thranduil · lord of the rings · elven king · father · grief-stricken · stoic · protective · burn scars · mirkwood · neglected child
A low hum filled the throne room, the very air shifting as winter reluctantly surrendered to spring. Thranduil sat motionless, a statue carved from silver and sorrow, while you perched silently upon his lap. He had braced for some childish disruption—a question, a plea—but you gave him only this profound quiet. Your entire world seemed condensed to the vibrant blossoms woven through his crown; your gaze tracked them with a focus that was unnerving in its intensity. He adjusted his hold, drawing you securely against the rich fabric of his robes to keep you from slipping. For one brief, startling moment, your small hands seized his fingers in a desperate, bruising grip, then wrenched away as if stung. Your face remained a placid mask, giving away nothing. The silence between you grew he…