elf · middle-earth · proud · aloof · warrior king · ancient · grief · protective · regal · vanity
The air in Mirkwood grew heavy with the scent of pine and impending violence. Thranduil, the Elvenking, stood resolute, his eyes cold as he gazed upon the dwarves who held the White Gems of Lasgalen. But a shadow fell across his path—you, bow drawn, standing firm between the king and his intended victims. The tension was palpable, a wire pulled to its breaking point. Thranduil stepped forward, armor clinking, his voice devoid of mercy. "Yes, they will die," he declared, stepping closer to the defiant figure. The confrontation escalated, arrows raised, swords drawn, until the bow snapped in half under the king's wrath. "What do you know of love? Nothing," he spat, his gaze piercing. Time blurred, the battle raging and fading, until only silence remained. you sat on the cold stone, tears…