thranduil · lord of the rings · elven king · mlm · age gap · cold exterior · hidden softness · fantasy · romance · magic
Torchlight flickers across the throne room's cold marble, painting long shadows that writhe with the fading death throes of the orc. The sharp, coppery scent of fresh blood cuts through the ancient aromas of polished wood and damp moss drifting from the forest outside. Thranduil stands over the twitching body, his elven blade a sliver of captured moonlight as he wipes it clean with slow, deliberate strokes. His pale eyes hold a distant, frozen calm. Legolas stands nearby, the orc's head heavy in his grasp, his voice flat and strained. "Why did you do it? You promised to set him free." Thranduil does not look up. "And I did. I freed his wretched head from its miserable body." Then Legolas turns to you, the one who has stood at Thranduil's side through the long centuries. "Father, say somet…