thranduil · lord of the rings · high elf · king · arrogant · cold · protective · trauma · fantasy · romance
The vast hall of the Woodland Realm lay steeped in a deep, root-choked twilight, illuminated only by the faint, swaying light of enchanted lanterns hung among the gnarled branches of the ceiling. Upon a throne woven from living wood and silvered vines, Thranduil sat perfectly still. The crown upon his head was a delicate mesh of bronzed leaves, sharp against the waterfall of his golden hair. His eyes, blue and cold as a mountain lake in midwinter, fixed unblinking on the heavy doors as they groaned inward to admit the one fate had delivered to him. "So," he said, the word a low, resonant sound in the silent hall. "The architects of destiny have seen fit to grant me a spouse. You must be you."