion, we will find the answer, wherever it lies. This world will refuse to burn with the three races all watching over it."

"The key word here being lies," Legolas muttered. He met Thranduil's eyes and flopped back with a small sigh.

"Let us drink to it," Thorin said. He raised his glass and clanked it against Thranduil's. "To the death of Smaug!"

Thranduil echoed the toast and tossed his wine back. He set the cup down and rubbed a hand across his brow. "I must see Brenen. You will excuse me."

Sensing the dismissal, Thorin left his cup and stepped out into the night air with the elf king. Thranduil spoke low to the guard outside the tent, and the elf nodded.

"Cannot have Legolas sneaking off," Thranduil said brightly.

Thorin chuckled and, considering his task over, leapt into the embrace of the stars, hovering over Thranduil's head as if uncertain to drop or fly before a streak of blue marked his return to Erebor.

Thranduil took the steps down to the space his people had set up their tents and found Brenen standing on a high balcony, his hands clenched on the railing as he addressed the gathered elves below.

Aware his presence upset Brenen's speech, Thranduil joined his son. Realizing he had been eclipsed, Brenen turned to greet him. "Ada."

"My king!" a voice cried. The crowd took up the cry. "Is it true? Is Mirkwood truly gone?"

"We watched the blaze together, my people," Thranduil answered. "We watched the horizon burn and knew a united dread at what we feared it to be. The forest may be gone but our families are safe in the embrace of the still-living tree roots."

Thranduil saw the dismay flickering across the faces of the elves replaced by instant concern. He knew the thought of the royal trees that had held many of the elves before him as elflings gone was a numbing one. Mirkwood had harbored him since before he was born. No matter the wars of the world, the troubles that arose, and the blood that had been spilled, Mirkwood had endured and lived on. The forest had been unbreakable, eternal, forever . . .

Until now.

"This lies on your shoulders! If you had not dragged us from the trees to fight for a pack of worm-ridden slugs from the mud, we might have been there to protect the forest!"

Jerked from his thoughts by the anger in the elf's voice, Thranduil looked down at her. Her face was red, furious, but her eyes were broken, and her clenched hands fought to hold back the tears.

"I share your loss," he said. "Mirkwood may be gone but we are not lost. The forest will live on in our hearts until the first new saplings spring from the ground."

"I do not wish to picture the trees burned and shattered," an elf said, shuddering.

The woman snapped, "I could not care less if you share our loss! Nothing will change what has happened; nothing! I will go home to my daughter and find her hidden away in the shadows of a miserable cave!"

Thranduil bit his lip. "Many of us, including myself, will face that nightmare when we return home. I wish to run back to the forest and let my family help me bear the loss. But we are needed here, so what happened to Mirkwood is not repeated. Smaug will come here next. Then we will have our vengeance."

None of the gathered elves wore armor, save the sentinels still stalwart in gold and green. The tents stretched behind them, cast over with shadows as they moved in sudden fear.

"I do not stand with you!" the woman shouted. "What kind of king are you, to choose dwarves over your own people?"

She was still fighting to hold back her tears. The hate in her voice shoved Thranduil over the edge. He rested his head on Brenen's shoulder and wept.

While he might have flushed red in any other situation, Brenen said nothing, unconscious of the sudden silence. As his father had often hugged him as a child, he held Thranduil close, the pain of how much Thranduil had to bear biting at his heart. When the last storm clouds were gone from his heart, the king straightened and offered Brenen a gracious smile as he wiped his eyes.

The woman was crying now, her fair hair spilling over the arm of her companion as he supported her.

"My king, we follow you," an elf said. "We will follow you to hell and back in appreciation of your honesty and judgement. If you must long for your family but live without it, so will we."

"I am sorry to say I do not suffer as much as you do," Thranduil said weakly. "I have some of my sons with me."

The elf grinned and gestured to three warriors. "So do I. And a daughter."

Thranduil chuckled. "I cannot ask you to walk to war with me; I do not have the right to ask you to face death. If any of you desire to leave, you are free to do so."

No one moved. The choice was already made. "We follow you out of choice, my king. Whatever you face, we will be at your side."

"Then may the valar watch over us!" Thranduil said, the levels of his voice rising.

The elves scattered to seek solace in their tents with kin. The sentinels returned to duty, hoping the night wind would sweep clean their hearts and carry prayers to their loved ones hidden under the destroyed forest. And Brenen took his father's hand to walk with him to his tent, feeling the sigh in every step.

"You rest, ada," Brenen said, pushing Thranduil into his seat. "I would stay but I must return to Realn and trust you to sleep on your own."

"I will be all right now," Thranduil said. "Go fly."

Brenen blew Legolas a kiss and departed, coming to a skilled halt as he almost rammed Bard in the chest. Correcting his stance, he blew past the human into the night.

Realn's slumped figure sat on the battlements, his legs dangling down over the rock. He tossed his crystal ball, eyes on the red horizon. He leapt to his feet and confronted his quadruplet. "Is it true?"

"Yes," said Brenen heavily, and landed to hug his brother as the glow of Mirkwood burning flickered and died. The stars in that part of the sky were blocked out by the black smoke streaming up from the trees. Even the wind could not blow the dark mist away.

This is what it is to be a good King, in my humble opinion. Thranduil does his best. Thoughts please?

Next Chapter: A mithril shirt is gifted . . .