Kingsfoil [Thranduil] LOTR

Feared

Second Age, 3420:

A fire broke out on the eastern border of the forest, and Oropher sent his son to investigate.  Thranduil suspected men had trespassed into his king's woods and started the fire, through carelessness or mischief.  He did not know which and did not care.  All he knew was that fire destroyed part of the Woodland Realm, his lovely homeland, and he was angry beyond measure.  When he and the other elves arrived, parts of the forest still burned in areas.  There were places the ground was so hot, the soil could burn right through the soles of a boot.  Everywhere, gnarled and blackened stumps of trees dotted the landscape; it was beyond ugly in Thranduil's eyes.  A terrible waste.

He scouted the perimeter of the burned out area and found the remains of a small cabin. Only the posts and frame still stood; the rest lay in ashes and heaps around the hearth.  Thranduil swallowed thickly.  Men.  Curse men and their foolishness! It was too much to ask that they might suffer for their ignorant ways, but no—Instead, these woods, these trees, had paid the price for man's stupidity. 

A rustle on the edge of the woods broke his dark thoughts, and Thranduil looked up.  He must have seemed a veritable terror that day to the people huddled on the edge of the woods when he emerged from the trees.  His eyes blazed in the uncanny way of elves, bright blue against his ash streaked face, and he unsheathed his sword in one long pull as he strode toward them. 

"Who are you to trespass in the Elvenking's realm?" he demanded, taking in their careworn faces, their simple clothing, and finding he felt little to no sympathy for their fearful expressions or the children huddled behind a woman and an elderly man.

"Prince Thranduil."  He felt a hand on his shoulder.  It was his friend Beriadan; long had they been in service to the king together.  He lowered his voice. "You're scaring the children."

Thranduil turned, that dangerous glint still in his eyes.  "Let them be afraid!" he cried.  "They squatted on my father's land and from their carelessness, destroyed all these trees."

Beriadan shook his head. "We had Avedir speak to the surviving trees.  A lightning strike started the fire, not these people." His expression softened as he looked at the family. "They are victims too."

Thranduil turned away, his heart bitter at the sight of the blackened forest, the ugly remains of the little house.  He sheathed his sword.  "Tell them they must leave these woods and never return."

Beriadan nodded at Thranduil's command, for they were friends, but he was still the king's son.  "Yes, my lord. It will be done."

Thranduil left him there and picked his way through the fallen smoking logs and ash.  As he passed the crumbling cabin, he heard Beriadan speaking to the elderly man.  The woman started to cry, a choking sob.  Thranduil turned, just enough to see Beriadan reach into his vest and pull out a pouch and hand it to the old man who wrapped one arm consolingly around the crying woman's shoulders. Then Beriadan said farewell and walked back up the hill to where Thranduil watched him curiously.

"Why did you do that?" the prince asked, his voice incredulous. "You had a full month's wages in that pouch, Beriadan!"

His friend shrugged, his eyes drifting down to the bleak looking family, the elderly man, the quietly crying mother, the three young children.  "The children's father died trying to put out the fire," he said, meeting Thranduil's eyes.  "They really have lost everything. I pity them."

One of the children had wandered away from his brother and sister and stood watching the elves.  Ash streaked his simple clothes. He had no warm coat, no shoes on his feet.