Chapter 26

The Last Stand

The War lasted longer than anyone could have anticipated. Following the great loss of two kings on their very first day, the Alliance continued to gain the upper hand. They drove the Orcs and the evil Men that Sauron had mustered, and the Elves and Men of Gondor kept advancing on the plains until they broke through the Black Gates, with the help of Elrond's golden companion; and at last, the Alliance made camp in Gorgoroth. In the next years, the Alliance slew a great part of Sauron's host and laid siege upon the Dark Tower itself. The pressure was sickening the Dark Lord that he himself, Sauron the Deceiver, went forth for battle.

It was everything the High King was waiting for. He had prepared himself for years to face this very moment. Little by little, fantasy faded as the Dark Lord marched, his heavy footfall shaking the earth and striking fear through the hearts of Men and Elves. Thranduil, though exhausted and restless of the battle, shared the same fear as the other elves before him. And he feared for the High King. The Dark Lord towered before his enemies; he was once of the proud Maiar, walking in a guise so terrible and proud; they called him Sauron and Deceiver, the Enemy, but most of all, the Abhorred.

The High King saw his soldiers creating an open space for them to duel on, and all was silent. However, before the enemy could give his first strike, some of the King's loyal followers charged against the Dark Lord. They formed a phalanx before the King, spears trying to daunt the towering figure in front; but under his mask, Sauron laughed, and hewed the pathetic elves from his pathway.

"Fools," he had always regarded the Eldar.

To defend the remainder of his host, the High King stood valiantly before the Dark Lord. His spear Aeglos was on hand; a large golden shield on the other. The King of Men, Elendil, and his son stood attentively on the side. Elrond, Erestor, Thranduil, and Amroth stood aside; they held their breaths. None could get in between this battle.

And so, it began. The High King and the Dark Lord fought long. Sauron's mace daunted the King's shield and threw aside his spear, but the King kept standing up. Out of frustration of the King's hardiness, Sauron bent down to grab the King by his throat, raising him for his followers to see. Elrond's grey eyes widened, and was about to break the phalanx to rush to the King. But Erestor and Círdan pulled him back as other thousands of orcs appeared behind their master.

"Hear ye, hear ye!" Sauron's voice called out to everyone in the battlefield, his voice laced with mockery. His grip on the King's throat tightened, and the elf in his grip gasped for air and winced on the pain. "Hear your beloved High King cry in pain as the flames of Udûn take the life of the Eldar away from him. Let harpers sing of his dreadful end. And you will learn, peasants: the Dark Lord always conquers."

A great flame was suddenly conjured in his hand, engulfing the High King in a fiery chasm. The elves watched in horror, too stricken even to move. But Elrond had allowed his soldiers to charge, a desperate attempt to save their King, and the orc leaguer behind Sauron advanced against Elrond's. Both parties clashed; one was trying to save, and the other trying to defend. The High King refused to cry in pain just as Sauron announced, and the Dark Lord laughed again. His grip tightened, all the air leaving the King's lungs, but there was nothing else to do. Elrond and his army were still so far.

The High King turned, for the last time, to see his ever loyal and brave soldiers. He saw the Sun gleaming from afar, and his heart returned to the shores he loved the most. Lindon: where elves come to and fro, either leaving or merely visiting. He could hear the waves of the Sea, calling him home. He remembered all the elves who had been in his journey: his father and sister, the elves from the underground realm, and the survivors of Gondolin. And he remembered the child who always visited him, a member of Gildor's traveling group. How she had not acknowledged him as King on their first meeting, her absentmindedness to almost everything. But she was an honest child, someone who always wanted to be needed.

His memories as King faded into Sauron's iron grip, and the searing pain registered into his mind. He winced inwardly, reminiscing all the memories he had cherished for thousands of years. He knew he would end here; he had accepted it. But he would continue living. Not here, but on the white shores in the far West.

His final thoughts echoed:

"The king must die so that the country can live."

To Elrond's grief, all the command fell to him. When Sauron had dropped the High King's burnt and lifeless body on the ground, Elves and Men alike stormed against the Dark Lord. This time, they were led by King Elendil with his remaining son Isildur; his younger son Anarion fell during the breaking of the Black Gates, three years ago. At his command, King Elendil raised his long sword, one that the elves recognized and referred as Narsil.

But Sauron laughed it off, saying: "It takes more to make a King than an Elven sword."

His mace he hewed down to the King of Men, striking him completely off his balance. Elendil was thrown aside, his helm cast away and his head broken in that attack. As Sauron hovered above the fallen King, the son Isildur rushed beside his father, taking his face between his hands, and snatched Narsil off the ground. Sauron broke the Elven-sword beneath his foot, shattering the blade to the hilt. He stooped to take hold of Isildur's throat, hungry to burn someone again in his clutches. It was in this moment, when all hope had faded, that Isildur took up his father's sword, and slashed the finger that beheld the One Ring. The gleaming Ring fell beside Isildur as the physical guise of Sauron was engulfed in fire and imploded, sending a massive wave that shook the warring elves and men off their feet. The dark armor fell on the ground; Sauron's unhoused spirit lingering in the battlefield, wandering abroad thereafter.

But it was far from over.

From the Dark Tower, the last leaguer of Sauron was opened: fire-drakes. The Elves wavered, but their goal was set. Elrond and Erestor manned their phalanx together, their shields ready to absorb the scorching heat. As the fire rained down upon them, some of the men retreated, abandoning their posts. It was Thranduil and Raithon who pulled them back into Elrond's army, and they were pushed behind the phalanx. Just as the men were temporarily saved, Thranduil saw Isildur still lying on the ground, curiously staring at the small golden Ring. Giving his sword to Raithon for defense, Thranduil took up his bow and quiver and rushed to the king's son. Upon reaching him, Thranduil shouted at the top of his lungs, shaking Isildur from his trance.

"Dragons!" Someone cried from the phalanx.

Indeed, a red one stooped on the battlefield, flames shooting from its mouth. Its tail coiled around the boulders, its claws reaching out for the elves. Then, Erestor and some of his company, including Amroth and Raithon, stepped forward as distraction to let Elrond and Círdan pass through and advance further into Mount Doom.

The fire-drake was held back by hundreds of elves, and finally, Thranduil was able to pull Isildur back into their company. That small company went to follow Elrond's trail, with Thranduil and Raithon managing the rear. Erestor led them in front, his sword raised for his soldiers to see. The fire-drake turned towards them, hissing at their attempt of distraction, and spewed fire at the rear. Scantily-equipped and caught off guard, Thranduil and Raithon were engulfed in flames. Cries of agony echoing in the field, Erestor heard them and stopped. He shouted a command in Quenya, that tongue he had not used for so long. The remaining elves heard him and together, they turned around, rescuing their kin from the assault of a fire-drake.

In the days that followed, Barad-dûr was no more, and so was its Dark Lord. The enemies were scattered, the fire-drakes retreating into the far North, to the Withered Heath whence they came.

The War was won.

I hear the wind call your name

It calls me back home again

It sparks up the fire— a flame that still burns

Oh, it's to you, I will always return

Thranduil searched thickly through the crowd of Elves. The battlefield was barren and blood-stained. Cries of wounded warriors filled his ears. He almost stumbled and fell when his foot tripped over a motionless body of a man. He gripped his sword for balance, as if it was some wooden staff, and pressed his way onwards the heavy crowd. No one gave him attention, not when everyone was busy with finding their brothers, and sons, and friends.

He could feel the nausea brought by the battle. An aftermath, Thranduil thought, and closed his eyes for a moment. And they reopened; his right vision was blurry and clouded. He could make out shapes and colors, but beyond them, it was an utter blur. On his left eye, there was nothing but darkness. Not a single image could be processed. He blinked once, and then twice. Still nothing. He growled and rubbed his left eye, and inwardly winced when his fist made contact with a burn he received earlier from the battle.

Dragon fire, Thranduil cursed as the pain on his left cheek increased.

He paid no heed anymore to his accursed vision. Instead, he carried on, limply going over crowds to another, in search for the familiar face he so desperately searched. As he continued, the numbing pain registered into his head, and he stumbled again. He fell on his knees; hands still clutched the sword for balance. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes again, disregarding the burn, and gritted his teeth.

"My lord Thranduil," one elf called out to him. The elf knelt down and observed the prince's face. He gasped at the sight of the awful burn. "Wait here," he said, looking around the field. "I shall call for Lord Elrond."

The moment he felt the elf stand up, Thranduil quickly grabbed the elf's sleeve and forcefully pulled him down. "No," he said sternly. His unseeing eyes were fixated on the ground. "I want you to find something for me… a green pennant," he panted softly. "Green and fastened with a grey rope… It bears a device of a tree… and the name Cúthalion. Find it for me."

The elf reluctantly nodded and sped off once the prince let go off his sleeve. Then, Thranduil grunted and stood up again. He marched on and on, tired, worried, and injured; he would not easily be daunted, not now that his people would look for his counsel.

He stopped when he felt another presence nearby. Acting as if his eyes could still see, he turned and looked ahead; his right eye could barely make out the image, but he could imagine a dark-haired elf coming towards him. He did not need to know who it was; he simply called out: "Lord Elrond."

Elrond stopped in front of the prince and took notice of his injuries. "Lord Thranduil," he said. "You must come with me. Your wounds are terrible. The Host is retreating to Minas Tirith. I have a steed ready for us."

When he turned to leave, Thranduil pulled him back by the shoulder. "I did not ask for healing," he said, but it sounded more like a demand. "I want you to find Erynlith's pennant."

Elrond gently removed the hand on his shoulder and said, "It is already found, my friend. Please, follow me to the Houses of Healing."

"No," Thranduil answered sternly. He fought the urge to blink his left unseeing eye, the scorching pain on his left cheek weakening him by each passing second. "Give me the pennant, and I shall return to Greenwood. I have no time for formalities and hospitalities. I must return to Greenwood now."

With a reluctant nod from Elrond, he commanded Raithon and the remaining Elven-host to prepare for the journey home.

*"The king must die so that the country can live" - Maximilien Robespierre

Author's Notes: Ha, I warned you! I'll just breeze through the War of the Last Alliance, just like how Fili's death in BOTFA was. A time-skipped, from SA 3434 to SA 3441, because the War spanned for seven freaking years! Sometimes I wonder what they did in those seven years. Did they have a slumber party in Gil-Galad's tent? Speaking of him, I shall really, really miss writing the High King! It was really fun to portray him, even if he appeared in only a few chapters.

Oh, and the dragon fire reference from The Hobbit films. Yeah, I did the thing. I remember that time when the fandom broke loose on that one scene in DOS, when Thrandy mentions that he has "faced the serpents of the North". And there goes his awful burn. (K̶u̶d̶o̶s̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶b̶r̶i̶l̶l̶i̶a̶n̶t̶ ̶a̶c̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶L̶e̶e̶ ̶P̶a̶c̶e̶!̶) Suddenly, these theories and fanfics come up that Thrandy was actually blind. So yeah, I incorporated that tidbit here.

*Evangeline Pond - Ooohh! Good to see you here again! Yes, Daddy Oropher shall be missed. *sniff* This is off track, but I have heard of Divergent countless times; my friends read the trilogy, but I still haven't. I like its concept, too. Have you taken the test? Apparently, my faction would be Candor. What's yours?

*llcyyxx - I just realized that he did die the same way as Boromir. *gasps* Maybe I should rewrite that or something. Is your package there yet? And oh! How did your skiing go? It sounds fun and I am so envious right now!

*Limbairedhiel - Yep, it was really just a breeze. Sorry about that. I'll keep your little-used tissue box in case of future feels. I visualize both Oropher and Amdir as kings concerned of their people, but could actually get prideful when it comes to social class. Remember that the Ñoldor were something "higher" and that Gil-Galad was actually descended from a line of kings, while Oropher and Amdir only became kings because the Silvan and Nandor elves supported them. I think my idea is silly, though.

As for the ages, since Thranduil was alive during the time of Beleg Cuthalion, I'd say he was born sometime in FA 460, making him around the age of Turin Turambar. (U̶h̶-̶o̶h̶.̶ ̶H̶e̶r̶e̶ ̶I̶ ̶g̶o̶ ̶a̶g̶a̶i̶n̶ ̶w̶i̶t̶h̶ ̶T̶h̶e̶ ̶S̶i̶l̶m̶a̶r̶i̶l̶l̶i̶o̶n̶ ̶r̶e̶f̶e̶r̶e̶n̶c̶e̶s̶.̶) Same goes for Amroth and Raithon, I guess. Erynlith's parents were from Doriath; it was mentioned in the earlier chapters that Amdir was her maternal uncle. I visualize her somewhere around 400 years, still a child by Elvish standards.

I certainly fall in love with Leggles every time I rewatch LOTR. But his father... Oh, Valar. Imagining him shirtless is such a delight. There needs to be fluff! Anyway, thank you for such a long review. It was really appreciated!~

*DeLacus - R.I.P. #Amdir and #Oropher. I shall miss these two sassy kings. It must be traumatizing to watch your remaining parent die, and still have to remain strong to battle. Amroth and Thrandy need a hug! *cries* I also imagine Sauron thrashing Gil-galad around the battlefield, and then be like "Puny Elf". (I'm sorry, Gil-galad!)

This is all for now, folks! Hopes you enjoyed it very much! See you all in the next chapter!~