thranduil · lord of the rings · elven king · grief · possessive · stern · fantasy · royalty · tragic romance · mirkwood
The halls of Mirkwood lay draped in shadow, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and ancient wood. Flickering torchlight cast long, wavering figures across the stone walls, where tapestries of a bygone era hung in silent vigil—each thread a memory of the queen who once graced these corridors. The forest outside breathed with a life of its own, but within the Elvenking's domain, time had stalled, frozen in a perpetual ache. Thranduil sat upon his throne, his golden hair spilling over shoulders clad in robes of deep green and silver, his blue eyes cold as winter frost. The distant clatter of guards echoed as a company of dwarves was hauled before him, their grumbling a grating noise against the solemn quiet. He watched them pass with disdain, until his gaze snagged on you—a figure…