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earthlybeam · 1 day ago

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I saw a post about Thranduil disability due to his scar (can’t find it 😭) makes me wonder how he’ll approach it with a partner? Scars are such a deep delicate piece of one self and he use some kind of magic to hide it I suppose he is self conscious about it? It’s too sad! And apparently elves only love once that also mean boy is stuck in the past forever 😭

In the context below, I am sharing a headcanon about Scar (my personal opinion). Than Answer your question in How might he approach his partner regarding his scar?. Lastly how his partner discovered his scar for first time.

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Thranduil Version below. (Your his partner)

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

Headcanons on Thranduil’s Scar (A Personal headcanon of mine)

𐂂 Constant Soreness and Sensitivity The scarred side of Thranduil’s face remains perpetually sore and sensitive to the touch. His skin feels like it’s still healing, even after centuries. The scar tissue is more prone to reacting to changes in weather or pressure. The sensation can range from dull aching to sharp discomfort, especially in moments of physical stress or emotional strain. Often, he will gently press his left hand against his cheek or forehead, as if trying to soothe the constant irritation. This act becomes subconscious, a private coping mechanism he does when he thinks no one is watching.

𐂂 Cool Damp Cloth to Ease the Burn Sometimes, the scar feels like it’s burning up, especially on hot days or when he’s been using his magic extensively. Thranduil will often apply a cool damp cloth to his left cheek or forehead to alleviate the sensation of heat. The cloth is more than just for comfort; it helps momentarily distract him from the constant reminder of the pain he’s learned to live with. This is one of his more private moments of self-care, something that might happen behind closed doors when he’s alone or when he feels the need to quiet the discomfort.

𐂂 Blindness in the Left Eye Thranduil’s left eye is permanently blinded, a painful reminder of the battle with the Fire Drakes. He keeps the blindness hidden through elven glamour magic, creating the illusion of a normal appearance, but the loss of vision is always present in his awareness. He consciously angles his head to ensure that he’s constantly aware of his surroundings, making sure that people stand on his right side where he can see them with his only functional eye. This is not an overt action but more of a natural positioning habit he’s developed over centuries. Thranduil has grown hyper-aware of sounds and other stimuli from his left side, his sense of hearing and intuition becoming stronger to compensate for his blind spot. He trusts his senses more than most might expect.

𐂂 Magical Glamour is Exhausting Maintaining the glamour magic that hides the scar and his blindness is tiring. The magic is subtle but constant, and after long periods of exertion or emotional turmoil, Thranduil will feel the strain. Occasionally, the glamour flickers or weakens, especially when his emotions are stirred or when he’s exhausted. Thranduil tends to avoid using his magic excessively in public settings, fearing that someone might notice the flicker in his disguise. This causes him to retreat even more into solitude, especially when he feels vulnerable.

𐂂 Increased Sensitivity to Pain Thranduil experiences sudden, sharp bursts of pain from his scar, particularly during moments of heightened emotional intensity. When he’s angry or distressed, the scar seems to flare up, sending sharp jolts of pain through his face. These episodes can catch him off guard, making him appear more agitated or distant than he actually is. He hides this pain behind a mask of regal composure, but in private moments, his discomfort becomes almost unbearable, especially if someone brings up the past or the cause of the injury.

𐂂 Emotional Distance and Wariness Thranduil’s scar creates emotional distance between him and others. His insecurities about the disfigurement make him wary of anyone getting too close. He is protective of his face and will recoil if someone tries to touch it, even if it’s a gesture of affection.

𐂂 The vulnerability of the scar makes him very selective about who is allowed near him physically. Only those he trusts deeply—like Legolas or perhaps his closest advisors—are allowed to approach his left side without triggering his wariness.

𐂂 Physical and Psychological Scar The physical scar is not just a mark of the fire but also a psychological wound. It represents loss—of strength, invulnerability, and the youth he once had. Even after centuries, Thranduil has not fully come to terms with the damage it has done to him. There are moments where the scar represents shame or failure in his eyes. In these rare moments of self-reflection, he might wonder what he could have done differently to avoid the injury. These thoughts are fleeting but haunting.

𐂂 Reluctance to Reveal the Scar Thranduil hides his scar even from his own kin, especially in times when he feels emotionally exposed or when others might question his vulnerabilities. He has mastered the art of maintaining an air of perfection, masking the reality of his injury behind layers of magic and pride. Even in moments of closeness with Legolas, he might be hesitant to fully reveal his scar, especially when Legolas was a child. Over time, Legolas would have likely seen glimpses of the truth, but Thranduil would remain reticent about discussing it unless absolutely necessary.

𐂂 Feeling of Weakness and Humiliation Thranduil’s scar serves as a constant reminder of his mortality. It is one thing for him to be immortal and unyielding in battle, but the scar exposes a weakness, something he cannot erase or change. It stands as proof that even the mightiest elves can fall prey to danger, and this thought haunts him on particularly dark days. The idea of being vulnerable or less-than-perfect can cause him immense humiliation, especially in front of others. He might lash out in anger or act coldly to keep anyone from probing too deeply into his scars, both physical and emotional.

𐂂 Compensatory Behavior in Social Situations In public settings, Thranduil’s movements become more deliberate. He turns his face slightly away from the left side, and if he needs to engage someone in conversation, he’ll usually position them to his right. If forced to interact with someone on his left side, he might unconsciously raise his left hand or arm to shield the scar, a gesture so ingrained in his behavior that he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. This gives an impression of confidence and strength, even though it’s driven by insecurity.

𐂂 A Potent and Healing Drink for thranduil Dorwinion wine is renowned for its strength, so much so that it can intoxicate even Elves—beings known for their exceptional resistance to alcohol. But after the dragon fire incident, Thranduil became accustomed to its effects, using it as a form of solace and numbing comfort. The potent wine became an essential part of his recovery, allowing him to dull the searing pain from the burns and the emotional scars left by the battle with the Fire Drakes. Thranduil drank it frequently during the recovery period, and over time, his tolerance to the wine grew so that it no longer affected him in the usual way. His resistance to the wine’s effects became almost legendary among his people, and he was often seen sipping from his glass without even a hint of inebriation, despite the powerful nature of the drink.

𐂂 Thranduil is often seen with a glass of Dorwinion wine at his side, a habit that traces back to his recovery from the devastating dragon fire scar inflicted by the Fire Drakes. It’s not merely a symbol of indulgence or luxury in the courts of Mirkwood—it is an integral part of Thranduil’s way of managing the constant physical pain from his scar and the emotional weight it carries. The deep burn that left his left side forever scarred remains a source of both soreness and intense sensitivity, flaring up in waves of discomfort. In moments of heightened pain, or when the scar acts up unexpectedly, Dorwinion wine provides him with a way to dull the sensation, allowing him a temporary respite. Over the centuries, he has become so accustomed to the wine’s effects that it no longer intoxicates him in the typical sense, but its warmth and rich flavor soothe him, offering him a momentary escape. The wine became his companion during the long days of recovery after the battle with the Fire Drakes, when it helped to numb both his physical injuries and the deeper wounds to his spirit. Now, it serves as both a comfort and a tool for self-regulation, helping him maintain his stoic façade in public while easing the persistent flare-ups of pain he still faces. Whether in private moments of reflection or in the company of trusted companions, the glass of Dorwinion wine never leaves his side. It is his silent ally in the ongoing battle with his scars, a ritual he clings to—one that has endured through the centuries—and a reminder of how far he has come from the ravages of dragon fire.

𐂂 Trust and Acceptance of Those Who See the Scar There are very few people in Middle-earth who Thranduil would allow to see the truth behind the glamour magic. He has shared his scar with Lady Galadriel, Lord Celeborn and Lord Elrond, trusting them not only with its physical existence but also with the pain and trauma tied to it. His vulnerability is a rare sight, and those who have seen the scar have gained a special place in his heart. Their respect for his journey and his pain likely helps Thranduil to feel less ashamed of his injury, though he never fully abandons his need for secrecy and composure.

𐂂 Elrond’s Continued Care for Thranduil’s Scar: Lord Elrond was one of the few who saw the full extent of Thranduil’s scars immediately after the battle with the Fire Drakes. As a healer, Elrond provided essential aid, using his knowledge to ease the Elven King’s pain and help with his recovery. Thranduil, despite his pride and reluctance to show weakness, trusted Elrond enough to seek his help in those dark days. Even now, centuries later, Elrond continues to send healing herbs and potions to Mirkwood to help manage the pain of Thranduil’s scar. These remedies are carefully crafted to soothe the constant discomfort Thranduil faces, especially during flare-ups. Though Thranduil often maintains a cold, aloof demeanor and refuses to openly acknowledge the depth of his suffering, Elrond understands that it’s a façade. He knows the king’s pride keeps him from seeking help openly, but he has seen the vulnerability behind that mask. Elrond’s gifts of healing aren’t just physical remedies—they are reminders of the bond they share. Thranduil, while distant, accepts them with quiet gratitude, though he rarely lets anyone see the true extent of his reliance on them. The Elven King keeps the potions and herbs close, knowing they bring relief when the pain becomes unbearable. This subtle, ongoing care from Elrond is a silent but powerful expression of trust and friendship, one that Thranduil allows only a very few to see.

𐂂 Galadriel’s Role in Thranduil’s Healing and Glamour Magic In the aftermath of the Fire Drakes’ attack, Lady Galadriel was instrumental in helping Thranduil conceal the scar’s true extent. Recognizing the emotional and physical toll the injury had on him, she used her deep wisdom and mastery of magic to teach Thranduil how to create a glamour spell that would hide the scar from the eyes of others. Galadriel helped him understand the subtlety and precision required to maintain such an illusion, knowing that it would provide him with the appearance of normalcy that he desperately craved. Galadriel’s guidance went beyond just the magical aspects of the glamour. She understood the emotional weight of Thranduil’s scar, and in her way, helped him process the trauma it caused. Her calm, patient nature gave him a sense of security, though Thranduil never fully allowed himself to express the extent of his vulnerability. Despite his reluctance to show weakness, he trusted Galadriel with this intimate aspect of his life, knowing that she would respect his need for privacy. As Thranduil became more adept at controlling the glamour, he felt a deep sense of gratitude toward Galadriel, though he would never openly express it. Her quiet support, both magical and emotional, allowed him to maintain his regal composure while still carrying the burden of his scar. In this rare exchange, Thranduil’s trust in Galadriel grew, cementing her place as one of the few who truly understood the full depth of his pain and the lengths he went to conceal it.

𐂂 Celeborn’s Role in Thranduil’s Healing Journey Though not directly involved in the magical healing like Galadriel, Celeborn played a crucial role in Thranduil’s recovery. His quiet wisdom and steady presence offered Thranduil the emotional balance he needed after the attack. Celeborn provided counsel on perseverance through suffering, understanding the weight of immortality and the scars time can leave. Celeborn’s gentle approach allowed Thranduil to reflect on his trauma without feeling judged. While Celeborn wasn’t overt in his support, his steady, reliable nature helped Thranduil navigate his emotional pain, earning a quiet but deep respect from the elven king over time. He was the grounding force that helped Thranduil find dignity in his suffering and maintain composure during the darkest times.

Would thranduil approach his partner (you) about his scar?

No, Thranduil would never approach his partner personally about the scar. He would keep it hidden, using glamour magic or subtle enchantments to conceal it, never intending to reveal it unless absolutely necessary. His self-consciousness about the scar runs deep, and he would never willingly share such a vulnerable part of himself. If the scar were discovered, it would likely happen accidentally, in a moment where his guard is lowered or his defenses slip. But until that point, Thranduil would ensure it remained a secret, too afraid of how it might change his partner’s perception of him. The dragon fire scar would undoubtedly be a profound source of insecurity for Thranduil, particularly given his deep attachment to his appearance, pride, and the image of immortality and strength he works tirelessly to project. Thranduil is not one to easily reveal his vulnerabilities. He cloaks much of his true self behind an imperious façade, maintaining an aura of stoic authority. To him, the scar represents a painful reminder of past failure—a wound that tarnishes the regal stature he strives to uphold, one that conflicts with the idealized, flawless image elves typically seek to preserve.

𐂂 Thranduil’s Approach in a Romantic Relationship In a romantic relationship, Thranduil would be profoundly guarded, reluctant to share either his physical or emotional scars. His pride and past experiences would make him exceedingly hesitant to open up about his insecurities, particularly regarding the scar from the dragon fire. The thought of his partner seeing the scar—of witnessing a flaw in his otherwise immaculate exterior—would terrify him. He would fear that exposing this vulnerability could unravel the carefully constructed perfection he works so hard to maintain, making him feel exposed and weak.

𐂂 First Approach: Keeping the Scar Hidden From the outset of a relationship, Thranduil would do everything in his power to keep his scar concealed. He would not mention it and would go to great lengths to hide it, using glamour magic or subtle enchantments to cover its visibility. His desire to maintain control over how others perceive him would be paramount. He would avoid allowing his partner to get too close on his left side, positioning himself deliberately so that only his right side was visible. This meticulous avoidance of physical proximity would be an instinctive action to protect himself from emotional exposure. To Thranduil, this secrecy would not be an act of dishonesty, but rather a way of maintaining his image of perfection. The scar is something he feels he must keep hidden, not only for the sake of his pride but to keep his partner from seeing what he perceives as a flaw that could compromise their view of him.

𐂂 When His Partner Discovers the Scar: The moment his partner accidentally discovers the scar would likely occur during an intimate, vulnerable moment. Perhaps they are close, and Thranduil, unable to manage his pain or discomfort, inadvertently lets his guard down. Or maybe in a rare instance, he allows himself to relax just enough for his partner to see the mark—something he’s spent so long hiding. If his partner discovers the scar, Thranduil would likely be immediately shaken, both emotionally and physically. His instincts would compel him to retreat emotionally, fearing that the sight of the scar will prompt judgment or pity. His mind would race with insecurity, and he would likely feel exposed in a way he is unprepared for. To protect himself, he might respond with coldness or a sharp, dismissive remark, masking his vulnerability behind a defensive wall. His emotional withdrawal would be a reflex—a way to regain control over a situation that has threatened to reveal more of him than he is willing to share. In that moment, Thranduil’s self-consciousness would overshadow everything else. His greatest fear—that his partner might see him as flawed or weakened—would take over, leading him to react with an almost instinctive desire to push them away or lash out. How he handles the discovery would depend on the partner’s response, but his initial reaction would be to defend himself, hiding behind his pride and withdrawing from the emotional connection that the discovery forces him to confront.

(Thranduil’s Reaction to His Partner (you) Discovering His Scar for the First Time) Artwork is https://www.deviantart.com/kapriss-art

The evening sun cast soft beams of light through the delicate curtains of Thranduil’s private chamber, lending the room a quiet warmth. The air was still, save for the occasional rustling of papers on his desk as the Elven King worked through the mountain of tasks that awaited him. His eyes, sharp and unwavering as ever, scanned over the documents laid before him. The endless duties of his kingdom—decisions regarding trade, diplomatic correspondence, matters of defense—all required his attention. His posture was regal, every inch the king, even as he worked through the mundane details of his rule. Thranduil sat at his desk with an air of command, his back straight, shoulders squared. His movements were graceful yet purposeful, as though even in the most private moments, he carried the weight of his crown. He wore a rich, deep green tunic embroidered with intricate silver threads, the soft fabric clinging to his frame with an elegance that was uniquely his. Over his shoulders, a dark, flowing cloak rested, embroidered with the patterns of Mirkwood, its edges catching the fading light of the day. His boots, polished and well-crafted, were placed firmly beneath the desk, his posture impeccable, as though no matter the task, he remained the sovereign of his realm. His long, platinum blonde hair fell in waves over his shoulders, the light catching the strands in a way that made them shimmer with ethereal beauty. Yet, in this private chamber, amidst the solitude of his duties, there was no grandeur in his bearing—just the weight of centuries and the burdens of his people. Even as he reviewed the kingdom’s affairs, there was something weighted in the quiet space between his breaths, something lingering beneath his carefully maintained exterior.

But as the quiet hum of the room settled around him, a sudden, sharp discomfort ran through Thranduil’s left cheek, pulling his focus from his duties. It began as a gentle throb, but it quickly escalated into something far worse—an all-consuming burn. The deep scars from the dragon fire, once hidden beneath layers of glamour magic, flared up violently, sending waves of heat crashing across his face. The fire-like sensation surged with an intensity that was both unbearable and all too familiar. Thranduil’s jaw clenched, his body stiffening for a brief moment. He did not let out a sound, but his eyes narrowed in quiet frustration. He could feel the searing pain radiating from the left side of his face, sharp and jagged like the burns that marred him. His left eye—the one that would never see clearly again—seemed to throb in unison with the scar, an ever-present reminder of the battle with the Fire Drakes.

His hand, almost instinctively, moved to touch the source of the pain. For a moment, he hesitated, a breath catching in his throat. The glamour magic that concealed the scar, the magic he had long relied on, was slipping. It was exhausting, maintaining the illusion. The energy needed to keep the glamour intact had become too much, and the pain, so familiar now, was forcing him to abandon it. He sighed softly and allowed the glamour to fade. For the first time in what felt like ages, the scar was exposed in its full, raw form. The jagged burn marks on his left cheek were a stark contrast to his fair skin, darkened and angry as if the fire still smoldered beneath his flesh. The once regal beauty of his face—unscathed and unmarred—was now forever marked by the cruel legacy of the dragon fire. He could not escape it, no matter how he tried.

His breathing quickened slightly, and a soft hiss escaped him as the heat in his face flared, the burn becoming unbearable. The pain was not new to him, but it always took him off guard in moments like these. Thranduil closed his eyes for a moment, trying to regain control over his body, to quell the urge to grit his teeth and wince. The cool damp cloth on the table beside him seemed like a distant solution, but it was the only one he had. With trembling hands, Thranduil reached for it, his fingers brushing against the fabric, his breath shallow with the intensity of the flare-up. He dipped the cloth into the bowl of cool water, wringing it gently before lifting it to his face.

As the cloth touched his skin, a sharp, involuntary hiss escaped him. The coolness of the cloth made immediate contact with the burn, and while it provided a fleeting moment of relief, the sensation of cold against fire was jarring. His body jerked slightly as the heat clashed with the coolness, the sudden contrast both shocking and relieving. His skin seemed to scream for the comfort of the coolness, but it also rebelled against the harsh interruption. For a few moments, Thranduil remained still, eyes shut tight, the cloth pressed against his cheek. The momentary reprieve was all too brief, as the sensation of heat never fully receded. He could still feel the constant throb in his skin, the tender rawness that would never completely heal. His face, once a symbol of untarnished grace and regality, was now a reminder of battle’s price.

Thranduil let out a deep, controlled breath, trying to ground himself in the moment. He applied more pressure to the cloth, his fingers trembling with the subtle strain. It wasn’t enough to make the pain go away—it never was—but it was enough to bring a momentary distraction, enough to let him endure, if only for a while longer. His chest rose and fell with each measured breath, the rhythmic inhalation and exhalation the only thing that allowed him to focus on something other than the searing, never-ending pain. As he pulled the cloth away, a faint line of tension remained in his face. His left cheek, once again exposed, carried the marks of his past: the scarred skin, the fragile remains of a battle that had taken so much from him. Thranduil sat back, his gaze lingering on the reflection in the polished wood of the desk before him. For a moment, his features softened, though only the barest trace of vulnerability crossed his face. The silent struggle, the constant battle against pain, was something he could not escape—even in his private chambers, surrounded by the protection of his own walls.

Then, without another word, he reached for the goblet of Dorwinion wine resting at his side. The cool glass felt smooth in his hands as he lifted it to his lips, the dark crimson liquid swirling gently within. It was not just a drink; it was his comfort, his ritual. The potent warmth of the wine slid down his throat, bringing with it a small measure of ease. It was a companion to his scars—something that could dull the discomfort, something that could shield him from the weight of it all, even if just for a few fleeting moments. Thranduil placed the goblet of Dorwinion wine back down onto the polished wooden surface of his desk with deliberate care, his long fingers lingering on its stem for a moment. The dimming light of the evening caught the wine’s deep crimson hue, reflecting faintly in the goblet’s rippling surface. His sharp eyes, usually filled with regal authority, softened as they settled on the faint reflection cast back at him from the dark liquid.

The scar, revealed in his private sanctuary now that the exhausting glamour magic had been allowed to fade, marred the perfection of his otherwise flawless face. The jagged lines of burnt, twisted skin that snaked across the left side of his face seemed more pronounced in the distorted surface of the wine. His left eye, blind and clouded, stared back at him, a stark reminder of the dragon fire that had consumed so much—not just his flesh but his pride, his sense of invulnerability, and a piece of his spirit. His fingers clenched the edge of the desk, his breathing slow but measured as he held back the surge of emotion that always threatened to overwhelm him in moments like this. He had long mastered the art of burying his feelings, suppressing them beneath layers of cold detachment and indomitable authority. But here, alone, with no one to see and no one to judge, the weight of the scar pressed upon him. It burned not with physical pain now, though the flare-ups were frequent enough. Instead, it burned with memory—the memory of fire, of searing agony, of the bitter realization that even an elven king was not untouchable.

As he stared at his reflection, a flicker of doubt crossed his face, and his jaw tightened. He hated it. Hated the way it had stolen something from him. Not just his physical perfection but the sense of invincibility he had carried for so long. Thranduil was prideful—too prideful, perhaps—and his scar was an affront to everything he had worked to embody. It made him feel flawed, vulnerable, mortal. The thought of someone seeing him like this—seeing the imperfection, the weakness—tightened the knot in his chest. What would they see? A king who had fallen? A shadow of his former self? He feared that even those closest to him, those who claimed to care for him, might look at him differently if they truly saw him.

His eyes dropped to the wine again, the rippling surface blurring the lines of his reflection, obscuring the scar in fragmented waves. For a brief, irrational moment, he wished the wine could do the same for him in reality—erase the mark entirely, make him whole again, as if the fire had never touched him. But he knew better. The scar would always be there, beneath the glamour, beneath the layers of pride and stoicism. He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes briefly, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to quell the ache that had settled behind his temples. His mind wandered to what the scar truly meant. It was a mark of failure, yes, but it was also a mark of survival. He had endured the fire. He had endured the pain. He had endured the shame of it all. And yet, the weight of it was no less heavy now than it had been centuries ago. A sigh escaped him, soft and low, barely audible in the quiet room. He straightened again, his gaze sharpening as he forced the emotions down once more. The scar would remain hidden, just as it always had, and no one would ever see it—not willingly. He could not bear the thought of revealing it, of sharing that piece of himself, even with someone he trusted. It was his burden, his pain, and his alone. The goblet hovered near Thranduil’s lips, the deep crimson wine catching the fading evening light as he took another slow sip. His eyes, distant and unfocused, remained fixed on the swirling liquid within, his thoughts drifting through the labyrinth of his insecurities. He was lost in a tide of memories—of fire and pain, of failure and survival—and so consumed by the weight of them that he didn’t notice the soft creak of the door opening, nor the quiet footsteps that followed.

You stepped into the room, your intention simply to see Thranduil, as you had not seen much of him throughout the day. It was not unusual for you, as his partner, to enter his chambers unannounced. Thranduil often became so immersed in the weight of his duties that he lost track of time, and you had made it a habit to check on him, to offer him solace in the quiet moments he rarely allowed himself. The chamber was dimly lit, bathed in the soft glow of the fading evening light streaming through the tall windows. Your steps were light, almost soundless, as you moved closer. At first, the sight of him seemed as familiar as ever—Thranduil seated at his desk, the very image of quiet authority. He sat with his back straight, his long platinum blonde hair cascading over his shoulders, his usual air of command emanating from his every movement. But there was something different now, something that made you slow your steps. His posture, while still upright, lacked its usual unyielding confidence. His shoulders seemed slightly tense, his head tilted downward as though weighed by unseen burdens.

It was a rare thing to see him like this. Here, in the privacy of his chambers, Thranduil allowed himself to shed the unrelenting mask of perfection he wore before others. But tonight, there was something more—a vulnerability in the way his fingers lingered at the goblet of wine, the faint lines of exhaustion that even the soft glow of the room couldn’t hide. As your eyes adjusted further to the low light, they fell to his face—his left side—and you froze mid-step. The glamour that he so carefully maintained, the magic that concealed his deepest insecurity, was gone. In its place was the raw, unguarded truth of the dragon fire’s mark. The scar you had never known existed marred his otherwise flawless features, jagged and stark against his pale skin. The burn lines crawled over his cheek and forehead, reaching dangerously close to his eye, the milky haze of blindness on that side painfully apparent. Your breath caught in your throat, not from revulsion, but from the sheer weight of the vulnerability before you. This was a side of Thranduil you had never seen—a side he had clearly worked tirelessly to conceal.

He didn’t notice you at first, still lost in his thoughts, the weight of his duties pressing down on him. But then, as you stepped forward, the soft sound of your movement broke the stillness of the room. The quiet gasp that escaped your lips caught Thranduil off guard, like a pebble disturbing the calm surface of a lake. His head snapped up in an instant, his sharp senses finally registering your presence. His body tensed at once, his fingers tightening around the goblet of Dorwinion wine so forcefully that the thin glass seemed on the verge of cracking. For a moment, he just stared at you, his piercing icy blue eye wide with shock and something deeper—fear. “Y/N—” His voice faltered, his calm and regal demeanor slipping for the first time. He straightened in his chair, almost instinctively, his hand moving to his left cheek, hovering over the scar as though it might disappear at his touch. His fingers lingered, unsure whether to hide or acknowledge the exposed imperfection. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his tone sharper than he intended, an edge of panic hidden beneath his words. The question wasn’t just an inquiry; it was a barrier, a defense.

You took a tentative step forward, your gaze flickering between his eyes and the scar that he so clearly wished to hide. “I—Thranduil, I didn’t mean to intrude,” you murmured softly, your voice a blend of surprise and gentle concern. “I… I just wanted to see you. I hadn’t seen much of you today, and I—” Before you could finish, his head turned away from you, his hand still placed over the left side of his face, as if to shield the scar from view. But it was too late; you had seen it. The defenses he had so carefully constructed, the barriers he had maintained for centuries, had been breached. The mark of dragon fire, the jagged scar that twisted across his skin, was now fully visible, its painful history and the vulnerability it carried laid bare.

“Leave.” The word was sharp, almost harsh, but the tremble in his voice betrayed the storm of emotion beneath. His face hardened, his features slipping into the cold mask he so often used to distance himself from others. But even that mask couldn’t fully hide the raw vulnerability in his eye, the way his hand lingered near his face, as if trying to erase what had already been exposed. “Thranduil…” you said softly, stepping closer despite his command. Your heart ached at the sight of him, at the pain etched not only into his skin but into his very being. “You don’t have to hide this from me.” You didn’t know what drove you to speak those words—perhaps it was the overwhelming tenderness you felt for him in that moment, or the fierce desire to show him that nothing would change how you saw him. “You’re not weak,” you added quietly, as if trying to reassure him, to lift the weight of his insecurities. But the distance between you both still lingered in the air, the tension thick. You could feel the internal battle raging within him, the fear of being truly seen, and yet the quiet ache of needing to be accepted just as he was.

His jaw tightened, his gaze flickering briefly to the reflection in the wine goblet before returning to you. The cold mask of composure slipped further from his face, leaving him vulnerable in ways he wasn’t accustomed to. “You know nothing of what I must do. Of what I must be,” he said, his voice quiet but laced with a tremor of something deeper—fear, pride, and a strain of something raw beneath it all. “This scar… It is not something I wish for you to see. It is not… who I am.” Your eyes softened, heart aching at the depth of his words. Gently, you shook your head, stepping closer. “But it is a part of you,” you whispered, your voice unwavering, full of love and compassion. “And it doesn’t make you any less of the king you are. Or the man I love.” For a long moment, he stood there, still, as though your words were a distant echo he couldn’t quite understand. His hand, still hovering over the scar, fell slowly away, and with it, the wall he had built around himself started to crumble. He exposed the mark fully, not with pride, but with a painful hesitation, his eyes on you—waiting for judgment, waiting for disappointment. But all he found in your gaze was compassion, unwavering and steady. It disarmed him in a way he hadn’t anticipated, a vulnerability he hadn’t allowed himself to acknowledge before. It unsettled him, how open you were with him, how unafraid you were of seeing him as he truly was. It was the opposite of everything he had feared.

“I…” His voice faltered, thick with emotion, words hanging on the edge of his tongue. His pride and his fear fought fiercely, pushing him to retreat, to build his walls once more. He wanted to hide, to erase what you now saw. But then, there was your gaze—gentle, understanding, patient—and it caused him to hesitate. He finally spoke, his voice quieter now, almost broken. “This scar… It is a reminder of my failure. Of the pain I endured. Of the fire that nearly consumed me.” He turned his face slightly, almost ashamed to meet your eyes, his voice heavy with the weight of that painful memory. “It is a weakness I cannot bear for you to see.” You stepped closer, reaching out with a tenderness that filled the space between you. Your hand settled gently over his, still resting on the desk, your touch warm and grounding. “Thranduil,” you murmured softly, your voice full of warmth and quiet strength. “It is not weakness. You survived. You endured. And if this scar is a reminder of anything, it’s of your strength. Not your failure.” You paused, your words softening with even more love. “It’s a battle scar, Thranduil. Everyone has them. And they are unique to each of us. They are part of our story, not our shame. Yours is no different.” At your words, he finally allowed himself to meet your eyes fully. For the first time, he felt seen—not just as a king, but as a man. The fear that had gripped him began to soften, the trembling edges of his pride faltering in the face of your unwavering acceptance. The walls he had spent centuries building, the barriers he had so carefully maintained to protect his heart, began to crack. And in the place of the fear, he found something else—something warm and soft, as though the faintest glimmer of hope was beginning to take root in the cracks of his soul. Your touch, your words, your gaze—they were all he needed. In that moment, with everything laid bare, the deepest parts of him, the parts he had long buried, slowly began to heal.

You drew in a breath, letting the moment settle between you, your voice barely a whisper but full of the weight of your love. “And I love you, Thranduil,” you added, your words steady and unwavering, “beyond what you look like, beyond what scars you carry, beyond the image you’ve carefully crafted. I love you for who you are, for your heart, your strength, your mind, and the kindness you don’t often show.” His heart clenched at your words, emotions swirling in him as the walls finally cracked enough for him to let them in. He wasn’t sure how to process this new vulnerability, this tenderness from you. But in that moment, he realized something: he didn’t have to hide from you. Not anymore.

“Do you mean that?” Thranduil’s voice was soft, almost fragile, as if testing your words, unsure if he could truly believe them. His eyes searched yours, looking for any hint of doubt, of a lie—but all he found was sincerity but now softened by a trace of vulnerability he rarely showed anyone. You nodded gently, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand in a soothing motion. “Every word,” you said, your voice steady, full of warmth and certainty. “You don’t have to hide from me, Thranduil. Not this, not anything. I see you—the real you—and I love you all the same.” For a long moment, he remained silent, his gaze never leaving yours. The weight of your words seemed to hang in the air, filling the space between you. His chest rose and fell slowly, his shoulders tense, yet with every breath, you could see a subtle release—a softening of the guard he had held so tightly for centuries. Finally, with a quiet exhale, he leaned back in his chair, his body relaxing ever so slightly. The scar was still there, as was the pain that came with it, but something had shifted in him. For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, he didn’t have to carry it alone.

You smiled softly, feeling the tiniest flicker of relief in his posture. To reassure him, you took a step closer Before he could gather his thoughts, you gently cupped his face, your thumb brushing over the sharp curve of his jaw, as though trying to memorize the feel of him—every part of him. And then, with a quiet tenderness, you pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, lingering just a moment before pulling away slightly. His eyes fluttered closed, a soft breath escaping him, as though the simplest of gestures had undone something deep within him. You continued your gentle assault of his face with tender kisses, one by one. A light kiss on his cheek, his nose, his chin, each kiss filled with tenderness, each one a reaffirmation of your words. The slight scent of his skin grounding you as your lips traveled to the corner of his mouth. Each kiss was a promise, a reminder that you didn’t care about the scars—inside or out.

As you kissed along his jawline, you paused for a brief moment, your lips hovering above the scar. You were careful, mindful of any pain it might cause him, but you felt the need to show him that it didn’t matter. That the scar didn’t change how you saw him. Slowly, you brushed your lips against the scar’s edge, your kiss soft and reverent, as if you were honoring the pain and strength that it represented. Thranduil’s breath hitched slightly, and you noticed his pointy elf ears turning a deeper shade of red, flushed with a mix of embarrassment and something else—a quiet, unfamiliar vulnerability that stirred in his chest. His usual composed exterior was beginning to crack under your gentle affection, and it was clear he didn’t quite know how to handle it. You loved him, and you loved him fully, with every inch of his being as You smiled up at him, your eyes warm with love. “You’re beautiful, Thranduil,” you whispered, pressing one last, lingering kiss on his scar. “Inside and out.” your voice soft but filled with adoration. A soft flush spread across his face, and for the first time, you saw the true depth of his discomfort—not from your touch, but from the way he was letting you in. His vulnerability, his scar, it all seemed to unnerve him more than he cared to admit. But despite the unease, you saw something else in him too: acceptance. A slowly dawning realization that, perhaps, he could be seen—completely, imperfections and all—and still be loved. After a beat, you pulled back slightly, your lips curling into a playful smile. “You know,” you teased, voice light, “I think it’s kind of sexy.”

Thranduil’s eyes widened slightly, a look of surprise crossing his features, before his lips curled up into the faintest of smirks. His pointy elven ear tips flushed a deeper shade of red, and he leaned in slightly, as if caught off guard by your flirtation. “Sexy, hmm?” he replied, his voice low and teasing, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. “You’re an unpredictable one, Y/N.” You laughed softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Well, you are a king, and now I know you’re even more… intriguing than I thought.” Thranduil, still a little flushed but clearly more at ease than before, relaxed further in his chair. The weight of his insecurities, though not gone completely, felt lighter. It was clear that, in this moment, you had done something for him he had not allowed anyone to do in centuries—he was seen, truly seen, and still loved. And that, perhaps, was more than he had ever hoped for.

Thranduil’s gaze flickered to yours, the familiar spark of his regal pride returning as he raised an eyebrow. He almost smirked, but there was something deeper in his eyes now—something more vulnerable, more real. “Is that so?” he asked, his tone light but laced with a hint of amusement. You grinned, leaning in to kiss his cheek once more, this time lingering for a moment longer. “Very much so,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his skin in the softest caress. “But more than that, it’s your strength. You’re the most handsome man I’ve ever known, and nothing could change that.” For a fleeting moment, Thranduil allowed himself to fully appreciate the weight of your words. Though he remained guarded, the walls he had built began to feel less necessary, less suffocating. For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to believe that maybe—just maybe—he didn’t have to be perfect to be loved. As your words lingered in the air, his cheeks flushed, a faint, almost imperceptible warmth spreading over his skin. His usually proud and composed demeanor faltered for a moment, the tips of his pointed elven ears turning the softest shade of red. The king of Mirkwood, a creature known for his unshakable poise, now stood before you, his pride vulnerable in the gentlest way. He let out a quiet breath, a small, reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, a smile he rarely showed, but one that made him seem almost… human.

“I… did not expect that,” he murmured, his voice softer now, betraying a vulnerability that had been locked away for centuries. There was a quiet reverence in his expression as he looked at you, the raw honesty in his eyes making him appear more open than he had ever been before. Your heart swelled at the sight of him, knowing you had reached him in a way no one else had. With a soft chuckle, you pressed one final kiss to his cheek. “Well, I think you’re the one who’s full of surprises, my king.” Thranduil’s smile widened, a rare but genuine smile, and the warmth in his eyes lingered, a silent promise that, for the first time, he was letting someone see him fully—and that was enough for him to let go of the walls he had built so high. “Thank you, my starlight,” he whispered, his voice gentle but filled with sincerity. He reached out, his hand brushing softly against your cheek before his fingers traced the line of your jaw with a tender grace. His touch was warm, grounding, as if trying to silently convey just how much you meant to him in that moment. His gaze held yours, filled with both gratitude and something deeper—something more tender.

You smiled, the warmth in your chest growing, and without a word, you let your body respond to his quiet request. Thranduil shifted slightly in his chair, and with a subtle motion, he guided you into his arms. He didn’t speak it, but his eyes and gentle touch made it clear—he wanted to feel your presence close, to have your warmth as a source of comfort and solace after the weight of what he had shared. As you shifted, moving to straddle him, you saw his posture relax even more, as if your closeness was the balm he needed for the rawness he had just exposed. He let out a quiet sigh of relief, the tension melting from his shoulders as you settled against him, your body fitting into his with a natural ease. His hands gently cradled your back, pulling you closer, his touch more tender than commanding, as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing in the calmness you provided.

For a long moment, the world outside of the two of you faded, and Thranduil simply held you, the king of Mirkwood becoming something more human in your arms. There was no need for words now—only the comforting rhythm of your breathing and the silent understanding between you both. You didn’t say anything. You simply let him feel the love and warmth he had so carefully hidden away, offering him the solace he needed without judgment, without question. And as he held you closer, Thranduil allowed himself to melt into the comfort of your embrace, a quiet whisper escaping his lips, “I never want to let go of this.”

#thranduil #thranduil x you #thranduil x reader #king thranduil x reader #elven thranduil #thranduil headcanons #thranduil oropherion #thranduil of mirkwood #thranduil headcanon #king thranduil #elvenking of mirkwood #lord of the rings #the hobbit #thranduil simps #thranduil supremacy

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thranduilofsmirkwood · 2 days ago

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ᏝᎧᏒᎴ ᎧᎦ ᏖᏂᏋ ᏒᎥᏁᎶᏕ

ᏖᏂᏋ ᏂᎧᏰᏰᎥᏖ

ᎷᏋᎷᏋᏕ & ᎶᎥᎦᏕ

#galadriel #cate blanchett #sauron #charlie vickers #my edits #thranduil #lee pace #rude thranduil #the hobbit #lord of the rings #bilbo #martin freeman

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marshmellin · 9 hours ago

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What’s the Elvish Word for “Fine”?

Rated I for (angry) Idiots in Love: 5.8K words, Thranduil x unnamed/undescribed mortal woman, 2nd person POV, no use of y/n Rated mature for language only, "arranged marriage" in a political sense with consent between willing adults, they’re big mad but is it anger or just being stupid?

No beta, we die like Thranduil's first wife who is not mentioned

You rounded the corner and stopped suddenly. Thranduil was sitting on Carasta’s desk. Sitting was the wrong term. Lounging. “Hello, wife.” He was in dark, silvery robes without his crown, his long legs propped up against a chair. With a far-too-broad smile on his face. Something stupid was happening.

If you enjoy this, check out ✨The Director's Cut✨ masterlist with quick links to all my TROP/LOTR content and AO3 profile.

“It is infuriating that you keep putting up this long –” – slam – “ – infuriating – ” – slam – “ – show – ” – slam —. “I can not want you in the way you want me.” Cold blue eyes stared at you, waiting for the outburst, the anger he so desperately wanted to bloom across your face.

When Thranduil started to feel something – anything – stirring in his chest, he started a fight. You noticed the two of you fought often. More so now than at the beginning of your not-quite-a-marriage two years ago. You did not think it a coincidence, but what the hell did you know?

You’d thought you’d entered a partnership with someone civil.

Nodding almost imperceptibly, you kept your face still. “And what, exactly, makes you think I want you, Thranduil?” You let just a little sarcasm creep in.

He narrowed his cold eyes, evaluating you.

The issue was, however: You did want him.

In the last two years, you had come to want him very much, though you admit you are unsure how it started given his general demeanor.

Well, that’s a lie. He’s an elf. And he is particularly attractive for an elf, at that. His face alone gives his behavior a pass for the first three, maybe four encounters.

But this behavior was not one of his better looks and you’d have no issue turning this version of the Elvenking down for the rest of your very mortal life.

White hot fury flashed across his face. “You know what I mean. Constantly, you show it. And I can not — will not — respond the way you want!”

You leaned back in your chair. “I do not know what you mean, Thranduil” you said firmly, shaking your head exaggeratedly. “What is it that I show you?” --You weren’t showing him sex or physical affection, certainly so – “What is it that you claim to see from me that you can not respond to, Thranduil?”

The more you said his name, the angrier he would get, which is why you kept doing it. Thranduil all but snaked his way to gripping the desk across from you, leaning over your papers. Curtains of snow-white hair hanging between you as he glared down at you. Not exactly giving you "the high ground” so to speak, but the fact that he came this close to you meant he was already on his back foot.

“You…are….constantly…HERE. You ask after me, you bring me food, you manage to interrupt me during every letter I’ve written in the last four weeks. You bring me books you think I might like, you leave me letters about your work. I do not know how to respond to you. I have been alone in these chambers for centuries and yet you are HERE. I do not want this and I do not want you. And I do not know why you continue to make this arrangement so difficult by pretending.”

You blinked at that, tilting your head. Slowly. You were giving him time to suss it out on his own.

But his rage was icy, bathed in wine from dinner, and he didn’t seem to know how to do math in the cold.

You set the quill down and steepled your fingers, elbows resting on the desk as you looked up at him looming above you.

Fine.

“Everything you have just ‘accused’ me of is what spouses do, Thranduil. Husbands and wives. Partners. Bluntly, you bought yourself a wife, ThranduilI, through an even exchange: you have a skilled negotiator and queen, my uncle’s people have food and protection.”

Muscles in his jaw worked and he opened his mouth, “That is not–”

You held up a hand, cutting him off. “Ah-aht, no, Thranduil. No. You said what you wanted to say both tonight and many other nights. And now you will let me do the same.”

The look on his face didn’t change, but his mouth snapped shut.

It might do him some good to shut up for a moment, even if it gave you heartburn to demand it.

“It weighs on my heart that someone asking after your wellbeing startles you so,” you said steadily, fingers tapping against the desk as if making an observation that it was raining outside – but the truth of it stung you.

It did hurt that he was so…that he thought someone making sure he ate was…

It was heartbreaking.

But, it was becoming increasingly clear, his heart was not yours to mend.

You sighed again. At this point you were sighing more often than breathing. “Thank you for this final, clear message that you take no pleasure in our” — marriage? Partnership? It had never been one — “contract. I will make my thoughts equally as plain: I have one job in Greenwood. It is to be your wife and queen. And in truth, it’s a shitty job, but I’m going to do it as best as I can, Thranduil. I agree, our quarters are not ideal and I will leave for another part of the palace within the week.”

Thranduil held your gaze. You cocked an eyebrow. You thought you saw another muscle in his jaw twitch, but you weren’t sure.

When he finally spoke, his tone was softer, which you had not expected. “I do not want to…put on a show….”

Your eyebrows shot up at that. You were done being lectured. “You purchased a fucking show, Thranduil. Now you are angry when it’s performed for you? Fine. That is your choice, and I am happy to stop acting like this is a working partnership.” You snorted and broke eye contact, reaching down to pick up your quill.

Head down, squinting at the parchment, you did your best to dismiss him. It had taken you an extraordinary amount of effort to say all of this to him, for several reasons, and you could not look him in the eye any longer.

Firstly, fuck him for coming in to your study, knocking books around and talking too loudly after you both just sat through an entrant for Arda’s Most Boring Banquet award and smiled as his queen was supposed to. King Amdír’s son Amroth wasn’t exactly the best conversationalist and yet, converse you had with the obnoxious Silvan.

And you were feeling quite unappreciated at this moment, considering you’d also negotiated an agreement for open trade of leather goods from Amroth’s father during the dinner. While Thranduil drank — a reminder that he is, at least, two glasses in — and muttered every time you stood near him at a respectful distance.

Secondly, this was the only time you had ever thought about your relationship with Thranduil as a contract that he did not seem to understand.

You knew what was being exchanged. The elven-ness of it all had been jarring at first, yes, but you knew from a young age you would enter a political marriage and you had been raised for one. Binding your family and your people to the largest local realm ruled by a nearly-immortal being was a solid strategy to ensure your great, great, great-grandchildren would be protected and fed -- and it was the equivalent of a 10-year contract to someone like Thranduil. You had no qualms about this, and you entered the agreement with him with open eyes, as equals.

Yet, you had not probed deeply into his understanding of it until today. Of what partnership meant to him. In any way.

Leaving behind a book he may find interesting? About a topic, if you recalled correctly — and you know you did — he discussed during dinner once and noted he wished to understand better.

That was too much after two years of knowing each other? Of knowing each other in any capacity? Even just as a member of his court, much less his wife?

If so, he had a very weak understanding of any kind of partnership, marriage or otherwise, and you truly had expected more from him.

Thirdly, you did not want to leave his chambers or stop asking how he was or stop bringing him books he may like or leaving notes about your day. As irritable and obnoxious and, honestly, unpleasant as Thranduil could be….

You found him endearing in those milliseconds he allowed himself to feel anything but anger. All together, he was many negative things, yes. But he was also protective of his family and his people, wise in how he negotiated relationships with neighboring kingdoms and the High Elves. He was well-read and, when he allowed himself to show it, he had this wonderful wit and charm that was…well, he was charming.

You had been charmed.

And over the last two years of this arrangement, you learned you wanted to be his wife in more than just contractual terms. You think you’ve fallen in love with him. And you know you want him to want you in return.

But.

He just said plainly that he did not want that. That he did not want you.

And if this is where you were, then this is where you were. Your options were limited, your contract signed, and your choices made.

You had not expected to find love here. Confirming it was absent didn’t change a damn thing, and at this point it did not sting. Your job was to negotiate contracts on behalf of Thranduil Oropherion, the Elvenking and to attend events as his Queen.

That was it.

Leaving him books or being pleasant was not part of the contract you signed.

Your thoughts drifted aimlessly, landing on the question of how you would like your new chambers laid out — since a large takeaway from this conversation was that spending time in the same room — palace — realm — continent — with you angered him.

The conjoined study layout here was not ideal. Thranduil had a tendency to shout profanities at his correspondence before replying in a more civil manner. You had grown accustomed to it — even smiling on occasion when he invented new ways to swear at Thorin or Celeborn — but perhaps it was best to avoid that distraction now that you were....

Well, if Thranduil is not near me, it doesn’t matter if the rooms are conjoined or not.

With a small sigh, you noted that request with an asterisk to return to later.

You were halfway through the next line when you realized he had. not. moved. At all. Not even an inch. He was still staring at the top of your head as you wrote, long hair falling into the space between you.

Why? This conversation, much like your illusions of ever having a civil working relationship, was over.

You set the quill aside gently as you looked up to meet his eyes. "Yes, Thranduil?"

“So, that is what it was, then?”

Furrowing your brow, you shook your head in confusion. “I don’t ... wait, what?” Your gaze met his. All the ice in his eyes had melted, but the rest of him moved stiffly as he leaned back, letting go of the desk.

“Fine.”

He spun on his heel, hair flaring around him, and walked out.

“Fine!” you shouted after him, half rising from the desk to make sure it carried to the next room.

You weren’t sure why you were shouting at him, but you’d make sure you’d be the one to shout last.

The next morning, you asked a courier to take your note to Thranduil requesting new chambers on the far side of the Halls. 'Note' was a generous term: it was a list of items for him to approve, signed with the first initial of your name.

Warm, it was not.

But the courier said he had been instructed “not to deliver messages to King Thranduil at this time, my lady. His majesty requests your presence in the throne room.”

You arched an eyebrow at that.

“Very well, thank you for letting me know.” You waved your hand to dismiss the courier.

“Ah,” he said softly, shifting uncomfortably.

Thranduil. Are you familiar with an old saying from the lowlands? Bite my ass? If not, then it is unlikely you’re familiar with that phrase’s cousin, Go fuck yourself. I am happy to teach you both.

“Your majesty, I would be honored to, um, guard you as you travel to the throne room,” he ended weakly, because guarding a queen while she walked in her own halls was a ridiculous thing to suggest.

Thranduil was doing something very stupid. You weren’t sure what, exactly, but you could sense it.

“I appreciate the offer, Lieutenant, but I am not going to the throne room today.” Thranduil had, at least, taught you a few tricks for leadership. Or, more accurately, intimidation.

The young ellon looked very torn, as if repeating hierarchy structures in his head and continually arriving at the conclusion that Thranduil was at the top. “Your maj—“

“You’re dismissed, Lieutenant.” Yes, the Elvenking was at the top of all of those hierarchies, but you rested just beneath him.

…Well…

The guard left.

So you used this opportunity to take the scroll he would not deliver to Thranduil, and went to look for Carasta, Thranduil’s private secretary. Walking from your section of your chambers through Thranduil’s, your goal was getting to Carsasta’s work table on the far side of the suite. You would provide him with the list of your requests. If Thranduil didn’t want to accept your request from Carasta, that was fine. You would find the nearest builder and take the walls down yourself, but you were not spending one more minute sharing your chambers with Thranduil than either of you wished to.

You rounded the corner and stopped suddenly. Thranduil was sitting on Carasta’s desk. Sitting was the wrong term. Lounging.

“Hello, wife.”

He was in dark, silvery robes without his crown, his long legs propped up against a chair. With a far-too-broad smile on his face.

Something stupid was happening.

“King Thranduil,” you said, inclining your head.

“Melethnín,” he said softly, his eyes going wide. “What brings you here? I hoped you would join me in the main hall.”

My love? You cocked an eyebrow. “I am simply leaving a note for Carasta regarding my chambers,” you said evenly, reaching around Thranduil’s long form to place the scroll on Carasta’s desk. You didn’t even want to guess how he made it from the throne room to Carasta’s desk that fast.

Was he even in the throne room or did he know you’d ignore him?

“Ah, I am eager to read this,” Thranduil said happily, picking up the scroll and opening it.

It took everything in you not to snatch it from him. Even though he had been the original recipient.

Icy eyes skimming your notes, he tsked loudly. “Ah, melethnín, this is not sufficient. Not at all! I would not have you move so far from our shared quarters. Mmm, no, we shall draft a new plan together. It is only right for a queen to have a full suite for her study and work, verinya.”

My love. My wife.

So, something very stupid.

You sighed. “Thranduil. I am moving my chambers to the other side of the Halls.”

He shook his head, his face the picture of innocence as he rolled up the scroll and hid it away in his robes — where, you didn’t know, because his robes were almost skintight. “I do not want you to leave our chambers.”

“I’ll write another request, king.”

“I’ll intercept it, queen.”

“Thranduil.”

“Melethnín.”

A long pause.

“You asked me to leave you alone.”

He shook his head firmly. “No, I said you were always here.”

“You shouted that you wanted space.”

He cocked his head, arrogance on his face, as silver hair cascaded over his shoulder. “I did not. I acknowledge I raised my voice in a very unrefined way, for which I do truly apologize. But I did not demand space apart from you. And on either account, I find I have changed my mind, verinya.”

My wife.

“You will find I have not, veronya.” You spun on your heel and walked out.

You heard him raise his voice mockingly, calling, “I haven’t interrupted your day, have I, my love?” at your back as you left.

“No. You’re fine,” you gritted out loudly as you stomped out.

“Fine,” came the muted reply from three rooms away.

Two months later, and Thranduil had not stopped yet, though his tone had grown less mocking, at least.

He came to you for every meal — and he managed to carry on many thoughtful conversations despite the one-word replies you often gave. He brought you books — frustratingly, the titles were interesting, and he had clearly listened to you at some point to pick them out. He came to ask you questions while you wrote letters and arranged new trade agreements — his comments were obnoxiously helpful and pertinent.

Thranduil seemed to think that acting pleasant toward you was a punishment of some kind.

And it was, because it felt like a perverse game. He was showing you what you could have if you…if he….

Well, you weren’t sure what. Something you could not have? He had been very clear. And, you knew, he could be very petty.

Thranduil also seemed to be playing more than one game, particularly by calling you every pet name devised by Elves or Men — and you think you caught a Dwarven term of endearment or two in there as well, so clearly he was not aware of the origins of the term or he never would have uttered it in his halls.

And yet you did not know why he continued this game for so long. But you suspected the other shoe would drop at some point.

It was the second time that evening he had scooted his chair closer to yours, the two of you practically sharing a desk.

“May I suggest you add another clause here — we can’t be held responsible for orc raids. Transfer of ownership occurs when the wine leaves our barges, even if within our borders. I have spoken with Celeborn on this point already, and told him it was not up for discussion.” He tapped a long finger on the side of your paper and looked down, eyes crinkling as he smiled. “Don’t let him go around us, melethnín.”

He kept breaking your heart with this game, and you were done.

“Thranduil, stop.”

The smile slipped from his face. “Ah. Of course. I’ll leave you to it,” he murmured gently, turning back to his side of the desk.

When did we pick sides of the same desk?

You sighed and stood, creating some distance between the two of you.

You were done. It was done now.

“You have made your point. I understand. You think it’s suffocating. That I am suffocating. I understand. I understood this two months ago when you told me that you would remain married to me — unwillingly — if I left you alone. And I have moved to limit our interactions since then. I understand what you want.“

You held back a scream, but did not manage to stop a snarl from escaping somewhere deep in your chest. “I will never send you a book ever again, on my oath to Varda and Manwë, I will never speak to you outside a royal function ever again. Please, just stop.”

Thranduil stood as well, rising fluidly and pausing to gently place his chair under his half of the — under the desk. He was, well, patient as he turned to face you, a surprising softness in his eyes.

“I changed my—“

“— yes, Thranduil, you changed your damn mind about the damn rooms. I heard you. I have not changed mine. I am not asking you to alter our marriage contract here, okay, this is a small thing. I want to move to my own study — per your request — and I cannot understand why you have fixated on this so strongly.”

He did not want you to leave this space. Yet he did not want you to stay in this space.

No option was good enough for him.

You crossed your arms. You had seen him be petulant before but two months? You finally met his gaze and it was exactly what you were expecting. Anger blossoming across his face, that one small muscle in his cheek that always twitched.

“Contract.”

“Fine. Contract.” You threw your hands up in frustration and started rummaging through the desk. “If you want to read the damn thing to ensure I’m following it, I’ll tell you right now there are exactly zero requirements around—”

“Carasta’s files are much more organized,” Thranduil said icily.

You looked up, letting the papers in your hands scatter to the desktop. “Marry Carasta then, goddamnit. I don’t care.” You were so tired it came out as a flat statement.

Taking a deep breath, Thranduil seemed to try again, looking for patience in himself you had never seen him find.

“I don’t want to be married to Carasta,” he said simply, managing to keep his voice steady. “I want to understand.”

You furrowed your brow even more. He wasn’t making sense.

“You aren’t making sense.”

A small growl escaped him. “What is it that you want? You��I didn’t understand what you meant by…” he huffed and managed to do so haughtily. “Was it a show or not?”

“Was what a show?” You looked around the room, as if expecting to spot the audience, and let your hands drop to your legs in a clapping sound. “The only person complicating this is you. I have stopped reaching out, as you have asked. Why are you fighting—“

“So it was.” He spun on his heel again.

Oh, I think the fuck not. You were absolutely not doing this for another two months. You were a patient woman but you had limits. Honestly, one limit. And you had reached it.

You snatched at his arm, grabbing a layer of his cape, which allowed him to walk several more feet before feeling any resistance.

“Stop. Oh, for fuck’s sake, just stop.”

“I am stopping,” he replied through gritted teeth, hair swinging as he jerked his head to look at you. “I am done.”

You imagined you heard the sound of the other shoe dropping on a marble floor somewhere far away.

You both stood still for a long moment, your hand holding the edge of his cape like an awkward flag between the two of you. His eyes were still white flame, staring into the distance, not meeting yours. The set of his shoulders and the jut of his chin said he wanted to argue again.

That he was feeling something.

Why? Done with what?

“What are you done with?”

Thranduil shrugged your hand off his cape and swept it dramatically behind him. “This. Because you...I thought you did not and then I thought you did, and now it is clear my first impression was correct and you do not. I have approached this incorrectly twice now. I will not attempt it a third. You have been clear.”

You cocked your head at him. The two of you hadn’t used a meaningful noun in quite some time during this argument. You knew that was the type of risk that had to be corrected immediately.

No one was ever on the same page the first time.

But you had a suspicion.

“Define ‘this,’” you all but whispered.

“Absolutely not. I am done speaking of it. I will not allow you to mock me.”

Your eyes narrowed. “I’m not mocking you, I’m asking you a question. We have strayed so far from the start of this conversation that I fear we are saying the same thing and don’t know it.”

He glared at you. “That can’t—“

“Why has your behavior been so different the last two months?”

Thranduil shifted almost uncomfortably, but managed to keep venom in his tone. “You indicated this is the behavior of those who are partners.” A small pause, his voice turning sullen. “Of husbands and wives.”

It took all your focus not to move a single muscle in your face. “You indicated several times that you did not care for me to be your partner or your wife.”

“Yes,” he hissed, “But I changed my mind because I thought I had misunderstood before, and I do not know how to show that to you properly now.”

Thranduil started pacing, his long legs turning the study into two, maybe three steps at most before he spun again. His robes barely fit the space.

No. This— No. You felt a laugh somewhere deep in your chest, but you forced it down in case he misunderstood.

Which you both seemed to be doing often lately.

“Tell me, specifically, what you are trying to show me,” you asked cautiously.

This was not a time for miscommunication. You would stay here the rest of your mortal life if needed, but you would walk out of this room knowing what the fuck he meant.

Because you thought you already knew.

He shook his head, silver hair glinting in the firelight.

“Thranduil.”

He was still shaking his head, glaring at the hearth, nearly shaking in anger. But he hadn’t left or slammed any doors, which was a good sign.

One of the first things you had learned about negotiating, years ago when you first followed your uncle to his council meetings as a child, was that the party who named an honest, earnest number first was on their back foot. Yes, it was possible to put out an offer first and still make more from it than expected or hoped for — and sometimes, offering first was both a wise and generous way to proceed — but generally speaking, it took extraordinary skill or luck to argue for more after naming the first number.

So generally speaking, the party who moved first was not in the strong position.

Generally speaking.

But, you had an extraordinary amount of skill — that’s why you were in this room. At the same time, you hadn’t felt particularly lucky lately, but…you would still name a number first.

Fine.

“Melethnín.”

That got him to turn with inhuman speed, his face a mask of rage. “I said do not mock me.” His icy eyes locked with yours.

“I am not mocking you.”

His brow furrowed. “Then why,” he said quickly, crossing the study in two large steps to loom over you, “did you call me that?”

“Why,” you challenged back, “have you called me that for the past two months?”

Thranduil's pale eyes had not yet left your face, inches away now, searching you for any hint that you were lying or mocking him. His gaze did not waver and he finally leaned back, satisfied. “You do not know what it means. You are mocking me.”

A harsh chuckle at that. “I know exactly what it means and I am not mocking you.” You put a hand on your hip at the implied insult that you, the goddamn Queen of the Silvan Elves of the Greenwood, wife of the Elvenking, did not know the most basic endearment your people use to address their spouses and children. “Well, correction, now I am mocking you….you’re questioning my understanding of vocabulary? Well, how good is your Khuzdul, again, Thranduil? Zigil’ûl is a Dwarven term of endearment; I’m surprised you deigned to use it.”

He hadn’t noticed “silver stream” was not in Quenya? Even with the accents?

His eyes softened, but still anger flashed across his face as he stared down at you. “You have not answered why you are using an elven term of endearment to refer to me right now.”

You thought about pushing back. But something very fragile in his eyes made you pause. It felt like a risk but…you were willing to name a second number.

Fine.

A sigh. “I used this Sindarin term because it’s how I refer to you in my head.”

Thranduil cocked his head, looking at you curiously now, some of his rage fading. “How good is —“

“— I am fluent in Sindarin. We speak it fifty percent of the time we are together instead of Westron. Stop it, Thranduil.”

He did stop at that, at least for a moment, as thoughts started churning in his head. His pale eyes flicked around the room, looking at everything but you.

A surprising sign of vulnerability from a king who would lock eyes with Manwë himself and never blink, if given the chance. If able to take that chance by force.

“No.” Thranduil shook his head again, still refusing to meet your gaze, speaking to your bookshelf. “No, I will not stop until I understand. You said I had purchased a performance and that you would stop performing it. You just looked for the contract to show me what you were required to do as my wife.”

A pause as he turned his head toward you, but stayed facing the other direction — ready to run.

“But, if your past behavior was a performance, then…I do not understand why you would call me melethnín in the privacy of your own mind, especially now,” he ended with a noise between a sigh and an irritated groan, still not meeting your eyes.

You saw the issue now. He thought you showed care for him in the last two years because it was what was expected of you.

A performance.

Not because you actually gave a damn about him as a partner or as a husband.

And then, you pulled back from him. Because he asked you to. Because he did not understand that caring about him was something you genuinely wanted to do. Enjoyed doing. Thranduil had not wanted to be part of a show because he….

He thought you were being cruel to him. As you thought he had been to you for the last two months.

He was that wrong for two years?

You looked up to meet his gaze. Thranduil hesitated, seeming to have the same revelation, but finding himself much less confident in the outcome. “So, please explain it. Why would you call me your love today?” he asked again, his voice so soft you barely heard him.

Naming the third number in a row was too large of a request to concede, even for him. Even now that you understood. You needed an assurance of some kind first.

“A counter-question, first. Have the last two months been a performance on your part, Thranduil?” Some vulnerability entered your tone, too, though you wished it had not. “I will not allow you to mock me, either.”

A pause. “The first two days were, yes.”

You raised an eyebrow at that, but he met your gaze unflinchingly. “And then I found I…I preferred it. I enjoyed being closer to you and hearing your thoughts. And I noticed the quality of your contracts improved.”

You crossed your arms. “Mmhmm,” you grunted at that.

Thranduil cocked his head, his eyes soft now, his tone surprisingly sweet and earnest. “So if you’ll forgive those first few days, melethnín, then no, I have not been false to you once in these past months.” A brief hesitation. “Was it…Before. How you showed that you cared for me. Was that an act for you?”

You paused, considering carefully. “For the last two months, any modicum of patience I’ve shown in your presence has been an act. But no, nothing before the night…we last fought,” you ended simply.

“Oh.” A faint blush rose to his cheeks.

You both stood there, staring dumbly at each other.

Thranduil dipped his head in embarrassment. “It is rare, but I find even I need time to learn.”

You nodded slowly. He was telling you that he had misunderstood. Maybe he was telling you he loved you. But he remained frustratingly vague.

You were struggling between the urge to kiss him or punch him. You tried to calculate your odds at both and concluded you’d need to do it in a specific order for it to work. Kiss first, then punch.

A knee to the groin was the only way he won’t see it coming until it’s too late. But you also had a growing interest in that area…

No matter what you chose, you weren’t going to be fast enough. Maybe while he slept.

“So, to summarize,” you started slowly. And then your mouth shut gently. You opened it a few more times to speak but nothing came out, so you stood there with your hand on your hip, moving your mouth like a fish.

The politician and jackass in Thranduil got there first. “To summarize, you have been in love with me since the day we met, and over the last two months I’ve learned that there are certain merits to being the recipient of that love.”

You felt your eyebrows shoot to your hairline, and your mouth did open at that.

The arrogance.

“The arrogance. Absolutely not. Revise it.”

A small smile played at the corners of his mouth but he remained silent. This was him teasing you. You’d enjoy it thoroughly in any other context. “No, you do not get to be this way with me after all of that, Thranduil…”

The smirk grew as he leaned closer to you. “I will no longer answer to that name when you use it. You’ll have to try another, melethnín.”

Fine.

“Heconna.” Bastard.

He raised an eyebrow at that one. “Fluent, indeed. But I have time and I can wait for you to find the correct term.”

“Pellopë.” Jackass.

The smirk never left his face. “Yes, we’ve established that you know and use words in both Sindarin and Quenya that most Eldar would blush to hear. I’m sure this vocabulary is useful when you swear at local merchants and drink in their bars — a very queenly activity.”

He was still teasing you. He finally had come close enough to snake his hands low around your hips, craning down at you, nothing but a blend of absolute mischief and arrogance in his pale eyes. “Mmm, I’m happy to give you a hint, wife.”

This was the most surprising day you had experienced since coming to Greenwood. And you were going to use it to your advantage as much as you could.

Too many things were still unspoken.

You shook your head and pulled back — gently, you still wanted him badly and your resolve was weakening the more he leaned into you. Gods, he smelled good. “Absolutely not. Not until you revise it.”

He sighed, his long fingers splayed across your lower back as he nudged you closer to his chest in return. “To summarize: Your caring behavior toward me was never an act or obligation on your part, and neither was mine. We seem to," he hesitated a beat, "Love each other, though we are quite ineffectual at speaking plainly with each other.”

Thranduil reached out to tuck back a strand of your hair, his finger gently tracing the rounded shell of your ear as you fought to repress a shiver. “With this new understanding in mind, our marriage no longer needs to remain contractual alone, if you wish to become closer. As I do.” His fingers brushed against your face, trailing down your neck softly to trace your collarbone. His other hand kept you close against him. “Is this revision more to your liking, melethnín?”

You frowned, hands coming to rest on his chest. “Yes. But you owe me an apology for more than the last two months.”

“Yes,” he agreed softly, his forehead coming to rest against yours. “Would you like me to begin reciting my long list of sins now? Or would you prefer we kissed instead? I have a rather clear preference, but,” he shrugged over-casually. “I will make time for both.”

You hesitated. “Both.”

“Fine, verinya,” he murmured, gently tilting your head up towards his.

“Fine, veronya,” you whispered back against his lips.

// AN: I'd have to leave you on a cliffhanger, so:

Túra in Quenya means "big, or great," which would capture "fine!" well enough.

Dail in Sindarin means "lovely," which I imagine can be sarcastic af coming from Thranduil, the petty bastard.

The difference in these two languages, for purpose of these idiots in love, is snobbery. Quenya is high-brow, Sindarin is what all normal people speak. He says he loves her in common tongue but calls her wife as high-brow as possible to be a jackass. Mission accomplished, Thran-daddy.

// If you enjoyed this, check out ✨The Director's Cut✨ masterlist with quick links to all my TROP/LOTR content and AO3 profile.

#thranduil oropherion #thranduil fanfiction #thranduil x you #the hobbit #the hobbit fanfiction #the elvenking #mirkwood #thranduil #thranduil x reader #thrandaddy

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expectro-carmim · 8 months ago

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The gay uncles:

And the bi dads:

That's it. That was all I had to say, thank you.

#bagginshield #barduil #bilbo baggins #thorin oakenshield #bard bowman #thranduil #the hobbit

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woodlandrealm · 11 months ago

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♢⋯ Thranduil in The Hobbit

#i hate when you leave but i love watching you go #thranduil #the hobbit #hobbitedit #tolkienedit #thranduiledit #myedits #gifset

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aenslem · 1 month ago

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I will put the next one between your eyes. The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies (2014)

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craftygobelin · 2 months ago

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#thranduil #bitch mode activated #elrond #gandalf #the hobbit #lotr memes #lord of the rings

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dagordagorath · 7 months ago

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↳ for my dearest @realmofautumn 🖤

#the hobbit #the desolation of smaug #thranduil #tolkien #tolkienedit #hobbitedit #lotrcolors #lotredit #userarmchair #userhara #byaster #movie:the hobbit #movie:the desolation of smaug #ch:thranduil

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gloomwitchwrites · 1 year ago

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Winter Gem

Thranduil x Female Elf Reader

Content & Warnings: soft!Thranduil, widowed!Thranduil, fluff, peril & rescue, mild hurt/comfort

Word Count: 1.8k

Seeking something precious for Thranduil, you're caught in a storm. When you don't return, he goes searching for you.

A/N: For @firelightinferno

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // winter 2023 masterlist

“The first snows have arrived.”

“It has come early.”

Thranduil inclines his head in acknowledgement. “Indeed.”

You stand beside Thranduil outside the main gates. Five guards stand nearby but there is no danger. A steady snowfall drifts down from the sky. The snowflakes are slightly gray in appearance, almost like ash on the wind. You frown down at a few of the flakes that land on your leather vambrace.

“You look ready for your hunt,” observes Thranduil, gesturing toward your attire with the tip of his head.

“Yes,” reply softly. “I plan on heading out for a bit.”

His eyebrows rise toward his hairline. “In this weather?”

You glance up from the vambrace and meet his blue eyes. Thranduil’s gaze is startling and sharp. Piercing. Intense. It cuts right down to your heart. His gaze always holds you hostage, wrapping you up in his essence. Most might find Thranduil intimidating, but you know better.

“Is my king telling me I cannot?” You’re teasing him, and Thranduil knows this. His smile is one of soft amusement.

“As long as you return to me. You are free to do as you wish.” Even though Thranduil’s tone is gentle, you understand the deeper meaning.

Thranduil lost his wife many years ago. Other than his son, Legolas, you are his comfort. He wants you to be free, to enjoy the pleasures of life, but he also wants you to be safe, to return to him at the end of every leaving.

Thranduil glances over his shoulder. The guards on duty discreetly glance away, staring off into the distance as if they’ve suddenly found something of great interest. Thranduil leans in and shifts his body to block their view of you. He is close enough that it might appear that the two of you are kissing, but he does not meet your lips.

In the end, Thranduil is private about affection. He does not like to share your tender moments together in front of others.

“Enjoy your hunt. I eagerly await your return.”

You give him a half-hearted, sarcastic bow that immediately puts a wide smile on his face. Thranduil watches you until you disappear into the trees. Perhaps he lingers longer than that, wondering if you will turn around and come back to him.

It is true. You are on a hunt, but not for what he or anyone else is likely expecting.

Over a week ago, Thranduil went out in the woods with some of the guards on patrol. It’s the first time he’s been out beyond the walls in some time. Many patrols that ventured into the northern regions reported back on a strangeness in the air, and the scent of evil. Thranduil decided to investigate.

While tracking, he lost something precious.

Around his neck on a chain, Thranduil kept a silver ring. Within the ring is a precious gem, a blue stone so pale it almost appears white like a burning star. The chain that held it snapped while he and the guards chased a group of spiders that had made their way south.

He remembered it snagging, and while he did not show any distress upon telling you of its disappearance, you also know how much that ring and jewel means to him. It was a gift from his wife when they were newly married. She had a matching one, but upon her death, Thranduil moved it from his finger to around his neck.

This hunt—your hunt—is about that ring. You have a fairly good idea about where it might have fallen, and there is no reason for it to have moved since then. Few enter these woods unless they follow the road, and that is on rare occasions.

Tracking is your specialty, and your time is not limited due to the falling snow. But you’ve tracked in worse weather. The snow is unfortunate, but you can still search as long as it remains at its current pace. The tree cover will keep much of the snow in the higher canopy. There will be time yet before the snow completely covers the ground and you lose the trail.

Heading north, you retrace the path the patrol took. Yes, a week has passed, and nature reclaims much, but not everything is hidden so quickly. There are small disturbances that indicate the path ahead.

As you begin to draw nearer to the area Thranduil mentioned, the snow starts to pick up. It becomes thicker, not staying above in the canopy but instead making its way to the ground. It’s not ideal, but you can manage.

Thranduil mentioned two tree trunks growing together and then breaking apart. When you happen upon it, the snow comes down in thicker sheets. On the ground, it’s sticking. Collecting. Time is running out. Elves have good eyes, and you focus in on the ground, gnarled roots, and underbrush.

Near the base of the tangled tree, you notice a slight sparkle. Approaching it, you go down on one knee, brushing away some of the snow.

“Found you.”

The ring is there, resting in the roots. It appears undamaged, and that is a relief. Picking it up, you tuck it into an inside pocket, protecting it from the elements.

The snow crunches under your boots, and the wind howls. For the first time, you shiver. Cold is not and has never been an issue. Elves can withstand a great many things, including winter weather.

Frowning, you turn into the chilly wind. There is a disturbance. Something dark and foul. It sets the edges of your nerves tingling. A simmering suspicion bubbles up from somewhere within you, question whether this snow is natural or not.

Turning on your heel, you head back the way you came. But the snow is heavy, and your fresh tracks are starting to slip away, returning to the snow. As you walk, the snowfall becomes a storm. The wind whips up, swirling the snow around until you cannot see more than a few feet in front of your face.

Your instincts were right. This storm is not natural. It is too early for it, and storms like these are rare in the Woodland Realm.

The toe of your boot catches in a downed tree branch and you slam face first into the snow. It’s freezing. Temperature isn’t usually a deterrent for the elves, but this is beyond cold. It’s as if you’ve been swallowed whole by a massive glacier.

You walk and walk, and you have no idea if you’ve gained any ground. There are no visible signs, and you’re not sure how far you’ve gone, or if you’re simply walking in circles. The snow is deepening or perhaps you’re imagining it. Everything seems darker, like the world is closing in.

You’re not dressed for this sort of weather.

And you’re tired. So tired. Your knees and thighs burn, and sitting down for some rest doesn’t seem so bad. It’s fine. You can take refugee within the deep roots of a tree. You can stay warm there until the snow dissipates. Then, you can return. Thranduil will understand.

As if opening for you, the roots of a nearby tree expand, showing safety from the storm. You slink into it, curling up into a ball.

You drift in the howling wind. There is a haze that sits on your eyelashes. Whether you dream or not is irrelevant. Numbness oozes into your limbs, and that only forces you to curl up tighter, wanting to pull away from the cold.

A hand touches the side of your head. It is warm. Gentle. The fingers slide up to brush your hair out of your face. You hear your name but it is a whisper. Distant. So far away it doesn’t seem real.

There are arms around you. Lifting. Steady. And when you inhale, the scent is familiar. You know who it is instantly.

“Thranduil,” you murmur, and the answer is a gentle squeeze of your hand.

“I found you, my star.”

There are only short moments of consciousness. There is snow. Cold. The antlers of an elk. The gates of home, and then warmth. So much warmth that the numbness begins to recede.

You are brought back to the living world near a roaring fire. Beneath you is a makeshift bed comprised of pillows and soft blankets. You shift, and feel bare skin against bare skin. Slowly, you push yourself to sitting.

Your leather gear is gone, replaced with a soft robe that traps in the heat.

“You’re awake.” Thranduil’s voice is a gentle, comforting hug.

Turning toward his voice, you watch as he glides across the floor. Thranduil wears silver robes of starlight. In his hands in a small tray. On it is a steaming cup of tea and an assortment of food. Bending at the knees, Thranduil settles in beside you, placing the tray down on the blankets.

“You came looking for me,” you say, and your voice nearly cracks with emotion.

“Did you think I would not?” he asks, arranging the food around on the tray.

You know, deep in your heart, that Thranduil would come, but you also believed in your abilities as a tracker. “When did you start to worry?”

Thranduil lifts the cup off the tray and presents it to you. “When the storm picked up. Something about it felt unnatural.” You take it, and bring the warm beverage to your lips. “I gathered some guards and we set out. It is good that we found you in time.” He pauses. “I’m not sure my heart could take any more loss.”

The heat of the tea spreads throughout your body, the chill slipping away quickly. “I do believe you are correct. That storm was not natural.”

Thranduil nods. “There is a growing darkness to the north. The scouts on patrol have spoken of it often but have been unable to get close enough for more details.”

“Perhaps I strayed too close,” you murmur.

“Perhaps,” replies Thranduil, reaching out to take your hand. He lifts it, and brings it into his lap. Using both hands, he rotates your wrist until your palm faces the ceiling. Then, he guides your open palm to his lips, placing a soft kiss in the middle of it.

Instant warmth shoots out from that spot, running down your arm and piercing your heart like an arrow. Slowly, he curls your fingers in, creating a loose fist, and then brushes his lips against your knuckles before pulling away.

He does not release your hand. “I know why you left.”

“Thranduil—”

“You did not need to explain. I understand why.” Thranduil reaches out and cups your cheek, turning your face toward him. “I am thankful that you found it, but you are also precious to me, and losing you is a far greater loss.”

You turn into his touch. “That ring is important to you.”

“Many things are important to me. But the ring is just that. A thing. You are breathing. You are here. I would like to keep it that way.”

Your eyes drift close and you revel in the warmth of his touch. “Are you mad?”

“Never.”

“Will you hold me?”

“For as long as you like.”

taglist:

@foxxy-126 @glassgulls @km-ffluv @sweetbutpsychobutsweet @singleteapot @firelightinferno @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @protosslady @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @ninman82 @therealbloom

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inthiskingdomwewillendure · 2 months ago

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And on his head was a crown of berries and leaves for autumn has come again.

#lotr #the hobbit #lord of the rings #lotredit #lee pace #thranduil #elves #4k #tolkien #the elvenking #autumn #fall

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mismaeve · 21 hours ago

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Yaaaaay, you liked this one too!!!! I’m so happy!! 🥹🥹🩷🩷 This is such a precious fic for me, I always love writing soft Thrandy — he’d be such an amazing husband I can’t 😭😭

Stars of Lasgalen

↳ Stars of Lasgalen, Thranduil x Reader, fluff Warnings: Aside from sickening amounts of fluff, none A/N: As promised, I wrote a little something for my one year Tolkien anniversary. Thank you so much to everyone who has ever bothered reading any of my silly stuff, who have decided to press that follow button and enter the chaos that is my blog. This piece, even though it's short, is dedicated to all of my followers, my darling mutuals and my dear friends. I love you! For the sake of being sentimental and to add a degree of symbolism, here is my first story, written a year ago on this very day.

A featherlight kiss interrupted the blissful silence that gathered and endured inside the four walls of your bedchambers. Your husband’s soft lips lingering on your cheek in his gentle attempt to rise you from your peaceful slumber.

“My love,” Thranduil whispered before his lips found your forehead and graced it with another tender kiss while fingers light as the first snows of winter, brushed and weaved through your hair.

“Is it morning already?” you asked as you shifted underneath the heavy furs, unwilling to bare your naked skin to the cold and gripping morning air.

“The sun has long risen, I’m afraid it does not wait, not even on someone as beautiful as my beloved wife,” Thranduil mused softly while his fingers took the liberty of caressing your features, the back of his hand gliding over the softness of your cheek with weightless grace.

“That may very well be so, but pray tell, why has my husband forsaken our bed and left my side vulnerable to the biting cold?” you teased him with a playful scowl, pulling up the furs to your chin to further emphasize your discontent.

His answer to your growing displeasure did little to brighten your mood, his open amusement mocking you in the face of your misery.

“I am certain you will forgive me my trespasses once you see what I have brought for you, my fairest of all the stars,” he purred as he leaned in and planted a light kiss on the tip of your nose.

“The keeper and guardian of my heart,” Thranduil continued as his warm lips found your cheek and lingered there before venturing to your temple.

“My darling wife and most gracious queen,” his breath was hot against your skin.

“Flattery will not save you now, dear husband,” you murmured with your eyes closed, savoring his kisses while trying your best to remain determined of not giving in so easily.

“Then perhaps this will.”

You heard the subtle shuffling of his robes and opened your eyes, peering downwards to his hands you couldn’t help yourself but blink in surprise. Thranduil appeared to be holding pure starlight in his hands, the pale rays of the morning sun gleaming off it and nearly blinding you with the bright light it reflected. It was light in its purest form, a precious beauty and most valuable treasure beyond any measure.

“What,” you breathed out, mesmerized by what your eyes were struggling to behold.

“Where ever did you get this?” you whispered in honest wonder.

“They are known as the white gems of Lasgalen, fashioned into a necklace by the dwarves of Erebor,” Thranduil explained softly while his fingers peeled the furs off your chest thus exposing your neck.

“It must have cost a fortune,” you sighed overwhelmed by your husband’s generosity and willingness to spare no expense on your behalf. You knew only too well the greed that drove the King under the Mountain and could imagine beyond any doubts the fee he must have demanded from your husband as payment for something as wondrous and masterfully crafted.

“An occasion such as this, the one-year anniversary of our marriage demanded for nothing less than what I am giving you now, my love,” your husband pointed out patiently, his lips wrought into a loving smile, his eyes reflecting every inch and ounce of his eternal devotion to you.

“May I?” he asked as he unclasped the delicate necklace.

All you could do was nod slowly and watch as Thranduil moved to adorn your neck with pure starlight, the ultimate symbol of his love for you.

“I do not know how to thank you, or where to even begin,” you started but were silenced by his finger gently pressing to your lips.

“You being my wife is all the thanks I will ever need from you,” Thranduil murmured softly while his eyes admired the gift he had bestowed upon you.

“Every morning where I wake and catch a glimpse of my beautiful queen, is one that I cherish. I could not imagine life being worth living unless you were by my side, and I pray I never have to.”

You smiled warmly at your husband’s words, emerging from the softness of the furs, the cold no longer bothering you in the least, you moved yourself onto Thranduil’s lap and were immediately sheltered by his strong arms, pulling you close to his chest and shielding you from the cold with his velvety robes.

“My sweet love,” you mumbled against the crook of his neck and cuddled closer to your king, clinging to him like the early morning frost clings to the petals of winter blooms.

Your husband hummed his content, resting his chin atop your head while his arms cradled you with his fierce love and dreams of your bright future.

“I believe my trespass for abandoning you this morning is forgiven?” he asked after a while, making you snort in amusement.

Gif by @jeniferdasilva07 Taglist: @heilith @kanafinwe-makalaure @i-did-not-mean-to @eunoiaastralwings @coopsgirl @aduialel @deep-space-elf @a-contemplation-upon-flowers @augustwithquills @warriormirkwood @missymoo02 @mxmia @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore @sotwk @dawn-petrichor-world

#thranduil #thranduil x reader #thranduil x you #thranduil oropherion #the elvenking #tolkien elves #the hobbit #thranduil fluff

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earthlybeam · 3 days ago

Note

https://www.tumblr.com/earthlybeam/771558081557626880/will-thranduil-give-the-white-gems-to-someone-he?source=share

What if it were like this. The reader doesn't accept the gift. (Both because Thranduil's behavior still upsets her very much. She also doesn't want to be his late wife's placeholder. But Thranduil finds a way. And the reader forgives him.She accepts the gift. It would be good for Thranduil to learn a little lesson.🤗)

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To other that see This first time (for context read the other one first thats linked just above 👆) here’s below 👇 where thranduil learns his lesson as you requested it’s great idea so enjoy. ☺️🫶

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

The stars glittered above the canopy of the forest, their soft light filtering through the leaves and casting silvery patches of moonlight on the ground. The air was crisp and cool, carrying the faint scent of pine and earth. Thranduil had chosen this spot deliberately, a secluded glade far from the prying eyes of his court. This was a moment meant for just the two of you, untouched by the weight of his crown or the whispers of his people. You stood quietly, gazing at the stars, the tranquil beauty of the night wrapping around you like a comforting cloak. Unbeknownst to you, Thranduil watched in silence, his gaze lingering. There was a certain tension in his usually poised demeanor, a subtle shift that only someone who knew him well might notice. For centuries, his heart had been guarded, his emotions locked away beneath layers of composure and duty. But tonight, he allowed himself a moment of vulnerability—a chance to express what words could never truly convey.

He stepped closer, his footfalls soft and graceful on the forest floor. When you turned to face him, there was a flicker of curiosity in your eyes, the Y/E (your eye colour) depths that had captured his heart. Thranduil’s lips curved ever so slightly, a subtle smile that barely reached his eyes but carried the weight of what was to come. In his hands, he held not the necklace itself but a beautifully carved wooden box. The box was a masterpiece in its own right, clearly crafted with great care and attention to detail. Its surface was etched with intricate patterns of leaves and vines, reminiscent of the forests of his realm. Tiny, delicate blossoms adorned the edges, as though the wood itself had been coaxed to grow into this form. The latch was made of silver, and you could see the faint glimmer of Thranduil’s magic woven into the craftsmanship.

“This is for you,” he said, his voice low but steady, as he held the box out to you. For a moment, your gaze flickered between the box and his face, searching for the meaning behind the gesture. There was something soft in his expression, a rare openness that made your heart quicken. Carefully, you reached out to take the box from his hands, its weight solid and reassuring. As your fingers brushed the smooth, polished surface, you felt a flutter of anticipation. You glanced up at him again, and he gave you the faintest nod, urging you to open it. With a careful hand, you unlatched the silver clasp and lifted the lid. The soft moonlight caught on the contents inside, and your breath caught in your throat. Nestled within a bed of velvet was the most exquisite necklace you had ever seen. The delicate vines and leaves of silver (or gold) were intricate and lifelike, curling around a series of gleaming gemstones that perfectly matched your Y/E (your eye colour). The central gem, larger than the rest, seemed to glow with a soft, magical light, its color so strikingly familiar that it felt as though it had been plucked from your own gaze.

The silence between you stretched thick, the weight of it pressing down on both of you. Thranduil’s heart thundered in his chest as he watched you carefully, his eyes searching for any sign that you understood, that you saw the depth of his gesture. He had put so much into this moment, into this gift. He had hoped, with everything in him, that it would make up for his past actions, for the hurt he had caused. But as your fingers lingered over the velvet-lined box, the soft moonlight glinting off the beautiful necklace, a cold knot of dread began to twist in his stomach. You slowly lifted your gaze to meet his, your eyes, the color of the very gems nestled within the box, clouded with uncertainty, perhaps even a trace of anger. It was a look he had grown to fear, the one that spoke volumes about the walls you had erected around your heart after the confrontation. Thranduil’s breath caught, a bitter taste rising in his throat, and for a moment, he felt as if he were standing on the edge of an abyss, his emotions teetering dangerously close to the precipice.

His voice faltered as he tried to gauge your reaction, the vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show becoming all too apparent. “Do you not like it?” he asked softly, trying to keep the tremor from his words, though his heart felt like it was shattering. You shook your head slowly, a sigh escaping your lips, and then you spoke, your voice a mixture of sadness and resolve. “It’s not about whether I like it, Thranduil,” you said quietly, the weight of your words heavy in the air. “It’s that… I can’t accept it.” The words hit him like a blow. He hadn’t anticipated this. His gaze dropped to the necklace, his fingers gripping the carved box a little tighter, though his hand trembled. It had been his hope, his desperate hope, that this would be the bridge to heal the rift between you. But in that moment, it became painfully clear that the chasm between you was wider than he had realized. “I… I don’t want to be a substitute for her,” you continued, your voice breaking slightly as you spoke the truth that had been festering inside you since the night of the confrontation. “I can’t accept a gift that carries that kind of weight. I don’t want to be part of your past, Thranduil. I want to be… me. Not a replacement, not someone filling a void.”

Thranduil stood still, unable to mask the pang of guilt and sorrow that struck deep within him. He had hurt you—again. He had not understood the depth of your need to feel seen, to feel as though you were more than the echo of a love that had long since faded. The gift, the necklace, had been meant to show you that you were more, that you were his future. But in trying to recreate something tied to his past, he had inadvertently reinforced the very thing you feared the most: being second place. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice strained with emotion. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.” The words tasted bitter, and he hated the helplessness that surged through him. He couldn’t undo the damage. Not now. Not when it seemed that he had made things worse. You took a deep breath, your hands still lingering over the box as you stared down at the necklace, the pain in your heart reflected in the tightness of your chest. It was not just the gift—it was the belief that you would always be compared to the woman he had lost, that you could never truly stand on your own in his heart. It stung, more than you had ever expected.

Thranduil stood before you, the weight of the silence thick and suffocating. His heart ached with the realization that the very thing he had hoped would show you his love had instead deepened the wound between you. He had failed to listen, to understand what you truly needed. His gaze softened, the rawness in his expression more exposed than it had ever been. And yet, he still did not know how to fix it. “Please,” he murmured, reaching for the box, as though the gesture would somehow give him the chance to make things right. “I only wanted to show you how much you mean to me… But I see now that I’ve only hurt you further.” You shook your head, your chest tightening with the weight of it all. “It’s not about the gift, Thranduil. It’s about everything else.” You wanted to say more, to scream the hurt that had been building up inside you, but you held it back, unwilling to let the anger consume you completely. “I need time. I need to know that I matter to you, that I’m not just the next person you’ve put in her place. Please, don’t make me feel like this is about her. You’ll never let her go, and I understand that. But I can’t live in that shadow, Thranduil.”

His chest constricted at your words, but there was an understanding, a clarity in your voice that made him realize how far he had to go, how much more he had to learn. This was not just about the necklace. It was about him letting go—not just of the past, but of the way he had been holding on to it so tightly that he had almost lost you. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Thranduil stood there, the carved box still in his hands, heart heavy with the realization of his failure. He had sought to fix things with a gesture, but he knew now that what you needed was not a token, but time, patience, and a promise that he would let you be your own person in his life, without comparison or shadows of the past. Finally, he spoke, his voice low but steady. “I will learn to give you the space you need, and I will do better. I don’t want to lose you. Not to my past, not to my mistakes.” Your eyes softened, the walls you had built beginning to crack, just a little. It wasn’t forgiveness yet—not fully—but it was a step. And for now, that was enough. “I don’t want to lose you, either,” you whispered, voice thick with the emotion you couldn’t fully express. “But I need to know you’re with me now. Not just remembering what was lost.” Thranduil nodded, the weight of your words sinking deep into him. He still had much to prove, but for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he felt like he was on the right path. The necklace remained in the box, a symbol of his love—but it would be the love that grew between you, the healing that needed time, that would show you both the future you could build together.

After the painful moment in the glade, Thranduil knew he had to do something far beyond any material gesture to make amends. It wasn’t about a necklace or a lavish gift; it was about showing you that you mattered to him—you, not the ghost of his past. What he needed was a way to show you, through his actions, that he was fully present and willing to rebuild the trust he had shattered. The next evening, as twilight fell over the forest, Thranduil decided to do something simple, yet deeply meaningful. It would be a dinner. Not in the grand hall of his palace, surrounded by the whispers of his court, but in a small, secluded clearing near the edge of the woods. He had carefully prepared the setting with the help of his elven attendants, but in a way that spoke to intimacy and connection, rather than grandeur.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a soft, amber glow across the trees, Thranduil met you in the forest path. He had sent word to you earlier, but he hadn’t shared the details of what he had planned. Tonight, he wanted to give you the space to choose for yourself, free from any expectations or pressure. The very fact that he was here with you now—away from the palace, where no one could watch, no one could speak—was his way of saying he was with you, and only you. When you arrived at the clearing, you couldn’t help but notice the absence of any formalities. There were no elaborate table settings or towering candles, only a low wooden table with cushions on the ground around it, carefully arranged. The table was draped in soft linen, simple but elegant, with a few flickering lanterns casting a gentle light. A fire crackled nearby, its warmth a soft invitation to sit, to relax. The smell of fresh herbs and roasting food filled the air, and for a moment, the world outside the clearing seemed to disappear.

Thranduil, wearing a tunic of deep forest green, his usual regal presence softened, stepped forward. He did not stand in front of you as a king; he stood beside you as someone who needed to make things right .“I wanted tonight to be about us, about you,” he said, his voice quiet and sincere. His gaze lingered on you, searching for any hint of discomfort, any trace of doubt. But when he saw only the softness in your eyes, he let out a quiet breath of relief. “No titles, no walls, just… us.” He motioned toward the table, and you could see the effort in his hands—the careful selection of the food, the warmth in the simplicity of it all. “I thought you might enjoy something more personal, something unpretentious. No grand feasts, no ceremonial meals… just what we need to share a quiet evening together.” You settled onto one of the cushions, and Thranduil joined you, sitting beside you, not across from you. It was an unspoken invitation to be close, to show you that he was not distant, not unreachable. His presence, though still noble, was tempered with a quiet vulnerability that seemed to pull at your heart.

As he served you, there were no words about the past. No apology repeated. There was only the comfort of the warm food—roasted vegetables, tender meats, and herbs fresh from the forest. The meal itself was not extravagant, but it was prepared with care, with the attention to detail that only Thranduil, with his deep connection to the earth, could give. He poured wine into two crystal glasses, offering one to you with a soft smile. “It’s been a long time since I’ve enjoyed something as simple as this,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a trace of longing, but not in a way that made you feel sorry for him. It was a soft admission of how rare these moments had been for him. You found yourself taking a sip of the wine, feeling the coolness of it on your tongue, and for a moment, the world seemed less heavy. As you both ate, Thranduil shared stories—not of the kingdom, not of battles or politics, but of memories from his past, things he had never opened up about. He told you of quiet moments in his youth, of the simple joys he had once experienced before everything had been overshadowed by his grief. There was no mention of his late wife, no allusion to his past pain—only him, sharing a piece of himself with you. And you—slowly, quietly—did the same. You talked, not about the weight you had carried, not about your doubts, but about the small things that made you happy. The gentle winds through the trees, the sound of birdsong at dawn, the warmth of the sun after a cold morning. You spoke of simple joys that had sustained you, even through difficult times.

As the night deepened and the stars began to shimmer above, the conversation faded into a comfortable silence. Thranduil reached out then, a small, almost hesitant gesture, and took your hand in his. His fingers were cool but steady, the touch reassuring. “I will prove to you, in every way I can, that you are not second place,” he said quietly. “You are my future, my choice. No one will ever come before you. I see you now, as you are, and I hope to earn your trust again.” You looked at him, his eyes vulnerable, his face open in a way you hadn’t seen before. The sincerity in his words, the way he had laid himself bare in such a personal, intimate moment, made something shift inside you. He wasn’t offering a grand gesture; he was offering himself—his heart, his trust. And with that, the hurt began to fade. Slowly, surely, as you squeezed his hand, a small but genuine smile crossed your lips. It wasn’t about forgetting. It was about moving forward, about building something new together. “You don’t need to earn my trust again, Thranduil,” you said softly, your voice carrying the warmth that had settled in your chest. “I already see you. And I’m willing to try again.” The fire crackled between you, the warmth of the flames mingling with the warmth of your shared silence. And in that moment, there was nothing but the two of you, sitting side by side, the weight of the past finally beginning to lift as you took a step forward, together.

That wasn’t the only thing he did to show you how much he truly loved you he did many, like these below (I would write them but I’d be here forever and ever 🤣 I wrote down all the little things he does for you (not once but all the time)—simple gestures, but they show just how much he truly cares and loves you.

𐂂 Running His Fingers Through Your Hair When you’re resting beside him, Thranduil will gently run his fingers through your hair, as if memorizing the feel of it. The simple action is a way for him to express tenderness without words, lost in the serenity of the moment.

𐂂 Soft Kisses on Your Forehead Before he leaves for a meeting or when you’re about to drift to sleep, Thranduil will place soft, lingering kisses on your forehead. It’s his way of reminding you that, no matter the day ahead, he’ll always think of you with love.

𐂂 Kissing Your Hand When you least expect it, Thranduil will take your hand in his, his lips brushing softly against your skin in a tender kiss. It’s a small, intimate act, a gesture of admiration and affection for the one he holds dear.

𐂂 Soft Whispered Words of Affection Sometimes, when it’s just the two of you, Thranduil will lean in close, whispering words of love that only you can hear. His voice is soft and gentle, and the sincerity in his words makes your heart flutter.

𐂂 Waking Up to Him Holding You Close In the mornings, when you stir from sleep, you might find Thranduil’s arms wrapped protectively around you. The warmth of his body against yours and his steady breathing beside you remind you of his love in the quietest of ways.

𐂂 Small Touches When he’s near you, Thranduil will often let his fingertips graze your wrist, your arm, or your back. These brief touches may seem insignificant to others, but to you, they are an unspoken promise of his affection, a constant connection no matter what is happening around you.

𐂂 Silently Watching Over You Sometimes, Thranduil will simply watch you from afar—whether you’re reading, working, or simply daydreaming. He finds peace in knowing that you’re happy and content, and when you look up, he gives you a soft smile that reassures you of his love.

𐂂 Unexpected Laughter Together In the midst of daily life, Thranduil will find ways to make you laugh—whether it’s through a playful comment, a small joke, or an unexpected moment of lightness. His laughter with you is one of the most intimate ways he shows his joy in your company.

𐂂 Handwritten Letters Thranduil, who is not often one for words of affection, begins to leave you small handwritten notes Each one expresses his gratitude for your presence in his life and his desire to be a better partner. These letters might be left on your pillow or in places where you least expect them, offering heartfelt thoughts of how much you mean to him.

𐂂 Personalized Quiet Moments Thranduil arranges quiet evenings, where no grand gestures are involved—just the two of you. He plans for walks in the forest at sunset, where the only sound is the crunch of leaves underfoot. He shares stories of his childhood, his hopes for the future, and asks you about your dreams, truly listening.

𐂂 A New Tradition Thranduil, in a rare but deeply thoughtful move, creates a new tradition for the two of you—something unique to your relationship. Perhaps every month, he takes you to the heart of the forest and plants a tree together, marking each passing season with the growth of something that represents your love. (I love this one)

(This just thranduil pov realisation and leaning his lesson)

It had happened without him fully realizing it. One moment, he was standing at the center of his kingdom, impervious and distant, and the next, he was becoming something else—a man who was learning how to feel again, how to allow his heart to open without fear of being consumed by the past. The necklace, which had once been meant as a gesture to ease his guilt and show his apology, had grown into something far more significant in his mind. It wasn’t just about his late wife or the symbol of the past. It had become a symbol of his own growth, of his willingness to change, to shed the old layers of sorrow that had defined him for so long. And yet, when you had refused to wear it, it had struck him with a revelation—a bitter sweetness. You hadn’t rejected him; you had rejected the idea that love could be wrapped up in something so trivial as a material object. It wasn’t the necklace that was the problem; it was the past that clung to it, the remnants of grief that still hung heavily on him like a cloak. You had made him see that love couldn’t be forged through objects or grand gestures. It had to be something deeper, something that transcended the past, something that spoke in the quieter, more intimate moments. He exhaled slowly, the weight of his own realization pressing against his chest. The kingdom needed him, yes. His responsibilities had always been clear, always demanding, but now something else had shifted within him. He knew that making time for you, truly making time, was just as important. You had shown him that in the way you had quietly understood him, in the way you had been patient with him even when his old habits resurfaced. He had learned that love was not just about what he could give, but about how he could give himself—his time, his care, his vulnerability.

The days when he had spent hours locked away in his study, poring over his duties, had become fewer. Instead, he found himself making space—space to sit beside you, to listen to you without distraction, to hold you without the burden of his crown. He had never known how much that could mean. It was strange, in a way, to find himself craving such simple things—shared silences, touches that didn’t come with any expectation, moments where he could let down his guard and simply be with you. As much as he prided himself on his ability to rule, to command, to hold sway over Mirkwood and its people, he was beginning to understand that the same dedication that had made him a strong king had to be applied to his love for you. You deserved more than just his attention in passing moments. You deserved his full presence, his unwavering commitment, not just in words, but in actions. The necklace, the grand gestures, they no longer seemed necessary, because what you had shown him—what he had learned—was that the most profound gift was being present. To show up, to listen, to give freely of himself without the weight of expectations.

Thranduil leaned back in his chair, his eyes drifting to the stars visible through the open window. The night sky was vast, and so was the future he now saw stretching out before him. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he allowed himself to imagine a future that wasn’t defined by his grief, a future where the love he shared with you was the brightest thing in his life. He would continue to rule, of course. His kingdom would always be his responsibility, but he had learned that he could be both a king and a lover. He could honor his people and his heart. And the most important thing of all—he could make time for you. Not just when it was convenient or when he had finished everything else, but every day. The lesson he had learned was simple, but profound: love was not a treasure to be kept locked away. It was something to be lived, something to be shared in every moment, no matter how small. And he would spend the rest of his life showing you just how deeply he had learned that lesson.

It had been three since the night Thranduil had offered you the beautiful wooden box containing the necklace he had so painstakingly crafted for you. During those days, the anger and hurt you had felt from his earlier outburst had gradually faded into something more peaceful—a quiet understanding between the two of you. You had both grown, him learning that love wasn’t something to be held onto tightly, but something to be nurtured and shared, and you learning that love didn’t come with expectations or conditions. The way he had treated you since that day had shown you all the things you needed to know. At first, the box had remained unopened, sitting on your vanity, a reminder of that painful moment and the tension between you. You weren’t ready to accept the gift—not then. You didn’t want to be a replacement for something he had lost. But as time passed, as Thranduil continued to shower you with his love and understanding, the gift became something more—something that symbolized his growth, his realization that what he had for you was not a shadow of the past, but a brand-new love that was uniquely yours.

One evening, after yet another quiet and intimate moment between you both—his hand brushing gently across your cheek, a soft kiss to your forehead—you had felt something shift within yourself. It wasn’t just about the necklace anymore; it was about the way he had proven to you, over and over again, that his heart was yours and yours alone. He had shown you love in every glance, every soft gesture, every word spoken, and in those moments, you had begun to see his heart more clearly than ever before. That evening, when he had left for a brief meeting in the court, you found yourself standing in front of the mirror once more. The wooden box was still there, as it had been for weeks, nestled among your other personal things. You reached for it now, your fingers tracing the intricate carvings, the soft sheen of the silver latch. It was time. You slowly opened the box, lifting the velvet lining to reveal the necklace within. It was more beautiful than you had remembered—an intricate, silvery design of vines and leaves curling around gemstones that shimmered with an ethereal light. The centerpiece, a large gem that matched the color of your eyes, seemed to glow with a warmth and magic all its own. You ran your fingers over it, feeling the weight of the love that had gone into its creation. It was a beautiful gift, yes, but now you understood that it was never just about the necklace. It was about the love and thoughtfulness behind it, the time he had spent creating something just for you.

As you looked at yourself in the mirror, you realized that it wasn’t the necklace that made you feel beautiful—it was the love you had witnessed in Thranduil’s actions, the soft way he had come to understand you, the deep affection that had bloomed between you both. You weren’t just accepting a gift; you were accepting his heart. With that thought, you carefully draped the necklace around your neck, fastening it gently behind you. The gem rested just above your collarbone, catching the light, a perfect reflection of you. You studied your reflection for a moment, the warmth of the necklace against your skin, the memory of all the tender moments between you and Thranduil filling your heart. The acceptance of this gift was symbolic, yes, but more so, it was about accepting the new chapter you and Thranduil were writing together—a chapter that was built on love, growth, and the space you had made in each other’s lives.

You smiled softly to yourself, a small, quiet joy blooming in your chest as you made your way to find him. When you saw him again, you would show him not just the necklace, but the love that had grown from the small gestures, the quiet moments, and the tenderness he had shown you all this time. Thranduil’s study was quiet when you entered, but you didn’t need to say anything at first. You simply walked toward him, his gaze lifting from his desk as he looked up at you. His eyes instantly softened as they met the shimmer of the necklace against your skin, and in that moment, he saw everything that had transpired between you both—the love that had been growing quietly, the understanding, the forgiveness, the healing.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, but in the stillness, you could both feel the weight of what this moment meant. Slowly, he stood, his gaze never leaving you as he crossed the room to close the distance between you. His fingers reached out, but instead of touching the necklace, they gently brushed over your chest, just above your heart, where you could feel the steady rhythm of your pulse. His touch was soft, reverent, as if he was acknowledging not just the necklace, but the emotions and the love that now resided within you both. His hand lingered for a moment, and then he pressed his forehead gently against yours, his breath warm and steady. “You’re wearing it,” he murmured, his voice thick with surprise and something deeper—relief, joy, and perhaps even awe. You nodded, a gentle smile tugging at your lips as you reached up to touch his arm, your fingers resting softly against his skin. “It’s not just the necklace, Thranduil,” you replied softly. “It’s everything you’ve shown me—the love, the care, the time. That’s what matters. That’s what made me realize that this…” You gestured to the necklace, to both of you, “is something that belongs to us now. It’s not about the past. It’s about what we have now.”

Thranduil closed his eyes for a moment, a deep sigh escaping his lips. His hand moved to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing gently over your skin as he held you, his forehead still resting against yours. “I’ve been so afraid of losing what I had before,” he murmured. “But I realize now… I was losing the chance to have something new, something with you. Something that’s ours.” You smiled softly, your fingers tracing the lines of his arm, feeling the warmth of him, the steadiness of his presence. “I don’t want to be the past, Thranduil,” you whispered, your voice soft. “I want to be here with you, in this moment.” Thranduil’s eyes opened then, his gaze meeting yours with a quiet intensity. He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment. When he pulled back slightly, he spoke again, his voice filled with emotion. “I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to hold on to anything that might keep me from you. You are my present, my future. Not a substitute for anything else, but the love I’ve been searching for.”

You felt your heart swell at his words, and you pulled him closer, letting yourself fall into his embrace, resting your head against his chest. He held you tightly, and for a long time, neither of you spoke, content simply to be in each other’s presence. The bond between you was tangible, growing stronger with every second. In that moment, it wasn’t about the necklace anymore—it was about the promise between you both, the quiet understanding that you had found something real, something lasting. Finally, Thranduil’s voice broke the silence, low and full of emotion. “Thank you… for showing me that love is not something to be held onto so tightly. That love is about letting go of the past, and accepting what we have, here and now.” You smiled against his chest, feeling the warmth of his love all around you. “I’m not just accepting you, Thranduil,” you whispered. “I’m accepting the love you’ve shown me every single day.” And with that, the gift became more than just an object—it became a promise, a symbol of the love that had been rebuilt between you both, a love that had learned to grow, to change, and to flourish.

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