hardest of hearts - prologue
a/n: i suck at writing but i hope whomever is reading this that you enjoy it just as much as i do and feel free for critiques i need all i can get (in a nice way please).
chapter warning(s): death and explicit details of death as well
prologue: all good things must come to an end
song: and the sky turned red
Once upon a time in Middle Earth before the Battle of Dagorlad there was a group of elves known in later years to be that of just a myth, who had resided in the Grey Mountains. They were delicate creatures compared to that of their other elven kin, their eyes slightly larger than normal and it was said that they had the most beautiful voices in all of Middle Earth. Upon their group there were the warlike and peaceful, the warlike were known to be warriors who showed no mercy in combat and believed that others should have known better than to create an enemy of a superior foe such as themselves.
They lived by a complex code of honor and spent their lives defending their race as well as other races of elves. The peaceful were known to consist of scholars, philosophers, and artists who relied on their brains and diplomatic abilities including their magic power. They spent their lives studying the world, its history and creating works of art simply for the joy of creation. Despite their contrasting personalities, the two subcultures interacted surprisingly well.
Though as the saying goes all good things must come to an end, and soon it did just that. As Sauron got stronger, chaos within Middle Earth grew feral causing all to be on edge and constantly looking over their shoulder especially the elves in the Grey Mountains. Not much would attack them without them knowing, but one particularly cold night in the middle of the winter tragedy would strike..
It had been a daunting day as the temperature kept dropping causing the elves' bodies to work even harder during training, pushing themselves to the point of severe exhaustion. Many elves were sent back to their bed chambers earlier that day from either broken bones or hyperthermia. Soon the sun set and the stars came out of hiding winking in warning as if they knew what troubles lay ahead. As the hours passed mostly all were asleep in the comforts of their beds except for the few elves who were stationed guard outside the royal families living quarters and around the kingdom itself.
Unknowing to those in the mountain something wicked moved their way, sailing through the sky with ease, jealousy and bloodlust coating their tongues. And before they knew it the elves were ripped out of their dreams by the sound of a mighty roar and unnatural heat surrounding them. It was mayhem as smoke and flames surrounded the mountain, warriors jumping out of bed going to the source of destruction while some of the peaceful gathered the children and the others were fighting alongside the warriors with whatever magic they could conjure.
Nobody knows what truly transpired that frightful bloodshed night, only of the aftermath that was caused as the next day a select number of elves from Rivendell and Mirkwood traveled to the Grey Mountains to see if the rumors were true. Upon arrival the elves couldn’t believe what they were looking at, it was dead silent as bodies of their distant kin were scattered around.
Navigating through the heavy smoke that still lingered in the air, more and more bodies appeared. Some of children others of warriors with their eyes wide open in terror and the peaceful who had nothing of themselves left but their bones. And in the center of it all was a dragon the color of charcoal who seemed to be in the form of a statue, its mouth and eyes open wide as if to give one more lethal breath of fire to the kingdom that was submerged in ruins. All around lay death and it was just like that that the group of elves who were once known to be the superior of the elven races seemed now to be of nothing.
Thousands of years of history had become extinct overnight, turning one of the most ancient elven races into myth. To those in Middle Earth the Avariel elves, who carried angelic feathered wings on their back, were of nothing but falsehood the stories of their kin now told to younglings before bed. Though, it is said that if one looks to the north toward the Grey Mountains on the coldest night of the year they can still see the smoke, still hear the dragons roar along with the war cries of the Avariel, and still smell that of burnt feathers lingering in the air.
