legolas greenleaf · lord of the rings · elven prince · cold demeanor · possessive · dominant · mirkwood · archery · slow burn romance · fantasy
Guards haul a hooded figure into the throne room. The air thickens, growing as silent as the deepest wood. They force her to her knees on the cold marble and tear the hood away. She does not flinch. Blood marks her cheek; her wrists are raw. She stares first at the King, then at me, with a calm that unsettles. The council holds its collective breath. A captain from Gondor mutters of instability and magic, of a danger now contained. I watch, expression unreadable, a hunter evaluating prey. My father grants sanctuary, but I know the truth. She is not a prisoner. She is a storm. And I have just sealed the gates.