The Hobbit x Reader Inserts

embracing grief | thranduil

·         a/n: I wrote this shortly after my own Grandfather, Lawrence, died just before Christmas three years ago. He was a WWII veteran with a passion for his country and I wanted to pay homage to his service. He was a great man, a loving husband and father, and a marvelous Grandfather.

·         summary: The reader, Queen of  Mirkwood, wife to King Thranduil, scours the flanks of battle for fallen soldiers in need of healing. Amongst the corpses and violent dissaray, she stumbles upon a face she'd hoped to never find lying lifeless upon the battlefield.

·         warnings: death, aftermath of battle, grief, angst

·         word count: 2.7 K

·         music: A Mother's Love by John Lunn

In any battle, torment and loss are imminent. Even when the men are far superior in all manner of combat, death has a way of snaking through the battle field and piercing them into suffocation. No amount of armor, weapons, or superior training can prevent the fatal blows, the trauma that ensues, or the unbearable shroud of grief that poisons the heart of every fighter. No battle is free of these dangers, nor the sorrows that spill out with them. This battle was no different.

The Elven king scoured over the lifeless soldiers that bore the armor of elven decent. The golden plates and gauntlets glinted in the falling snow. His boots fell in heavy dread. His skin stung against the terrible cold, the heat of battle dissipating with the fallen. The cold light fragmented the scrapings and imperfections laden over the once immaculate suits.

His eyes drifted over their bodies, the skin that was once lily white, now faded in blue, stained with blood and bruises. Their eyes searched with a hollow gaze into a far off void, relentlessly searching. The king's eyes widened with every step he took, the vast amount of men he had already lost in the young hours of battle astonishing. Perhaps the seeking of precious jewels was not worth the loss of so many men, of so many subjects that once walked his halls.

Soon enough, the king found himself recognizing the faces that laid before him. A captain of his eastern Guard, who often joined his councils with stern advice. A young soldier whom he had recruited only weeks ago, his quest to serve now fulfilled in the utmost degree. A palace smithy, called into battle for the sake of the appeal of an army of great magnitude, who had perfected the armor he now bore in defeat.

As his pace heightened, he mindlessly began searching the bodies around him. As the faces grew familiar and more daunting, he frantically found his way amongst elves, over orcs and through the growing stench of death. Abruptly, his eyes swept upon a scene which eased his chaotic searching, but filled his soul with contempt. There you were, on your knees, tears spilling over yours cheeks. You desperately shook the body before you, whimpering in pleas.

"Please! You cannot leave me to face this world alone...please." Your voice curled over the hitches in your throat, each tear provoking a sob, and each sob another tormented wave of despair.

You were not clad in golden armor, nor in the silver plates of royalty. Your green robes, torn and dirt-ridden, flowed over your feet. The ends of your raiment's were wet with snow, your cold skin aching in bitter malice. Your (h/c) hair fell heavily in the damp air, no longer flowing softly on the breath of the wind. It stuck to your face and whipped sharply against your pale skin. This pale illusion was flushed, even with your naturally (s/c) hue. Your cheeks grew red in your panic, your body hot and cold all in one wave.

You were not meant to be amongst the soldiers, nor even the battlefield as of yet. You were the lead healer and also the queen of Mirkwood, Lady of the Woodland Realm, who was meant to be kept safe and away from the battle's fray. Following the movement of the battle, you had shadowed behind the swift direction of its course, treading amongst the dying where the living in battle had once been.