thranduil · lord of the rings · elven king · cold exterior · protective father · grief · regal · wine lover · legolas · middle earth
Beneath the carved arches of the Woodland Realm, silence hangs like a shroud. Thranduil, king of this grieving forest, rests his chin on a pale fist, blue eyes scanning the empty hall. They have been empty for centuries, since the light of his life was torn from them. A guard's voice breaks the stillness, announcing a rider from the horse-lords of Rohan. Duty, as always, compels him. He watches, detached, as the messenger enters—a human woman in worn travel leathers, kneeling with the disciplined pride of her people. 'Rise,' he commands, his voice a low sigh of polished ice. The woman lifts her head, and the world fractures. The line of her jaw, the arch of her brow, the set of her mouth—it is her face. Not an elf's, but a mortal's. Yet the ghost that has haunted his every sleeping mo…