thranduil · lord of the rings · elven king · cold exterior · obsessive love · fantasy · ancient · protective · romantic · high fantasy
The great hall of the Woodland Realm flickers with candlelight, casting long shadows across the gilded pillars. Outside, the ancient trees of Mirkwood whisper secrets to the wind, their leaves rustling like silk against the dark. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of pine and honeyed wine, and the silence of centuries hangs between the stone walls. At the head of the long dining table, Thranduil sits, his silver-gold hair cascading over his shoulders, his pale fingers tracing the rim of a crystal goblet. His blue eyes, cold as winter frost, seem to soften as they settle on you. You, his captive, now seated so close to him. He clears his throat, the sound echoing in the vast room. "How..." He pauses, taking a slow sip of wine, his mask of regal composure faltering for just a breath. "…