#thranduil gifs

[inkdusth]

The Ultimate ‘I Told You So’ Moment™ 😏👑✨

Inspired by the image in this post: 💖

[earthlybeam]

Can you please write about elves with a huntress/hunter reader who lives deep in the forest, doesn't have many manners or anything fancy like the elves, and is not used to eating healthily or consuming less meat. The reader hunts for themselves, bringing hunted animals to the elves as trophies, thinking the elves will appreciate them. Include Thranduil, Elrond, Legolas, and Celeborn. Have a good day/night. Thanks for your beautiful writing. I very rarely see person who writes so thoughtfully and poetically and even more rarely I see writer who writes for Lotr elves.☕

Aww, thank you so much for your kind words! That really means a lot to me. I’m so glad you enjoy the writing, and it’s so wonderful to hear that you’re excited for a LotR story with the elves. I’d love to write something like this! It’d be so fun to explore the contrast between the elves’ elegant, peaceful way of life and her wild, free-spirited ways!

Thranduil, Elrond, Legolas, Celeborn version below.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

The ancient trees loomed overhead, casting long shadows over the forest floor. The sound of footsteps was muffled by the thick carpet of leaves and moss, as you, a solitary hunter, moved through the woods with practiced ease. Your home was far from the opulent halls of the Elves, nestled deep within the heart of the forest in a humble, weathered hut. A place where the air was filled with the scent of earth, damp leaves, and the unmistakable musk of the animals you hunted.

You lived by the bow, your hands used to the rough texture of your weapon and the weight of your quiver. You were accustomed to taking life, a necessity in your world. Every day, you hunted to survive, bringing back the fruits of your labor: deer, boar, and the occasional stag. The larger the prey, the more satisfying the hunt. And every time you brought down one of Mirkwood’s majestic creatures, you carried it proudly to the elves, thinking they would appreciate your skills.

But your ways were far removed from theirs. The elves, particularly their King, Thranduil, with their ethereal grace and reverence for the land, were hunters too—but not in the same way. For them, nature was a delicate balance, something to be revered and preserved. The fruits of the forest—herbs, berries, and nuts—were their preferred sustenance. Meat, especially the meat of an animal as noble as the stag, was a rarity, an occasional indulgence, and only consumed on special occasions.

As you approached the palace, the soft hum of voices reached your ears, growing louder with each step. The grand, gleaming structures of the elf kingdom were unlike anything you’d ever seen. Towers crafted from living wood, leaves and branches intertwining in delicate patterns. Their halls sparkled with a natural light, the air fragrant with the scent of flowers and herbs. It was a stark contrast to your rough, simple existence.

You approached Thranduil’s court, carrying the large stag draped over your shoulders. Its massive antlers gleamed in the pale sunlight, a prize you had taken down after hours of tracking. It was an impressive kill, something that would have earned you admiration from any other hunter in the land—but here, in the realm of the elves, you felt a momentary twinge of uncertainty. You knew little about their customs, only that they were not like you. Still, you hoped your offering would be appreciated, even if it was an act foreign to their way of life.

Thranduil stood at the center of the hall, his long, platinum blonde hair flowing around his shoulders like a cascade of moonlight. His piercing eyes caught sight of you as you entered, and he raised an eyebrow, his gaze flickering to the stag you had placed before him. His lips pressed into a thin line. The room seemed to grow quiet as the tension between the two of you thickened. Thranduil’s expression was unreadable at first, but beneath the calm exterior, there was a flicker of something darker. A flash of disapproval. “You bring this to my halls?” Thranduil’s voice was low, cool, and dangerous. It was not a question, but an accusation.

You stood tall, your back straight, meeting his gaze with a defiant stare. “Yes, my king,” you replied, your voice unwavering. “It is the prize of my hunt. I thought you would find it worthy.” The elves around you exchanged uneasy glances, their faces pale, as though the sight of the stag made them uneasy, or worse, repulsed. They were not accustomed to such offerings, not when the creatures of the forest could be more than just food—they were sacred, revered, and treated with reverence.

Thranduil stepped forward, his long fingers brushing the surface of the stag’s fur. His face was unreadable, but his eyes betrayed a sharp edge of anger. “This creature is sacred to the forest,” he said softly, though his words carried the weight of authority. “You kill it as though it is nothing more than a trophy, a mere object to boast about.”

You flinched slightly at the accusation, though you didn’t let your face betray the hurt. To you, hunting was survival. You had learned the ways of the forest long ago. The act of taking down a majestic creature was an honor, a way to prove your skill, your connection to the wild. But here, before the elves, it felt like you were standing before a different world—a world where your ways were misunderstood, seen as crude, primitive. “I did not bring it to boast, Thranduil,” you said, your voice steady. “I brought it as a gift, as a show of respect. I thought you would appreciate it.”

Thranduil’s gaze hardened. “You do not understand,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Meat is a luxury, not a necessity. We do not kill for sport or to collect trophies.” The weight of his words hit you like a cold wind. You had never considered that. In your world, meat was survival. It was the blood and flesh of the forest, the very lifeblood of your existence. But to him, it was something entirely different—something sacred, something meant to be treated with reverence.

“You are wrong,” Thranduil continued, his voice colder now. “You think you understand the forest, but you only take from it without understanding its true essence. It is not for you to decide when to take its life.” A long silence stretched between you, filled only by the distant rustling of leaves outside. You stood your ground, but inside, there was a twinge of guilt, a sense of wrongness in the air. “You would do well to remember the balance,” Thranduil said finally, his voice softening just slightly. “We take only what we need. And even then, we offer thanks.”

You nodded stiffly, the weight of your misunderstanding sinking in. You had acted with pride, but now, in the face of Thranduil’s quiet but unyielding authority, you realized how little you knew of their ways. “Will you still accept it?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper. Thranduil’s gaze softened for a moment, and with a small sigh, he nodded. “We will take it, but not for the reasons you think. It will be given back to the forest in due time, as a gift, a reminder of the sacrifice that was made.”

You bowed your head, feeling a strange mix of embarrassment and understanding. This was not your world, not your way. You had hoped to show your strength, but instead, you had revealed your ignorance. The stag was not your trophy to keep. It was a gift, a gesture of respect to a land that gave life in its own way. A lesson, you thought, as Thranduil turned away to oversee the ceremony. A lesson that the true hunt, the real strength, came not from what you could take, but from what you could give back to the land that had nurtured you.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

In the heart of the forest, where the trees whispered ancient secrets and the earth was as familiar to you as your own skin, you lived a life of solitude. Your hut, constructed from fallen branches and thick moss, nestled between towering oaks and pines. The scent of the woods—the rich, earthy aroma of damp soil and fresh leaves—was all you knew. It was a simple existence, far removed from the grand halls of the elves, their elegant cities, and their refined customs.

You were a hunter, and the forest was your home. Each day, you ventured deep into the wilds, tracking animals, listening for the quiet stirrings of life in the underbrush. The hunt was a ritual of survival, not sport. You didn’t adorn your weapons with ornaments, nor did you care for any formalities. The kill was necessary. The meat was sustenance, and that was all that mattered. There was no delicacy, no finesse—just you, the trees, and the game.

The offering you had prepared for Rivendell was one of your best. A wild boar, thick and heavy, its tusks sharp and gleaming in the fading sunlight, accompanied by a deer and several rabbits. You’d taken them down swiftly and cleanly, knowing the importance of not wasting a single part. The weight of the kills pressed on your shoulders as you trudged toward the gates of Rivendell, your heart steady in the way of those who walk alone in the wild.

You had done this before, bringing your trophies to the elves, convinced they would appreciate your skill and the quality of the game. You knew they were a proud people, wise in their ways, and surely they would recognize your strength and hunting prowess. They might even accept your offering in the same way you had seen in the few exchanges you’d had with their kind—silent nods, polite words—but no real connection. They lived differently, you knew that, but what did it matter? The hunt was sacred to you, and you were proud to share it with them.

As you neared the gates, Elrond stood waiting, his long, graceful form silhouetted against the shimmering light of Rivendell’s halls. His piercing gaze studied you, the hunter—you, with your rough-hewn clothes and the scent of blood and the wilds clinging to your skin. To him, you were both a mystery and a reminder of a world far removed from the delicacy and reverence of elvish life.

You didn’t acknowledge the way his eyes lingered on you, nor the subtle tension in the air that always followed your arrivals. You didn’t care for the elves’ highborn ways, the long meals full of laughter and elegant conversation that felt foreign and strange to you. You dropped the boar and the deer at his feet without ceremony, your shoulders straight and proud. “I’ve brought you game,” you said simply, your voice rough, shaped by years of isolation.

Elrond, ever the picture of grace, gave a slight bow of his head but did not immediately reach for the animals. He let the silence stretch between you, studying the offerings with a quiet, thoughtful gaze. His eyes flicked from the boar to the deer and then to you. There was no anger, no judgment, but a certain sadness that lingered behind his usually calm demeanor.

“Your skill is evident, hunter,” Elrond spoke at last, his voice rich with centuries of knowledge. “But I must admit, I wonder if you understand what you offer.” You blinked, a twinge of confusion tugging at your brow. “I offer what I know best. The hunt. The land provides—does it not?” Elrond sighed, a sound full of ancient weariness. He could see the pride in your eyes, the simple belief that this was the way of things. “The land provides, yes. But the elves of Rivendell… we do not take what we do not need. Our ways are not like yours.”

You frowned, your confusion deepening. “I bring this because I thought you would appreciate it,” you said, your voice hardening a little. “I thought this was what you wanted. It’s a strong kill, a good offering.” Elrond’s gaze softened, though his face remained solemn. “You misunderstand. What we take from the land, we take with reverence. We do not live in the same way as you, hunter. Our bond with the land is one of balance, not conquest. We forage the fruits of the earth, gather herbs, and celebrate the cycles of life. Meat, to us, is rare—only taken when necessary, and even then, it is with the utmost respect for the creature that gave its life.”

His words sank into your chest like a stone, the weight of them pressing down on your hardened heart. You didn’t know how to respond. The idea of restraint, of living without the constant hunt for survival, felt alien to you. You had always lived by the rhythm of the forest, where the strong survived and the weak fell. The concept of eating without bloodshed felt like a betrayal of the land itself. How could you understand this way of life?

“But…” you started, your voice catching, “I live by the hunt. The game provides. Without it, I cannot survive.” Elrond nodded slowly, his eyes not filled with judgment, but with understanding. “I do not question your way of life, hunter. You are a product of your surroundings. But here, we live differently, and we ask for understanding of that. You do not need to offer these gifts of blood to prove your strength. You are more than that.”

You stood silently, unsure of what to say. The weight of the meat at your feet seemed heavier now, the sight of it almost shameful in the quiet, peaceful world of Rivendell. You had never known anything else, and yet here, in this foreign place, you realized how little you understood about the delicate dance between life and death that the elves lived by.

“I did not mean to offend,” you said at last, your voice quieter now, a crack in your usual boldness. “I thought you would appreciate it. I thought it was the right thing to do.” Elrond’s gaze softened even more. “You did what you thought was right. There is no shame in that. But you must understand, hunter, there is more than one way to live, and in time, perhaps you will see the beauty in the balance that sustains us all.”

You didn’t know if you would ever truly understand, but something about the way Elrond spoke—the calm authority in his voice—made you feel like you had taken the first step toward something new. It wasn’t the hunter’s path you had always known, but it was something worth considering.

🍃𝓛𝓮𝓰𝓸𝓵𝓪𝓼

You live deep in the heart of the forest, away from the shining halls of the elves and their highborn customs. Your home is a humble hut, tucked away in a glade surrounded by ancient trees, their gnarled roots and thick canopies offering both shelter and solitude. The world outside is one of dirt and sweat, where each day is spent tracking, hunting, and surviving. It’s not an easy life, but it’s one you know well. Your skills with the bow are honed through necessity, not ceremony. When you hunt, it’s for sustenance, and the meat you bring back feeds you through the long nights and hard winters.

To you, the forests and creatures are just another part of the world, as much a part of your survival as the air you breathe. Each animal you hunt is treated with a hunter’s respect, and the trophies you bring back — antlers, pelts, and sometimes the rawness of the kill itself — are meant to be admired for their strength and beauty. You don’t see any reason to hide the rough edges of your life. After all, it is life. It’s survival.

But the elves… they live by different rules, different standards. Legolas is a prince, raised among the elegance of Mirkwood’s halls. His world is one of grace, where nature is admired with reverence and balance is key. The elves are skilled hunters, but their methods are soft — they don’t take more than they need, and they rarely, if ever, hunt for meat unless necessary. Instead, they gather the gifts of the forest: fruits, nuts, and herbs that sustain them without bloodshed.

You bring the carcass of a deer to them, its sleek body slung over your shoulders, the weight of your kill familiar, even if the task of bringing it to the elves feels a little out of place. You’ve been told that your offerings might be appreciated — that it’s a gesture of respect to bring something back to their realm. But there’s something in the way they look at you, something… off, as if they aren’t sure how to respond to the offering of something so primal, so rough.

Legolas stands with the other elves, watching as you approach with the dead animal. His face, ever serene, betrays little of his thoughts, but there’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes when he sees what you’ve brought. He’s seen hunters before, of course, but this is different. This is the raw, unpolished reality of hunting that belongs to someone who lives outside the order of elvish civilization.

You set the deer down before him with a grunt, brushing your hands on your rough trousers. You expect the usual admiration, the quiet nods of respect for a good kill — you’re skilled after all. You’ve been doing this longer than you care to admit. But Legolas does not step forward immediately, his brow furrowing ever so slightly as he takes in the sight of the animal. “This is…” His voice trails off, as if unsure how to proceed. He shifts his weight, the movement fluid and graceful, an unspoken tension in his posture. “A fine creature, but… why did you bring it here?”

You glance at him, not quite understanding the question. “To share,” you answer bluntly. “A hunter’s tribute to the elves. The forest provides for me, I return the favor.” The elves do not hunt for meat as you do. You know that now, but it doesn’t seem like something they would admit openly. Legolas watches the deer, his eyes studying the carcass with an unreadable expression. He steps closer, crouching down to inspect it with the care of someone who might handle something fragile, something precious. But there’s no admiration in the gesture, only a quiet unease.

“This… this is not how we honor the forest,” he says gently, though there’s an edge of confusion in his voice. “We take only what is needed and offer thanks, not trophies. We do not kill for sport. The animals give themselves to us, but we do not take their lives lightly.” You raise an eyebrow. It’s not the first time you’ve heard the elves speak of balance, of offering thanks to the earth. You’ve never understood it. To you, hunting is survival — there’s no need for excessive reverence when it’s the only way to feed yourself. But you can’t exactly fault them for their beliefs.

“I didn’t think…” you trail off, unsure of what to say. You know their way is different, but it’s hard to understand. “I thought it might be appreciated. To show I respect your lands, your way.” Legolas looks up at you then, his eyes soft but serious. “We do appreciate your efforts,” he says, his voice almost like a whisper, as if trying to ease the tension between your worlds. “But you must understand that we do not take life lightly. There are other ways to offer respect — ways that don’t bring harm. The forest gifts us with so much more than just its creatures.”

You nod slowly, your gaze shifting down to the deer. It’s strange, the way he speaks of life and nature, as though everything must be done with such care. But maybe you’re missing something. Maybe there’s more to their way of life than just survival. “I see,” you say, your voice softening as you try to understand. “I don’t know that I can offer much else, but I’ll… I’ll keep that in mind next time.” You’re not sure what else to say, and the silence between you stretches awkwardly.

Legolas offers a slight smile, though it’s more of a gentle curve to his lips than anything overtly joyful. “It is appreciated. Perhaps next time, you will bring the fruits of the forest. There is much to be found here, and it is a gift that will nourish you in ways you cannot yet understand.” You glance at the other elves, who are still observing you with quiet curiosity, their eyes lingering on the deer with something akin to quiet concern. You wonder how they’ll handle the offering, if they’ll just bury it or leave it to rot in the woods.

“I’ll consider it,” you say after a long pause, nodding your agreement to something you’re not entirely sure you’ll follow through on. You’re a hunter, it’s who you are, but… maybe there’s something to their way. Legolas steps back, his hand brushing against the tree beside him, almost as though he’s speaking to it without words. “You honor us in your own way. But let us find balance together. We can teach you how to see the forest differently, and perhaps you can teach us to appreciate the raw beauty of the hunt.” He looks at you with a twinkle of something both mischief and sincerity. “In time.”

You grin despite yourself. There’s something about him, about his calm, that makes you feel less like a misfit in their world. Maybe, just maybe, you could learn to see things through his eyes. For now, the silence lingers, but it doesn’t feel as heavy as it once did. You’ve made your offering, and Legolas has made his. There’s a bridge, however small, between your worlds now. Maybe you’ll never quite understand each other’s ways completely, but for once, it feels like that’s okay.

🩵𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓸𝓻𝓷

You move through the dense forest, the familiar crunch of fallen leaves beneath your boots. The sun barely pierces through the canopy, casting faint light that dances on the undergrowth. Your home is hidden deep in this wilderness—far from the glimmering, structured lives of the elves, who seem to live on a plane so distant it could almost be a different world. Here, you’ve carved out your own existence, simple and necessary. You hunt, you survive. There is nothing grand or complicated about your life.

As a hunter, you are accustomed to the solitude, the quiet of the woods, broken only by the sound of your bowstring, the call of a deer, or the snap of twigs underfoot. Meat, fresh from the forest, is your sustenance. It’s not delicate, not adorned with herbs and spices like the elves would prepare it, but it keeps you alive, and that’s enough. The idea of eating like the elves—light, airy meals of fruits, nuts, and berries—is foreign to you. It would not fill your stomach; it would not satisfy the hunger that gnaws at you from the inside.

Yet, something in you compels you to bring the fruits of your labor to them, to the elves of Lothlórien, those strange, ethereal beings who live in the glimmering light of their sacred woods. Maybe you hope they’ll appreciate the skill it took to bring down the stag or the wild boar. Maybe you long for some recognition for the life you’ve carved in this untamed wilderness.

You walk for hours, your game draped over your shoulders, the weight a reminder of your efforts. The faint whisper of leaves in the wind is the only sound in the forest now. When you reach the borders of Lothlórien, the sight of the silver trees fills you with a strange sense of awe. You’re so far removed from their world, and yet, you are bringing them something.

Celeborn watches you from a distance as you approach the heart of Lothlórien. His eyes are calm, measuring, assessing. He has seen many things in his long life, but a solitary hunter—drenched in the sweat of his labor, the scent of the wild still clinging to him—is a curiosity. His people are not like you. Their lives are defined by a different kind of grace, one that values balance, subtlety, and harmony with the land. His people forage and cultivate, nurturing the land that they hold dear. The act of hunting for sport or necessity, especially in the raw, primal way you do it, is not something they find familiar or comforting.

As you draw closer, Celeborn steps forward, his presence a quiet command, and yet there is a softness in his gaze. “What brings you here, hunter of the woods?” His voice is calm, soothing, like the rustle of the leaves above. “You carry the spoils of your hunt, I see.” You lower your prize, the weight of the boar now on the ground between you. “I thought you would appreciate these,” you say, a touch of uncertainty in your voice. “A fine boar, taken down with skill.” You step back, letting the smell of the wild waft into the air.

Celeborn observes the carcass silently for a moment. His expression is unreadable, the serene calm of someone who has seen many things in his long life. To him, this offering is strange. His people do not hunt for necessity like you. Their connection to the land is different—a partnership, not a conquest. And yet, he is not one to judge, not without understanding.

“We are not strangers to the hunt,” Celeborn says gently, his eyes meeting yours with a quiet respect. “But in our realm, hunting is a rare occurrence, reserved for times when the balance of the forest is disrupted, or when we gather in celebration. What you bring… it is not without its merit. But our ways, they differ.”

You feel a sense of discomfort stir inside you, an unfamiliar feeling. You had hoped for more of an acknowledgment, a greater appreciation for what you’ve done. You’ve lived for so long in the solitude of your hunt that the notion of how others might view it is almost alien to you. “I understand,” you reply, your voice rough from the journey. “It’s not what you are used to. But it’s the way of the wild, of the forest. The cycle of life. I thought… perhaps, it would help.”

Celeborn’s gaze softens, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. He steps closer, the elegance of his movements matching the grace of the ancient woods around him. “We do not shy away from the realities of life. The forest is not only filled with beauty, but with struggles as well. But we, the Elves of Lothlórien, seek to live in harmony with nature, rather than to take from it in excess.” He pauses, contemplating his words. “The forest, like the heart of a wise ruler, must remain in balance. Your hunt, your offering, is… not without merit. It shows skill, certainly. And it is a part of your world. But here, the balance is what we value above all.”

You are silent for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in. You had always thought of hunting as a simple necessity, but to Celeborn and his people, it seems to be so much more than that. They do not take from nature, they live with it, drawing only what is needed, never more. “I didn’t mean to overstep,” you say after a pause, feeling something like shame wash over you. “I thought you might need it.”

Celeborn regards you with a quiet sympathy, his eyes softening. “You need not apologize, hunter. Your offering, while not aligned with our ways, is a gesture that shows you understand the forest’s gifts. And for that, we are grateful. Perhaps… you would allow me to show you the ways of our people? There is more to living with nature than taking from it. There is peace to be found in understanding its rhythms.”

The weight of your hunt still lingers on your shoulders, but his words stir something in you—a curiosity, a desire to understand what it means to live in harmony with the world rather than simply taking from it. Celeborn’s offer is gentle, not one of judgment, but of invitation. An invitation to learn, to see the forest in a different way.

You nod, slowly, uncertain but willing. “I would like that,” you say. Celeborn gives a small, approving nod. “Then come. There is much to show you.” And as you follow him deeper into the heart of Lothlórien, you feel a strange sense of peace settle within you, as if the forest itself is welcoming you, not as a hunter, but as a part of its cycle.

[expectro-carmim]

The gay uncles:

And the bi dads:

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

[aenslem]

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

[craftygobelin]

[woodlandrealm]

♢⋯ Thranduil in The Hobbit

[fantasyblr]

THE HOBBIT: THE DESOLATION OF SMAUG (2013) dir. Peter Jackson

[dagordagorath]

↳ for my dearest @realmofautumn 🖤

[inthiskingdomwewillendure]

Thranduil & his elk in 4k

[gloomwitchwrites]

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

[welikeimagines-andfandoms]

Characters who would call you a ‘stupid human’ but they’re trying to flirt

[fantasydreamland]

I think I might have a type…

[tlotrgifs]

Lee Pace as Thranduil THE HOBBIT: THE DESOLATION OF SMAUG (2013)

[calirph]

𝐋𝐄𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐔𝐈𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆

the hobbit: desolation of smaug.

[himegureisu]

Time

Summary: Your love language is quality time. However, your husband is the King of Mirkwood.

A/N: I was supposed to write a Mycroft Holmes/Female Reader. However, this idea popped up and went brr in my head and then my fingers. I needed to finish it before it went so here it goes my first for this pairing I hope you enjoy! (And good night for me because it’s 4AM also not proofread)

Pairing: Thranduil x Female Elf Reader

——————————— 🍃 ———————————

“What was it, meleth nín?” Thranduil asked, “I apologize our time is to be cut short again,”

It was the nth time someone interrupted your strolls to whisk him away for a matter of utmost significance and to be honest, you were tired of it.

Trying so desperately to take time between the day to see him. To get a moment of his time.

He was a King.

A title that holds responsibilities he could not neglect. You know that. However, you didn’t expect to be pushed aside.

“It’s nothing,” you fake a smile, “You should go they need you,”

But I need you too.

You didn’t try after that.

Your handmaiden noticed your melancholy days after the incident. It was like he didn’t notice you were gone.

Yes, you did eat together most of the time. However, you didn’t pop by his office during your free time. You didn’t leave snacks anymore for him to munch on when he forgets to eat. You didn’t propose to walk so you could both stretch your legs. You didn’t wait for him to go to bed.

Contrary to your belief, your husband did notice your absence.

His days were often tedious and tiring. Your short visits were always something he looked forward to. The bright spot to his days so when palace staff gossip came through his ears…

“The Queen seems pale. Is she ill?” a soft feminine voice asked in concern,

“Oh, why would she be ill?” a different voice, an ellon this time, “Maybe she’s expecting a child!”

“She could be ill because of the child.” the elleth remarks, as another joins in the conversation,

“The Queen is not expecting I would know.”your handmaiden divulged as much, No, she seems dejected.”

“The King has been busy…”

Her words echoed in his mind because it was true. His thoughts wandered to those moments your times were constantly interrupted and the day you last visited.

Oh.

“Where is the Queen?” he asks your handmaiden, who exited the study, a book on hand for you.

“At the gardens, My Lord,” she simply answered.

“That’s for her?” he gestured to the book, she nods meekly, “I’ll take it to her. Go tend to your other duties,”

Your handmaiden scurries off in fear and intimidation to go prepare your clothes for the evening. On the other hand, your husband quickly makes his way to the gardens where he couldn’t see you.

“By Valar,” he mumbles frustratedly, walking through the foliage, “Where are you?”

Your soft sniffles give you away.

Between two trees, there was a hammock tied on to their sturdy barks. On the hammock, beneath a thick blanket, you hug his pillow as your tears fell down your cheeks.

From outside your cocoon, the grass crackle as slow footsteps approach your hideout.

Your book finally.

“Did you find that book I asked for?”

“I did,”

A different voice answered. One you haven’t heard from in what seemed like days. His voice.

“Meleth nín,” he breathed out, “Please do not hide from me,”

“I’m hardly presentable,” you sniffed, wiping your tears away, as the hammock tilts a bit on one side, “Aren’t you supposed to be in a meeting of sorts?”

“No,” he frowns, sitting on the edge of the fabric, the book left on by his side, “I don’t care if you’re presentable or not. I’m not the kingdom,”

Slowly, you emerge from your shell to be greeted by his silver eyes, dull in color much like your own has been these past couple of weeks.

“Oh, meleth,”

There were dark shadows beneath your eyes. Your cheeks were stained with dry tears and nose flush from mucus buildup. His heart twisted beneath his chest at the sight of you.

What has he done?

“Oh, meleth nín,” he said, taking you in his arms for a warm embrace you missed, “I’m sorry. I am a fool,”

He hated being the cause of your tears.

“You were,” your voice cracked, as you tuck yourself beneath his chin savoring his presence, “I missed you so much,”

“I missed you too,” he kisses your forehead, and pulls you closer, “I’m sorry that I didn’t reach out, didn’t make the time, made you cry, made you feel like this…”

Your tears fall once again down your cheeks to his robes. He noticed. He noticed your absence after all.

“You are my starlight, my reason to go on,” he softly declared, “I promise I’ll try to do better,”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what I needed” you quietly admit, “I thought I’d be bother you already do so much,”

“You are never a bother,” he adamantly says, glancing down to see you also looking at him, “You are always welcome to whisk me away from the duties of court. I’d rather you than them.”

“Their needs are much more important than mine,” you say.

“But your needs are the most important to me,” his words caused your heart to flutter in the most endearing ways. “You are the most important to me. You do not need to vie for my time or attention. You will always have it. Though, I may not notice it at times you should not hesitate to tell me.”

“If so, can we just stay like this?” you breathed out tiredly against his chest, your ear to his heart beating soundly beneath, “I just… need you,”

“We can,” he gently kisses your forehead, as your eyelids droop down, “It would be a pleasure,”

“Thranduil,” you softly whisper, as he places his forgotten pillow beneath your heads, “Gi melin,”

“Gi melin, meleth nín,” his fingers tuck a stray strand of your hair behind your ear as you settled on his chest, “Sleep. I will be here when you wake,”

It wasn’t long until you did.

Your breaths soft and even as Thranduil gently places the book on the ground so neither of you gets stabbed by its’ edges. He pulls you the closest he could, you unconsciously grasp tight.

Just the way you both liked it.

He lays there quietly observing the heavens, where scattered white clouds and birds of the realm adorned the blue skies, wondering how he was so lucky to have fallen for a second time to you.

He didn’t know what time it was and frankly, he didn’t care when his eyes slowly surrendered to the thrall of slumber joining you in blissful rest for the afternoon.

He would do better. He was going to do better. For you.

[woodlandrealm]

⤐ a son is a mirror in which the father sees himself