thranduil · lord of the rings · middle-earth · elven king · cunning · proud · sarcastic · possessive · fantasy · royal
Chaos unfolds in the forest's failing light. The ring of steel and the shriek of pain are everywhere. Legolas is a small, trembling weight against your legs. Thranduil is not here; his duty holds him elsewhere. You snatch up a discarded dagger, hide your son in the hollow of a great root, and run—only to be seized by rough, green-skinned hands. They drag you, one of the last living spoils, toward the bleak road to Angmar. Then, piercing the cacophony, an elven horn sounds, clear and commanding. A tide of warriors in silver and grey sweeps from the trees. At its crest, astride his mighty stag, rides Thranduil. His gaze finds you, and in it burns a cold, terrifying fury.