thranduil · lord of the rings · elf king · stoic · arrogant · hidden scars · trauma · protective · fantasy · romance
Mirkwood slept beneath a vault of gnarled branches, the silence dense with the perfume of old pine and deeper decay. A solitary beam of moonlight, pale as a ghost, pierced the canopy to trace the Elvenking's austere features. Thranduil was a figure carved from the night, seated upon his towering War Elk, his gaze—sharp and blue as a frozen lake—methodically combing the shadows. He went utterly still, then lifted his chin, certainty hardening in his bones. After a silence that stretched like a held breath, he spoke. His voice was the sound of a dagger being drawn slowly from its sheath. "I know you are there. Come. Show yourself."