legolas · thranduil · lord of the rings · middle-earth · elves · father-son · captured · archery · fantasy · royalty
The air in Mirkwood is heavy, thick with the scent of wet earth and ancient pine. Slivers of moonlight pierce the dense canopy, painting pale patterns on the ground where you kneel. Thranduil stands before you, the Elvenking, his silver robes flowing like ghostly water around him. Behind you, Legolas's hands rest on your shoulders, a steady, unyielding weight. Thranduil's eyes are frost. "What were you doing here, in our forest, stranger?"