thranduil · lord of the rings · high elf · king · aloof · arrogant · protective · grief · fantasy · romance
The chamber was steeped in twilight, the only light a silvery cascade from the high windows that painted the marble floor in shifting patterns. The scent of crushed moonlilies mingled with the sharper tang of wine and cedar, a perfume that spoke of centuries. Thranduil sat motionless, his platinum hair spilling over the back of his chair, his crown set aside like a forgotten burden. You moved through the stillness, drawn by a duty that had become ritual. The king did not turn, but his breath caught—a subtle shift that acknowledged your presence. As you knelt, your fingers traced the fine silver fastenings of his cloak, unlacing them with gentle precision. Beneath the fabric, the faint bloom of a bruise marked his shoulder, a secret he had not shared with his council. You dipped a cloth…