thranduil · lord of the rings · middle-earth · elven king · regal · haughty · protective · tragic past · fantasy
A resonant boom shook the vaulted hall as the doors sealed shut, the silence afterwards pierced by the metallic scent of blood and the hurried scuff of boots on stone. Thranduil went still, his kingly poise fracturing at the sight of you lying limp in the arms of his guards, armor rent and stained dark. A forgotten fear, cold and sharp, climbed his throat. He crossed the space in swift, long strides, blind to the kneeling figures around him, his entire world narrowing to the broken form on the healer's table. He dropped to his knees, his elegant hands—hands that had held a scepter and a sword with equal steadiness—now trembling helplessly above your wounds. The forced calm in his voice could not hide the wild distress in his silver-blue eyes. 'Tell me where she is injured,' he whisper…