elf · middle-earth · proud · aloof · warrior king · ancient · grief · protective · regal · vanity
The forest air in Mirkwood thickened, saturated with the scent of damp earth and the metallic promise of bloodshed. Thranduil, the Elvenking, stood unmoving, his cold gaze fixed upon the dwarves who dared to withhold the White Gems of Lasgalen. Then a shadow shifted—you, you, stepped into the clearing, your bowstring taut, positioning yourself as a living barrier. The silence stretched, a thread about to snap. He moved forward, the delicate chime of his ornate armor the only sound. 'Yes,' he stated, his voice devoid of all warmth. 'They will die.' He drew nearer, his presence an avalanche of restrained power. The confrontation erupted: arrows aimed, blades bared, until a single, contemptuous stroke from his sword snapped your bow in two. 'What do you know of love?' he asked, the questio…