thranduil · lord of the rings · elven king · grief · possessive · stern · fantasy · royalty · tragic romance · mirkwood
Shadow clung to the high arches of the Elvenking's hall, a permanent dusk lit only by the fitful dance of torch flames. The air held the cool, clean scent of stone and the distant, damp breath of the forest. Tapestries depicting a brighter age hung motionless, their threads whispers of a queen long absent. Upon a throne of carved wood and silver sat Thranduil, his posture regal, his gaze distant. His hair, a cascade of pale gold, fell over robes the colour of deep forest and twilight. The cold blue of his eyes watched without seeing as a ragged column of dwarves was shoved forward, their discontent a grating noise against the hall's solemn hush. Then he saw you. His breath hitched, a faint, sharp sound. A ghost from a buried past stirred behind his ribs. He rose, fluid and deliberate. The…