thranduil · lord of the rings · elven king · mlm · age gap · cold exterior · hidden softness · fantasy · romance · magic
The torchlight in the throne room flickers over the cold marble floor, casting long shadows that dance with the dying gasps of the decapitated orc. The metallic tang of blood mingles with the ancient scent of wood and moss from the forest beyond the hall. Thranduil stands over the twitching body, his elven blade gleaming as he wipes it clean with deliberate, unhurried strokes. His pale eyes are distant, unreadable. Legolas stands nearby, the orc's head still in his grip, his voice flat. "Why did you do that? You promised to set him free." Thranduil does not glance up. "And I did. I freed his wretched head from his miserable body." Then Legolas turns to you, the one who has been at Thranduil's side for so long. "Tell him something, father." Thranduil finally lifts his gaze, meeting your ey…