#thranduil victorious

[dontfearrr]

Best friends father

Heavily based on best friends brother from victorious lmfao. But this is a very funny request that you can find here

(gif not mine:)

Pairing: Thranduil x Elf!reader

Summary: Legolas and Thranduil have no idea of each others roles in your life

Warnings: none

Category: fluff, fluff, and more fluff

Word count: 1.6k

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Twisting branches hovered high above her and all around her, whistles of the wind through the trees lingered through her ears like an eerie song sung just for her. She glanced around the path, knowing he was out there somewhere, he played this game with her all the time. However this time she was determined to win it. She felt chills crawl up her spine and she nocked an arrow in the blink of an eye, turning her body and releasing the arrow further up.

He felt the brush of the arrow graze his arm and he knew she had won. He swung from branch to branch and landed in front of her on his two feet, she watched his hair fall down back into place perfectly and she giggled, crossing her arms. “You know what, I'll give that one to you. I'm impressed.” He swung his bow back over his shoulder.

“Legolas it is quite rude to underestimate a lady” She told the white haired elf who stared down at her in amusement. “Sorry…if i'm not mistaken, i've won every single time, until now. So I think it was fair” Legolas joked back, only poking at you playfully.

She’d known Legolas for a good thousand years by now, they met during a trading with Imladris and since then they were glued together at the hip. Best friends some would say but if you asked her, she'd tell you he's some silly dumb ass who doesn't know how to handle his elven wine. 

“You just insist on making sure i know you're better than me.'' She gave him a playful eyeroll and began their walk back to the main palace, knowing they both have duties to tend to. “I assume once we return you'll be going off with your mystery lover?” Legolas teased, knowing lately she'd been quite infatuated and busied with her new asset. He was glad she had finally found someone in her life, he felt like a proud brother. (the irony im so sorry)

“You'd be correct, elf boy. Hopefully he's feeling extra nice today..” She teased, knowing Legolas hated hearing the descriptive details of their relationship. 

Legolas groaned in agony and shook his head at her suggestive and very unnecessary comment. “I have never met a more interesting creature.” He used his index finger to push at her shoulder jokingly as they approached the main gates. She gave him a playful smile and chuckled to herself as the guards let them into the kingdom.

“Farewell my friend, late nightfall?” Legolas spoke as he began to walk in the opposite direction of her, waiting for her reply before he turned around. 

“Late nightfall it is! Don't miss me too much!” 

She bowed to him dramatically and watched him turn around and walk off, she did the same. Only she waited until he was completely out of her sight before she began walking to the palace, her head facing the ground to hide from onlookers. Not that it necessarily mattered, however she wouldn't appreciate it if someone decided to gossip to the prince of her private whereabouts. She made her way down the main hall to the throne room, the guards allowing her through with the command of the king. 

She saw him perched upon his beautiful throne, his autumn crown complimenting his head and his blinding white hair fell down his shoulders perfectly, not one hair out of place. He was always a sight to see no matter how many times she'd see him. 

He caught her scent long before she even entered the throne room, his head positioned downward at the elf that approached him, her sweet presence instantly making his whole body relax from its usual tense state.

 “It is more than a pleasure to see you here, for I have missed you dearly.” his deep voice boomed throughout the entire room as he stood up and began descending from the stairs to meet her at the bottom.

 “It was like trying to swat a fly from your drink trying to get rid of him” she chuckled and met him halfway, looking up at him while his arms wrapped around her waist tenderly, pulling her flush against his body in a warm embrace. He ran a hand down the back of her head, smoothing down her hair as he placed a kiss on her forehead. “He seems persistent” he said, a bit jealous of her other companion no matter how many times she would reassure him it's not like that, nor will it ever be.

She just gave him a feigned look of annoyance and brought a hand up to place on his cheek, her thumb caressing his cheekbone gently. “My dear Thranduil, soon you will see the silliness of your jealousy.” she teased him, knowing he hated being called out on his feelings. “Do you insist on making me miserable, my lady?” He gave her a heartfelt smile and placed a hand on her back, gesturing for her to go to the private doors, doors which only the king and prince were allowed to use. They were passages that lead to everything, just quicker and more discrete. 

Every day, Thranduil took her to a new place, slowly showing her every beauty Mirkwood had to offer. His love for her grew every day and only made him want to do anything for her, anything he could. Today he was taking her to the Amaranthine Garden, the specific flora only visible to the royals. He was sure you'd love it for it is one of the few ethereal gardens amongst the elves.

Legolas was speaking with a royal guard, telling them about this morning’s duties, sending him off to go inform the rest. Right before he was about to walk back to the main quarters he was stopped by a messenger who handed him an envelope, he looked on the back seeing it was addressed to Thranduil. He cursed these damned messengers for not just giving it directly to his father, that was something he would also discuss with his father when he gave this to him.

He entered the throne room and found it empty..how strange. He never left his throne around these times unless it was severely important. He searched the room a bit and even called out for him but there was silence. That was until he spotted the private corridors left cracked. He could see the light emitting from the small opening of the door and approached it, he opened it fully but saw no one. Yet he got a whiff of a very familiar scent mixed with his fathers. It made him a little uncomfortable, he was determined to get to the bottom of this, something was up. So down the halls he went, peeking inside every single room, basically sniffing his father out like a dog.

She had her hand around his back and her body pressed into his side while he held her close, showing her the garden and telling her all about the unique plants she'd never seen before. There wasn't a second of this moment where she didn't have a smile on her face as her beloved spoke so gently. 

Thranduil bent down at his knees and carefully picked a beautiful bunch of Rhododendrons, pulling a thread from his pocket and tying the flowers at the stem, holding it out for her. She felt like a princess when she was with him, he treated her with the utmost respect. She took the flowers from him and smiled kindly. “Thranduil you never fail to put a smile on my face, you know that?” She set the flowers in her satchel and placed her hands on his chest.

“I live and breathe to please you meleth nin. I thought it was quite obvious.”

She giggled at this and felt his hands sneak to her waist, caressing her like a teenage boy, until his head snapped in the direction of the door that led back inside. 

“What is my sweet?” she looked at him with quite the confused look until she heard a voice all too familiar.

“Well if it isnt y/n and her mystery lover.” Legolas stood before them with his arms crossed as if he just caught a child sneaking into the cookie jar. 

Her head fell to Thranduil's chest in defeat, knowing she'd been caught red handed. Thranduil however was utterly confused, he hadn't put the pieces together just yet. Legolas approached them and she pulled from Thranduil, meeting Legolas in front of them. She sighed and placed a hand on Legolas’ shoulder. “To be completely fair, you see why i didn't tell you” she joked and looked up to Thranduil. 

“Meet the best friend.” she spoke sheepishly with a weak smile and Thranduil just simply sighed in utter annoyance at this childish situation. “So you were able to keep both of our identities secret from each other, and this is how we find out? You never fail to surprise me little one” He placed a hand on her lower back and gave Legolas an unimpressed look. 

“I think you might find yourself with an arrow in your chest while you sleep tonight” Legolas playfully threatened. “That's if you wish to go blind, you'll find me cosying up with your father in a not so friendly manner.” She shot back, earning a chuckle from Thranduil and a gag from Legolas.

 “I curse you woman.” Legolas turned around to leave them. “And I curse you father, you'll be lucky if you don't find poison in your wine tonight” He said before leaving dramatically, leaving her and Thranduil to laugh amongst themselves. 

“I think that went great!” she tried weakly as Thranduil simply shook his head and continued their walk through the garden.

[fel-09]

Sorry for not posting for so long, I had no ideas .

Longing for you drives me crazy

Thranduil x reader

The evening in Mirkwood was quiet, with only the rustle of leaves and the sounds of nocturnal birds breaking the silence. King Thranduil, majestic and inscrutable, stood by the window of his chambers, gazing out at the forest bathed in moonlight. Suddenly, you approached him, wrapping your arms around his torso and pressing your face against his chest.

He tensed for a moment but quickly relaxed, recognizing your touch.

"You’ve decided to steal a moment of my peace?" he said in a low, almost teasing voice, tilting his head to look at you.

"I thought you didn’t mind when it’s me," you replied, lifting your gaze to meet his, your eyes reflecting the soft glow of the candles.

He smirked, a hint of amusement flashing in his eyes. "You’re so confident. But what if one day I become colder than you can endure?"

You smirked in return, brushing your lips lightly against his skin. "You’re cold only to others, Thranduil. With me, you’re different."

He ran his hand along your cheek, his gaze serious but filled with hidden tenderness. "Isn’t that because you always invade my peace, meleth nin?"

"Maybe. But shouldn’t a king share his peace with those who care for him?" you asked with a gentle smile, as if challenging his words.

Thranduil chuckled softly, his voice like the gentle murmur of a stream. "Are you always this bold? Or is it just with me?"

You looked at him from under your lashes. "Only with those who let themselves relax around me."

His lips curved into a faint smile. He leaned down slightly and kissed your forehead, as if sealing your words with an invisible mark.

"You’re too cunning, but don’t forget who is king here," he said softly, adding with a trace of irony, "I suppose I must accept that my crown has become your plaything."

You huffed, but before you could respond, the moment of peace was shattered.

The forest of Mirkwood trembled with the clash of weapons and the cries of battle. Thranduil, surrounded by enemies, moved with the grace of a predator, his blade flashing as it cut through the darkness. Yet even in the heat of combat, he thought of your touch, your voice that pierced through his thoughts like a beam of light.

Every moment away from you was a torment. Every day without your smile felt endless.

His hands were covered in blood up to the elbows, but his consciousness still brought him back to your room where you two were alone.

Every battle his heart begged to come to you with victory, every day he wanted to wake up and smell you,Now he had a new task - to return to you safe and sound as he promised.

When the battle was finally over and the enemy defeated, Thranduil returned to the palace. Weary but resolute, he strode through the corridors, ignoring the servants, until he reached your chambers.

Opening the door, he found you asleep. Moonlight fell on your face, highlighting the serenity he had longed for.

Thranduil quietly removed his armor, his movements almost soundless. Donning a robe, he carefully lay down beside you, allowing himself to relax for the first time in a long while.

His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer. He inhaled your scent, whispering softly, "Every day without you was hard, meleth nin. But now, I’m home."

He buried his nose in your neck, his breath warm, his touch soothing. Here, beside you, he could finally forget everything else.

[mirkwoodshewolf]

I belong with my One; Fili x Dúnedain reader

*Author's note*

So this took me a few days to finally get finalized and write down so I hope @futuristicyouthvoid I hope you enjoy this fic. For this fic I've put that instead of Kili getting shot by the Morgul arrow, reader gets shot saving him and ends up getting sick.

Warnings: reader poisoned, near-death experience, some angst and some fluff.

Taglist:

@plethora-of-things

@waddles03

@psychosupernatural

@jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels

@gay-and-ready-to-cry

@queen-paladin

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So much has happened in such little of time.  First Gandalf offers me a proposition for aiding a company of Dwarves, then we’re being pursued by orcs, then get imprisoned by the Elven king Thranduil.  Now we find ourselves at the mercy of the Men of Laketown.

Thankfully another friend of mine Bard was willing to let us stay the night at his house but of course the Dwarves had to screw it all up by going to the armory to steal the weapons and end up getting caught by the Master of the Lake’s guards.  But by some miracle, we were granted the supplies we needed to get us to Erebor to complete the quest before sunset.  Of course I knew it was because of the Master’s greediness that he agreed to help, he never was a good man.

“You do know we’re one short, where’s Bofur?” Bilbo asked.

“If he’s not here, we leave him behind.” Said Thorin.

“We’ll have to, if we’re to find the door before nightfall. We can’t risk no more delays.” Balin agreed grimly as everyone began piling into the boat.  But as I was just halfway over the plank, I felt a hand stop me.

“Not you.” I turned to see Thorin.

“What?”

“We must travel at speed, you’ll only slow us down.” He told me.

“I’m coming with you all to the Mountain. I promised Gandalf that I would.”

“(Y/n), you have been a big help to me and my kin. The first Ranger to truly stand for our cause. But lately you haven’t been up to par on your health. Stay here and rest, rejoin us when you’re healed.” Just because I’ve been feeling a bit sluggish since the river incident, doesn’t mean I’m helpless.

“Thorin—”

“I will say no more on the matter.” Without another word, Thorin went back onto the boat whilst I had no choice but to sit back down on the docks, feeling a chill suddenly come over me.

“I’ll stay with the lass, my duty lies with the wounded.” Oin said as he voluntarily got off the boat and came up to me.

“Uncle, (Y/n) has done more for this company than any other outsider could’ve done for us. You cannot repay her by leaving her behind.” Fili stepped up for me.

“Fili no.” I told him.

“I will carry her if I must!” Fili argued.

“Fili, one day you will be king and you will understand. I cannot risk the fate of this quest for the sake of a Ranger. Even if she were the only one willing to help us.” As Oin began feeling my forehead for a temperature, I soon watched as Fili stormed off the boat but Thorin stopped him.  “Fili, don’t be a fool. Your place is with the company.”

“My place is with her!” he snapped back at his uncle before taking back his arm and came over to me.

“Why did you do that? I thought you always wanted to see Erebor, you told me so yourself.”

“I’ll have plenty of opportunities to see the kingdom in my lifetime, but your wellbeing is more important to me than all the gold in Erebor.” I felt my cheeks grow warm as I softly thanked him.

“And don’t think it’ll just be Fee that’s gonna help you get back on your feet.” We turned to see Kili had also left the boat.

“Kili, you didn’t have to stay behind too.” Fili said.

“Yeah I could’ve gone but it’s my decision too.” He came up to me and stood on my right side.  “You saved my life back in the Woodland realm, I’ll gladly do everything I can to help you now (Y/n).” I smiled and looked at the brothers.

“You guys truly are the best friends I’ve ever had. Thank you.” They both nodded and as the Laketown band played a victorious fanfare to wish our friends luck, a sudden dizziness overcame me. 

My vision was going in and out of focus and as the crowd cheered as the boat with our friends departed from the docks, I suddenly fell forward, the last thing I heard was Fili’s voice calling my name.

*3rd Person POV*

When (Y/n) had passed out on the dock, Fili cried out (Y/n)’s name as Oin came up and began searching over her body for any trace of an infected wound or trace of blood.  Knowing that she had saved Kili from that arrow back when they were trying to escape the orcs on the river, there must’ve been a wound he might’ve missed before they came across Bard.

“OH, did you miss the boat too?” they soon heard the missing Dwarf, Bofur’s voice say.  But the moment he saw (Y/n) passed out, his concern grew as he asked Kili.  “What happened to her?”

“We don’t know. She just—suddenly passed out.”

“Her fever’s spiking lads. We have to get her help right away!” Oin said.

“Kee, help me out here!” together the brothers lifted her up by her arms while Oin and Bofur got her legs and they walked back towards the Master’s manor to ask for help.  After pushing through the guards, Fili cried out. “Please wait! Please, we need your help. Our friend is sick!”

“Sick? Is it infectious?” the Master exclaimed fearfully as he covered his nose with his handkerchief and fearfully cowered behind Alfrid. “Get back! Alfrid, Alfrid don’t let them come any closer!”

“Please. We need medicine.” Oin pleaded.  Alfrid walked closer as he sneered at them.

“Do I look like an apothecary? Haven’t we given you enough? The Master’s a busy man, he hasn’t got time to worry about sick Rangers! Let alone this one right ‘ere. All she’s ever done for this town is ruin the Master’s good name and turn the people against him.”

“She’s helped these people in their hour of need! Are you willing to let her die because of your own selfish needs?!” Kili demanded.

“None of our concern. She’s not a paying citizen here, therefore she’s not our problem. Now off you pop! Less we use more drastic measures.” With that Alfrid and the Master shut the doors and the guards ordered them away.

After being rejected by the Master, they tried going to other people to see if they could help but all of them were either too scared to go against the Master’s wishes, or didn’t have enough supplies to help aid her as well as their own sick family members.

With no other options left, the Dwarves raced back to Bard’s home.  Knowing of their friendship, they’d hope that at least he could help them.  Bofur knocked on the door frantically and as soon as Bard saw them, he sneered.

“No, I’m done with Dwarves. Go away!” he went to shut the door but Bofur stopped him pleading.

“No, no please! Please! No one will help us. (Y/n) is sick.” Bard opened the door further to see his good friend now sickly pale, strands of her hair stuck to her face from the profuse sweating she was doing, and her breathing was now choked gasps.  “She’s very, very sick.” Even with the grievance he had with the Dwarves for risking the safety of not only his children but the entire town of Dragon fire, he didn’t have the heart to turn his dear friend away.

“Bring her in.” Bard stepped aside and the four dwarves quickly piled in while Bard quickly looked around before shutting the door.  “Put her over there. I’ll see what I have.” Bard went to the back of the house as the Dwarves set her down on the nearby couch.  Fili took her hand between his and squeezed it.

“Hang on (Y/n), we’re all here to help you. Just…..don’t go where I cannot follow.” He whispered to her stroking the back of her hand with his thumb.  Kili watched his older brother and knowing of his feelings towards the Ranger, he couldn’t help but feel guilty knowing that it was because of his carelessness that the woman his brother loved got hurt to save him.

As the night overcame the lake, (Y/n)’s health was gradually becoming worse.  Oin did managed to find a small graze just underneath her elbow.  A graze that came from an orc arrow tipped with poison.  Already the wound (even for as small as it was) had already started to become infected and the poison was spreading fast.

(Y/n) was tossing and turning, panting as her body was glistening with sweat.

“Nothing’s working! Can you not do something!?” demanded Fili who was growing more frantic by the second seeing the woman he came to love be in such agony.

“I need herbs! Something to bring down her fever.” Bard soon came in with some more supplies and began listing them off.

“I have nightshade, feverfew…..”

“No, no there no use to me. Do you have any Kingsfoil?” said Oin but Bard told him.

“No. It’s a weed we feed it to the pigs.”

“Pigs? Weed. Right. Don’t move.” Bofur said before leaving the house.  As Kili was continuing to dab a damp, cool cloth across (Y/n)’s face and neck to ease her of her sweating, a rumble was soon heard coming from the mountain.

“Da?” asked one of Bard’s daughters Sigrid.

“It’s coming from the mountain.” Answered Bard’s son, Bain.  Bard had feared the worst, the dwarves had awoken Smaug the Terrible and soon the prophecy would come to pass, the Lake will shine and burn.

“You should leave us.” Fili said as he walked up to Bard. “Take your children, get out of here.”

“And go where? There’s nowhere to go.” Bard told him in defeat.  Little Tilda stepped in front of her siblings and asked her father fearfully.

“Are we going to die Da?” Bard looked at his youngest child and assured her.

“No darling.”

“The dragon, it’s going to kill us.” Bard then turned towards a beam just above the kitchen and gripped a thin but firm piece of what appeared to be black iron.  He pulled it down from the beam to reveal that it was a Black arrow, the very same black arrow that can only be used to kill the dragon.

“Not if I kill it first.” Bard said determinedly.  He then asked his son to come with him while the girls stayed behind with the Dwarves to help take care of their Aunt.

Time passed and (Y/n)’s fever was getting even worse.  Her breathing was sharp and panicked and she was now starting to writhe in agony.

“Durin’s beard where is Balin with that Kingsfoil!?” Fili demanded.

“I have the right mind to go out and look for him myself!” Kili snapped.

“You can’t leave! With the guards on patrol, they’ll arrest you too and aunt (Y/n) will never get better!” Bain said.  “No one is leaving this house understood!?” hearing the young man take a stand against the Dwarves made them both feel shock and admiration.

“Very well laddie. But I don’t know how long (Y/n) has got left, she’s growing weaker by the second.” Oin said to Bain.

“Tilda, Sigrid, come with me to get more rags and water for aunt Hela.” The siblings soon left while Fili gripped (Y/n)’s hand tighter.

“Fi…….li.” she choked out.

“I’m right beside you (Y/n).” he whispered to her.  Slowly opening her eyes she croaked out.

“Fili…..if anything hap-happens to me—”

“Don’t talk like that (Y/n). We’re going to heal you, Bofur’s probably found the Kingsfoil by now, he’s just probably ducking the guards and taking longer. Please don’t give in now.” He squeezed her hand between his.  “Don’t go where I can’t follow.”

Suddenly a scream was heard and next thing everyone knew orcs began dropping down from the rooftop or coming in through the front door.  The dwarves grabbed whatever they could to fight off the orcs but there were too many of them, and with the tightly constricted area the house provided, there was hardly any fighting room.

Kili got the children to duck under the table and fought off any orc that tried to come close to them, while Oin and Fili worked together to fend off any orc that came near (Y/n).  When they thought they were done for, help came from both Legolas and Tauriel who had been tracking down the orcs since they left Mirkwood.

As Fili managed to block an orc’s attack with a kitchen knife, (Y/n) had managed to crawl out of the couch and use a fire-poker to stab the orc through its spine.  But she soon let out a cry of agony as she collapsed to the ground, the poison fully starting to overcome her.  Eventually, all the orcs were either killed off or had begun to retreat from the house.

“You killed them all.” Bain said as he and his sisters got out from under the table after all went quiet in the house.

“There are others, Tauriel.” Legolas ordered but Tauriel was hesitant.  As Oin came down beside (Y/n) and felt around her neck to feel her pulse was slowing down, Fili and Kili came down beside her as Oin said fearfully.

“We’re losing her!”

“Tauriel.” Legolas said to her.  She turned back to her prince and said.

“The Ranger has done no harm to us, is there nothing we can do to help her?”

“She is beyond help. I’m sorry, there’s nothing that can be done for her.” Footsteps could soon be heard racing up the stairs and as the two elves prepared for another battle with orcs, they stopped to see that it was Bofur carrying some Athelas in his hand.

“Athelas,” Tauriel exhaled as she took it from him and admired it. “Athelas.”

“What are you doing?” Bofur asked nervously.  Tauriel looked into the room before looking back at him and said.

“I’m going to save her.” Legolas’ eyes briefly narrowed.

“Tauriel…..”

“You may go if you wish Legolas, but I cannot leave the she-ranger to perish in such agony. Not whilst she still clings to life and that I now have her only salvation.” The young prince took a deep breath then exhaled.

“What would you have me do?” the two elves raced back inside and Tauriel ordered.

“I need water fast. Get her on a solid, stable surface. Lay her flat on her back.” Every in the room reacted quickly.  Tilda gave Tauriel the bowl of water for her to mix the Athelas together, whilst Legolas and the Dwarves worked together to get (Y/n) on the table.

She was screaming and writhing in pure agony, her mouth starting to grow black with the poison.

“Where is the wound?” Legolas asked.

“Underneath her left elbow.” Oin said.  Legolas took hold of her left wrist and raised her arm above.  But when she tried to struggle, he was forced to also grab her forearm to pin it down and there he saw it.  The black graze and he could see the infection had fully spread and blackened her entire elbow.

“Hold her down.” Tauriel said.  Kili and Bofur held down her right leg while Bard’s children held down her left.  Fili held (Y/n) by the shoulders and Oin helped Tauriel brew the medicine.  Once it was brewed, Tauriel cut through the sleeve of (Y/n)’s shirt to get a better access to the wound.

The female ranger appearing like a rapid animal, screaming, grunting and thrashing about trying to free herself.  Tauriel took some of the Athelas and began rubbing it onto her hands as she chanted.

“Menno o nin na hon i eliad annen annin, hon leitho o ngurth.” She then placed her hands over the ranger’s wound and (Y/n) let out an agonizing scream.  Fili softly shushed her stroking through her hair and whispering in her ear all the while Tauriel kept chanting the spell.

Bit by bit, (Y/n)’s animalistic behavior quietened and then she went still.  Her breathing now soft and not as frantic as it had been.  Fili looked down at her worriedly and Kili asked.

“Will she be alright?”

“Athelas has powerful healing properties. With time and rest, she’ll regain her full strength. A few more minutes and she would’ve been beyond even with the aid of the Athelas.” Responded Tauriel.  The dwarves and Bard’s children breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thank you.” Fili said to Tauriel.  She gave him a soft but tight smile as well as a soft nod.  Then both she and Legolas left to deal with the orcs.

After her healing, Fili wrapped up (Y/n)’s wound with some bandages and kept vigil at her side.  Never before had he felt so scared than he had felt at that moment.  Fearing that the woman he had come to become fond of—nay love throughout this quest, he wouldn’t have known what to do had she been lost to him.

“She’ll be alright Fili. She’s strong, she’ll be back on her feet in no time.” His brother tried to assure him.

“I know. But seeing her go through all that pain, all that suffering, and who knows if she even knew she had been hit.”

“Even if she did, she’s got the stubbornness of a Dwarrowdam. Perfect woman for a guy like you.” Fili turned to his brother.  “You may try to have hide it from the others but you can’t hide anything from me Fee. I’ve seen how you’ve been looking at her since Rivendell. You care for her more than just as a friend.” Fili sighed and looked down to her.

“I don’t even know how it happened. But after all that we’ve been through, seeing her in a—domestic way. The way she was with her younger cousin, the way the sunlight seemed to reflect off her hair, and the way her eyes shone like jewels in the dark. Kee……I feel as if she is my One.”

“And you should follow through that brother.”

“But would it work? A dwarf and a human? It’s never been done before?”

“Is that what’s really troubling you? Or is it that you fear she doesn’t feel the same way?” Fili remained quiet.

“This quest has shown me that life is too fragile. And at any moment, any one of us can be taken away by any means. I want to tell her my true feelings but—not now. Not while our lives are still in danger. Perhaps when we reach the mountain, I’ll work up the courage to tell her but I—”

“I understand brother. The turmoil that must’ve been stirring in your heart seeing her on death’s doorstep, if you had confessed your love for her beforehand and it be too late to save her……I can’t imagine the pain that would’ve been.”

“She’s too precious to me.” Fili said as he stroked her cheek with the back of his finger.  “I feel like if she had died tonight, my heart would’ve died with her. My body may have continued to live on but my heart would never be full again.”

“Take comfort now that she’s alive and that she’s recovering. No more darkened thoughts need cloud your mind anymore.” Kili said as he placed a comforting hand on his brother’s shoulder, gently shaking it.  Fili turned to his little brother and nodded giving him a soft smile.

“Thank you Kili. I know I’m supposed to be the older brother here but, I’m glad that you were here to be the one to ease my mind.”

“I’m always here for you brother, and I always will be. Together forever right?” he extended his other hand out.

“Together forever little brother.” Fili clasped his other hand with Fili’s as they pressed their foreheads together, drawing in each other’s strength.

*My POV*

 All I remembered was darkness, as well as a voice reaching out for me.  Then a bright light and soon silence.  I don’t remember much after that but I do remember hearing Fili’s voice along with Kili’s.

“This quest has shown me that life is too fragile. And at any moment, any one of us can be taken away by any means. I want to tell her my true feelings but—not now. Not while our lives are still in danger. Perhaps when we reach the mountain, I’ll work up the courage to tell her but I—”

“I understand brother. The turmoil that must’ve been stirring in your heart seeing her on death’s doorstep, if you had confessed your love for her beforehand and it be too late to save her……I can’t imagine the pain that would’ve been.”

“She’s too precious to me.” I felt something graze my cheek with the most gentlest touch.  “I feel like if she had died tonight, my heart would’ve died with her. My body may have continued to live on but my heart would never be full again.”

So did Fili actually feel the same as I have come to feel for him? Oh Fili, I-I love you too. And I do hope that one day I can say that aloud, but for now I was just too weak to even open my eyes.  I soon passed out once again but it wasn’t until the sound of giant wings flying towards us had me opening my eyes.

Smaug was coming for us. And he was out for blood.

[chloesolace]

Midnight Rain - Thranduil x Reader

summary: You are an elven ambassador from Rivendell living in Mirkwood. The realm is currently celebrating a victory in battle over the dwarves when Thranduil asks to have a private word with you. The two of you share history, but his scars scared him into letting you go. A decision he clearly regrets after seeing you dance with your fiancé.

pairing: Thranduil x F!reader

word count: 1.3k

warnings: angst

a/n: Another part of my Swift series, where I write multifandom one shots inspired by Taylor's songs <3 the next series after this will be a Florence + The Machine one. Hope you enjoy this story!

Masterlist - Discord Server - Request Info - Taylor Swift Series

My girl was a montage A slow motion, love potion Jumping off things in the ocean I broke her heart 'cause she was nice

In the dim light of sundown, he watched the woman dance. Her hair cascaded loosely around her shoulders, and her red lips curved into a bright smile revealing her teeth. Giggles escaped her, the skirts of her dress in her fists so she would not stumble and fall over them as she hopped around in circles. She twirled around her dance partner, one her hand held tightly in his as she looked between him and her footing. Her bare feet moved confidently over the forest floor, soles stained with moss and earth from earlier rain.

He was sitting in his chair, a crown of leaves and twigs sprouting from his head. He could feel the weight of it pressing down even more than it usually did, although he was sure this was merely his imagination. His gaze hardened as he observed the man dancing with the woman, their arms entwined. No one besides him noticed but each time they drew close, the man whispered in her ear, eliciting blushes and giggles.

The glass in his hand shattered. 

“Oh, Your Majesty!” Exclaimed a servant girl next to him, immediately taking the glass out of his hand and cleaning his palm of shards and blood. The cloth she used soaked up the red liquid as the girl placed the shards into a basket nearby. 

Barely glancing at his opened palm, he held it away from his body, allowing her to continue cleaning up the mess he made. Hissing, he pulled it away once she informed him he was clean again. There was still a stain on his palm, but the cuts did not appear deep. He would seek out the palace healer after the festivities ended.

The music stopped when he raised his other hand, all eyes falling onto him when he stood from his seat. His blue eyes were resting on the elven girl he had watched earlier, the air thick with anticipation from his people. 

“Do not let the festivities stop. I shall have a private word with the Rivendell ambassador inside. Please, continue,” he said, his deep voice loud and collected. It radiated authority and control, all while he never took his gaze off of you.

You gave your fiancé a short nod and left him alone on the clearing that had turned into a dance floor, just as the musicians to your right resumed playing their instruments. Some of the spectators around watched you as you approached the Elven King, others joined your fiancé in dancing, and the air was once again filled with laughter. 

Thranduil extended an arm for you to take, and you reluctantly wrapped your hand around his biceps, feeling the expensive fabric of his garment on your skin. His scent was clear and familiar; a mixture of musk and wood. 

Neither of you said a word until you found themselves on a terrace, far away from the festivities and the music, which could only be heard if one concentrated very hard. You placed your hands on the railing, your eyes drifting off to the forest in front of you. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Thranduil looking at you, his gaze making you feel naked, seen, though never uncomfortably exposed.

“Why did you want to speak with me?” You asked him, knuckles white from your tight grip around the railing. You hoped he didn’t notice your nervousness. He hesitated as if he wasn’t quite sure himself. 

“You have proven to be a valuable asset in keeping an alliance between Rivendell and the Woodland Realm,” he began, his voice lacking emotion, his words sounding practiced and memorized. “I suspect now that you have found a suitable match, you plan to stay?” The words only reluctantly left his lips, and you could feel him tense further.

You clenched your teeth as you stared out into the forest, the sky darkening as dusk slowly began to blend into nightfall. There was a thickness in the air, indicating the imminent arrival of rain.

“Sharion and I have not decided yet,” you said hesitantly, the name of your fiancé now feeling strange on your tongue. You cursed yourself for the momentary feeling of shame that spread through your chest. Yet you had nothing to be ashamed of; Thranduil had turned you down. 

“I see,” replied the Elven King, and you saw him follow your gaze out of the corner of his eyes. He stood straight and tall next to you, silence resting between you. It was almost suffocating until you heard the roar of thunder above you.

You opened your mouth to say something just as he did the same, and it was the first time that evening your eyes met. You stopped yourself from speaking, gesturing for him to proceed instead. With flushed cheeks, you listened and averted your eyes again.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he said softly, the pain in his voice barely audible. Your grip around the railing tightened just as the first raindrop fell onto it. “Please, look at me.”

There was something else in his voice now; he was pleading. When you turned to him you saw the glassiness of his blue eyes, the way his thick brows furrowed and his arched lips pursed as if in agony. 

“I do not know what you want from me, Thranduil,” you whispered, his name on your lips a familiar feeling. You were one of the few who knew about his name, let alone addressed him with it so openly. “I gave you my heart. I wanted to become your wife.” Your eyes momentarily dropped to his lips before locking with his again, your hand gently rising to touch his cheek where you knew he had glamored it. “No matter the scars you bear.”

Thranduil closed his eyes, leaning gently into your touch. You saw his own hand rising, only to fall again as if he was scared to touch you. As if he feared that if he did, you would pull away. 

When he opened his eyes, he inhaled deeply with the greed of someone who had stayed underwater for too long. Underneath your touch, his skin began to fade, replaced by the deep scars you had often seen him stare at in the mirror with disdain in his eyes. 

“I need you,” he whispered, but you only dropped your hand and he let the scars disappear behind his glamor again, eyes marked by rejection. 

“I cannot be with someone who hides himself behind thick curtains of shame, Thranduil.” Next to you, you heard the falling rain quicken in unison with your heartbeat. “Are you ready to draw the curtains back?”

He hesitated and looked away. Now it was you searching his gaze, but stubborn as he was he would not meet it. The silence that followed was answer enough, only disrupted when the heavy rain swallowed it and thunder roared again. You felt as if nature itself was urging him to open himself fully to you, though he ignored its pleas.

“I do not want to fight for a heart that would stay inside its cage when it could be free,” you continued, the words heavy. “A home should not be a battlefield.”

You saw him tense before you turned your back on him, leaving him standing with only the terrace’s roof to shield him from the rain. You began shivering, the feeling of your engagement ring cold against your finger while tears streamed down your cheeks. It was painful breaking one’s own heart, but sometimes it was a necessary pain to bear. 

With a heavy heart, you entered the palace again while the rain swallowed him calling out your name. 

'Cause she was sunshine I was midnight rain She wanted it comfortableI wanted that pain

[earthlybeam]

🎄🎁Merry Christmas everyone🎉✨

✨🦌🍷 𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵 🍷🦌✨

how would the elves react to this?

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Thranduil Version below. (reader/you are his lover). Featuring what I wrote below is: Building a Snowman (With a Twist), Snowball Fight, Sledging Adventure, Snow Angel.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

Building a Snowman(With a Twist):

𐂂 The frosty air nips at your skin as you stand in the center of the snow-covered clearing, the white world around you blanketed in a serene, almost magical stillness. The cold has wrapped itself around your limbs, but there’s a warmth between you and Thranduil, King of Mirkwood, that makes the chill seem distant. His regal presence, typically so composed and distant, has taken on an amusing edge today. The fact that he’s agreed to help you build a snowman—something so frivolous, so beneath him—was a minor miracle in itself, and you can’t help but feel a sense of victory. But even more than that, you feel a flicker of excitement at what’s to come. After all, you’ve never been one to shy away from pushing boundaries. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, watching as he meticulously shapes the snowman’s face, his slender fingers delicate despite the absurdity of the task. The precision with which he works is stunning; it’s as if every movement, every little indentation in the snow, is the result of years of skill and artistry, rather than the simple task of constructing a snow figure. There’s something so undeniably charming about the sight of Thranduil, the immortal Elven king, stooping down to carefully place each detail, his brow furrowed in concentration. And yet, there’s an unmistakable sense of discomfort in the air as well—a kind of forced patience that tells you, despite his grace, he’s not exactly thrilled by this whole “snowman” business. He’s humorlessly indulging you, yet a small spark of amusement lingers behind his icy blue eyes, betraying the fact that he’s not entirely unaffected by the absurdity of it all. His movements are careful and deliberate, his back straight and regal even as he bends to shape the face of the snowman. As he smooths the snow over its eyes, you can’t help but smile to yourself. You’ve already stacked the snowballs, the base and torso towering tall. Now, it’s up to him to add the final touches.

𐂂 And then it hits you. You can’t help but smirk, an idea forming in your mind—a little bit of mischief that will surely break the stoic mask he wears. While he’s focused on his snowman, you quietly reach into your pocket, pulling out a lone carrot. With playful precision, you move it from the typical position to a far more daring one—right at the snowman’s crotch. As you step back, a quiet chuckle bubbles up in your chest. You wait, watching as Thranduil takes a moment to step back and survey his creation. His posture remains straight, his expression still composed, but something shifts in the air. His eyes flick to the snowman, and the briefest flicker of disbelief flashes across his face. For a long moment, there’s only silence. The world seems to hold its breath as he stands frozen, his eyes scanning between the snowman and you, the carrot’s placement the only thing on his mind. And then, slowly, with the precision and grace of an Elven king, he crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his head slightly, his lips quirking at the corners.

𐂂 “Well, well,” he drawls, his voice rich and smooth, like velvet, but with an unmistakable hint of amusement laced within. “I didn’t expect such… creativity from you.” He steps forward, his long, graceful strides taking him closer to the snowman, his gaze still locked on you. His movements are deliberate, measured, as if inspecting something of great importance, though the teasing light in his eyes makes it clear he’s well aware of the playful mischief you’ve injected into the moment. “A lowly snowman has become an object of much greater significance, I see.” Thranduil’s words are cutting, dry, and yet there’s an unmistakable glint of mischief in his eyes, something playful hiding just behind his regal composure. He glances from the snowman to you, and then raises a single eyebrow. “Do I dare ask why you placed that there, my love?” His tone is laced with dry wit, but there’s a subtle warmth, a hint of something more intimate, in the way he addresses you. The usual icy distance of the Elven king is slipping, replaced by something more… personal. He steps closer, his presence now overwhelming, and you can feel your heartbeat quicken. His gaze is intense as he looks down at you, his eyes holding yours with a mix of challenge and amusement. You try to keep your composure, but the playful glint in his eye is impossible to ignore. You hold his gaze, trying to suppress the mischievous laughter that threatens to bubble up. “I thought it would add a bit of fun to the creation,” you say innocently, your voice light but laced with teasing.

𐂂 Thranduil steps closer still, the space between you two narrowing with each deliberate movement. His posture remains tall, commanding, but there’s a slight softness in his eyes now, a flicker of something far more playful than you’re accustomed to seeing from him. “Is that so?” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, almost conspiratorial tone. There’s a deliciously teasing edge to his words, his voice like honey in your ear. “Perhaps next time, you’ll have me build a more… ‘appropriate’ snowman. Though…” He pauses, a mischievous glint flickering in his eyes as he leans in just enough for his breath to warm your skin. “This one does have… character.” You inhale sharply, feeling a flutter of excitement rush through you. The closeness of his body, the heat of his breath against your ear, sends a shiver down your spine. The playful tension between you both has become almost palpable, the cold of the snow forgotten in the wake of his intensity. Thranduil pulls back just slightly, his gaze now fully locked onto yours. His eyes are smoldering with a depth of emotion you recognize all too well—intensity, desire, and an undeniable playfulness that promises more mischief. “Though I suspect,” he continues, his voice dropping even lower, his words now a soft murmur that sends a wave of warmth through your body, “you had more in mind than a simple snowman.” A rush of heat floods through you, contrasting sharply with the cold of the world around you. Thranduil’s presence is overwhelming, his teasing words laced with something far more enticing than the playful banter of a moment ago. “We could have stayed in the palace, you know,” he adds with a devilish grin, the suggestion in his words clear and unmistakable. “There are far more enjoyable activities we could be indulging in than building snowmen in the cold.”

𐂂 His breath is warm against your neck now, and you feel the heat of his closeness more than ever. The playful challenge in his eyes flickers with something deeper, something that makes your pulse quicken, as the snowflakes drift down around you like a soft blanket, the world feeling suddenly smaller, more intimate. Thranduil steps even closer now, the space between you two nearly nonexistent. His lips brush yours in a light, teasing kiss that makes your heart race. “But…” he murmurs against your lips, his voice still thick with teasing warmth, “I suppose a little snowman… has its charms too.”For a moment, the world around you two seems to fade. The snowman, the cold, and the laughter all seem distant in the wake of the heat rising between you. Thranduil’s hands settle lightly on your waist, pulling you closer, the intensity of the moment surging in waves. You’re both caught in the shared teasing, but it’s clear to you now that the game has shifted. Thranduil is never one to let something go lightly, and you wonder just how long he’ll keep up the playful teasing before sweeping you away to somewhere far more private, where the snowman and the cold are forgotten entirely.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Snowball Fight:

𐂂 The snow falls gently around you, a quiet blanket over the world, muffling the sounds of the forest. The trees loom tall and still, their branches heavy with the weight of winter’s chill. It’s a perfect winter day—cold enough to feel alive, yet not so biting that it’s uncomfortable. The world feels like it’s paused, holding its breath, and in this frozen moment, you and Thranduil are engaged in a battle of a different kind. A snowball fight. You glance across the distance, eyes narrowing slightly at the sight of Thranduil—so tall, so composed, his golden hair a stark contrast to the crisp white of the snow around him. He stands with a regal sort of stillness, the very picture of elegance even in the midst of what should be a playful, chaotic activity. His sharp blue eyes are fixed on you, his lips curling into a knowing smile, as if he already knows he has the upper hand. But there’s a challenge in his gaze—one that dares you to try your best. Thranduil may be a king, a warrior, and a master of countless skills, but you know there’s one thing he hasn’t mastered: losing.

𐂂 You waste no time, gathering a handful of snow and forming it into a snowball with the swiftness of a practiced hand. You throw it with everything you’ve got, the snowball hurtling through the air toward him with surprising speed. But Thranduil doesn’t even flinch. With the grace of an elf, he steps aside as if he’s seen it coming from the moment you started to form it. His movements are fluid, effortless. He’s quick, too quick for you to catch, and before you can even react, he retaliates with a snowball of his own. The shot is so precise, so perfectly aimed, that it hits you square in the chest, sending a jolt of cold straight through your coat. You gasp, a laugh escaping you even as you stagger back, trying to regain your balance. “Oh, you’re going to regret that,” you mutter under your breath, eyes narrowing as you quickly scramble to gather more snow. But Thranduil is already on the move, his eyes locked onto you, calculating your next move. You throw another snowball, but it’s almost as if he can see it coming from a mile away. With a quick sidestep and a graceful sweep of his arm, he dodges it effortlessly. You’re starting to realize that no matter how fast or how accurately you throw, it’s like playing a game of cat and mouse.

𐂂 He ducks and weaves, his movements fluid and easy, as if the world around him has slowed down just for him. His tall form moves with a predator’s precision, each step deliberate, each action purposeful. His elven grace shines through even in something as simple as this, making you feel like an amateur at best. You scramble again, trying to retreat behind a snowbank to gather more ammo. Your heart races, not from exertion, but from the sheer fun of the challenge. And then, just when you think you’ve found some semblance of safety, you hear the unmistakable whistle of air, the unmistakable sound of Thranduil’s snowball soaring through the air. Before you can even brace yourself, the snowball hits you square on the chest again, harder this time. You gasp, half-laughing, half-frustrated at how effortlessly he’s managing to outmaneuver you at every turn. The cold wetness of the snow sinks into your coat, and you give a dramatic groan, already plotting your next move. You’re not giving up yet. But then, in your haste, you misstep. Your foot sinks into a pile of snow, and for a split second, you lose your balance. You barely have time to react before your feet slip out from under you entirely, and with a gasp of surprise, you fall backward, your arms flailing in the air for any semblance of balance. But there’s nothing—just a sharp intake of breath as you tumble into someone’s arms.

𐂂 Thranduil’s arms, to be exact. His grip on you is firm and steady, and as you find yourself tangled in his embrace, you’re struck by how effortlessly he’s caught you. The way he holds you isn’t just out of necessity, though—it’s almost as if he’s waiting for you to fall. His body is warm against you, the cold air momentarily forgotten in the comfort of his hold. You can hear the faintest sound of his breath, steady and calm, even as you struggle to right yourself. “Seems you’re not as skilled at this as I thought,” Thranduil teases, his voice rich with amusement, a sly smile pulling at the corners of his lips. His sharp gaze, usually so calculated, softens in this moment—something playful, almost fond, flickering in his eyes. You glare at him playfully, trying to push yourself free, but his arms are unyielding, holding you close in the snow. The intensity of his eyes makes your heart flutter in a way that feels all too intimate, too real for something as lighthearted as a snowball fight. His face, usually so poised and composed, is now slightly disheveled from the fun. His golden hair is wild from the cold wind, strands falling loose around his face. For once, he looks… like just a man, not a king. And you catch that flicker of warmth in his gaze—the part of him that is soft, playful, that enjoys these moments with you, even if he doesn’t always show it.

𐂂 Before you can get too comfortable, another snowball sails through the air, striking you square in the hood of your coat. You squeal, caught off guard, and before you can retaliate, Thranduil’s laughter rings out—rich and deep, his usual kingly composure replaced with something lighter, more carefree. “Oh, now that was a hit!” he teases, his eyes dancing with delight as he watches your reaction. His laughter is infectious, and you can’t help but smile despite yourself, your cheeks burning with a mixture of cold and embarrassment. But Thranduil’s teasing doesn’t stop there. In one swift move, he reaches behind you, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he gathers a handful of snow. You gasp, surprised at the sudden chill as he shoves the snow down the back of your cloak, the cold seeping through the layers of your clothing. It’s a moment of playful mischief, one that sends a shiver down your spine, not from the cold, but from the way his touch lingers just a moment longer than necessary.

𐂂 His laughter echoes in the air, and you squirm in his grasp, trying to break free. “Oh, you think you can get away with that?” you challenge, your voice teasing, but there’s an underlying warmth there too—an intimacy that only he could bring out in you, even in the midst of such playful chaos. Thranduil leans in, his breath warm against your ear as he whispers, “Oh, I think I’ve gained the upper hand now, my love.” You can feel the tension shift in the air as he brushes a few stray snowflakes from your cloak, his touch gentle and careful despite the playful moment. And then, before you can respond, his lips are on yours—soft, warm, and tender, a slow kiss that pulls you into the moment, that makes the cold winter air feel like nothing at all. The snow continues to fall around you, but in that instant, it’s only the two of you—locked in a kiss, in laughter, in warmth.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Sledging Adventure:

𐂂 The day is a rare one in Mirkwood, where the crisp winter air carries a bite, yet there’s a lightness to it, a playful quality that seems to infuse everything around you. The snow, pristine and untouched, stretches out before you like an open invitation to adventure. The trees, tall and ancient, are dusted with a fine layer of snow that sparkles in the pale sunlight, casting long, soft shadows across the forest floor. It’s the kind of day where laughter feels almost natural, a welcome break from the solemn weight of your everyday lives. But then there’s Thranduil. The regal king of Mirkwood stands beside you, tall and composed as ever, his cloak of deep greens and silvers cascading elegantly behind him. His features are sharp, his icy blue eyes scanning the landscape with a level of control that seems to extend beyond even his surroundings. His usual poise, that calm, sovereign bearing that commands respect, is present, as always. But today, it feels out of place. For all his elegance, the rigid posture and impeccable grooming don’t quite match the light-hearted potential of the moment. He’s too dignified for the antics that you have in mind.

𐂂 You glance up at him, a playful gleam in your eyes. The idea that’s been swirling in your mind takes shape, and you can’t help the teasing smile that tugs at your lips. “Thranduil,” you say, your voice light and full of mischief, “surely, you’re not too regal to try something as simple as sledging, are you?” His eyes flicker toward you, the icy blue depths narrowing slightly, calculating the challenge in your words. You can see the subtle play of amusement behind his composed expression. But for a moment, he doesn’t answer. Instead, he arches one eyebrow, his lips curling into the faintest of smiles, a look that’s part amusement and part skepticism. You can practically see the wheels turning in his mind, trying to reconcile the thought of a king, a master strategist, sliding down a hill on a humble wooden sled. “You would have me partake in such a… lowly activity?” he finally asks, his voice smooth as ever, yet there’s a teasing edge to it now. The glimmer of challenge in his eyes tells you that he’s not entirely opposed to the idea, but he’s certainly not about to let it be easy. You give him a mischievous grin, stepping closer, knowing that your words have struck a nerve. “I suppose if the King of Mirkwood can’t manage something as simple as this, then perhaps he’s not quite as agile as he’d like everyone to believe.”

𐂂 Thranduil’s gaze sharpens, the challenge in your words sparking something within him. His posture doesn’t falter—of course not—but you can see the shift in his demeanor, the subtle rise in the tension of his shoulders, the flicker of interest in his eyes. “Very well,” he says, the words clipped, his tone still regal but with the faintest hint of playful defiance. “If you believe I cannot master this, I shall show you otherwise.” The challenge has been issued. You can’t help but grin widely as you lead him toward the sled, the small wooden contraption barely visible beneath the thick layer of snow. You hand him the sled, a small, playful chuckle escaping your lips. He takes it with a level of care that would be more appropriate for a rare artifact, looking it over like it might suddenly bite him. His posture is as straight as ever as he prepares to sit, which only makes you laugh harder. “You might want to try relaxing a little,” you tease, stepping back and glancing at him with a raised eyebrow. “You know, just… let go of all that kingly dignity. It’s only a sled.” His lips twitch again, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. But he sits with a stiff elegance, as though he’s about to attend a royal court, not embark on an adventure down a snow-covered hill. For a moment, he looks utterly out of place—his regal robes and pristine appearance at odds with the simple joy of the activity.

𐂂 But before he can fully settle, you push off with a sudden burst of energy, the sled gaining speed as it careens down the hill. Thranduil’s expression shifts from cool indifference to something a little more… strained. You catch the glimmer of surprise in his eyes as the wind whips past, the cold biting at your face, and the excitement of the ride overtakes you both. You glance over at him, and for a brief moment, the proud king’s usual composure falters. His hair flies out behind him in a stream of gold, his normally perfect posture now entirely abandoned as he tries to hold onto the sled, his hands gripping it tightly. The contrast is striking—the powerful, regal king fighting to maintain control as the sled bucks beneath him, the laughter and adrenaline starting to chip away at his ice-cold demeanor. And then, just as you near the bottom of the hill, the sled lurches forward, careening over a hidden bump in the snow. Thranduil lets out a strangled sound—a mix between shock and disbelief—and before you can brace yourself, the sled tips, sending both of you flying into the snow in a tangle of limbs and laughter.

𐂂 For a brief, chaotic moment, everything is white—the snow, the air, the rush of movement—and then it all comes to a halt. Thranduil lies on his back, his cloak askew, his golden hair spilling around him like a halo of sunlight. His usually impeccable appearance is now disheveled, the formality of his usual demeanor lost in the wildness of the ride. For a second, there’s nothing but a stunned silence as he lies in the snow, his chest rising and falling with the sudden rush of breath. Then, as if on cue, Thranduil slowly pushes himself up, brushing snow off his royal cloak with an air of cool disinterest. He looks at you, his eyes narrowing just slightly, though there’s something else there—a warmth, an amusement that wasn’t there before. “I have to admit,” he says, his voice a smooth baritone, the usual frost replaced with something lighter, “I did not expect such an… exhilarating experience.”

𐂂 The words have barely left his lips when you, unable to contain the mischievous spark that lights up inside you, slide toward him, your feet shifting quickly beneath you as you dart forward. Before he can even react, you knock into him, sending him right back into the snow. The motion is swift and playful, and before Thranduil can regain his balance, he’s once again lying in the snow, his eyes wide with mock disbelief as he looks up at you. You grin down at him, your heart racing, feeling the cold snow beneath you but not caring at all. “Oh, I think I’ve defeated you quite easily,” you tease, your voice low with playful challenge. For a moment, Thranduil’s eyes darken, but it’s not anger. No, there’s something else in his gaze now—a glimmer of amusement, of something more. He’s not done. With a fluid motion, his arms reach for you, pulling you toward him in a swift, powerful movement, and suddenly, you’re both tangled in the snow again. His hands find your waist, his fingers brushing against your skin even through the layers of clothing. You both laugh, the cold air mixing with the warmth of your proximity.

𐂂 “Do you think you can defeat me so easily?” he teases, his voice rich with amusement, but there’s a deeper, more intimate edge to it now, his breath warm against your ear as he nuzzles you in the snow. You feel the heat rise in your chest as you both share a breathless laugh, the playful tension between you shifting. Thranduil leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, slow kiss that feels like the perfect blend of winter’s chill and the warmth of your shared moment. The snow around you no longer matters; the cold is forgotten as you melt into him, his hands gently cradling your face, his kiss deepening with a quiet intensity. In the quiet aftermath, as the snow continues to fall around you, it’s as if the world has faded away—leaving just the two of you, wrapped in the moment, the winter air filling your lungs, and the warmth between you growing with every heartbeat.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ꕤ ၄၃ ꕤ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Snow Angel:

𐂂 The crisp winter air bites at your skin, yet there’s a strange warmth in the silence that surrounds the Mirkwood forest. The trees stand tall and majestic, their branches dusted with a thin layer of snow, their dark trunks rising like guardians against the pale sky. The world feels as though it’s been frozen in time, the forest holding its breath in reverence to the rare quiet. Snow stretches out before you like an untouched canvas, glistening under the pale winter sunlight that cuts through the trees in soft beams. Amidst all this, Thranduil stands beside you—regal, composed, as always. The Elven king, clad in his intricately embroidered cloak of deep greens and silvers, the faintest shimmer of frost caught on his silken garb, seems almost part of the winter landscape itself. His sharp, yet beautiful features catch the light, as do the icy blue depths of his eyes, which scan the surroundings with the same keen awareness that has made him a master of Mirkwood. Yet today, there is something different in his gaze, something softer, something that lingers on you. He’s here, beside you, in this moment, free from the weight of his crown, his throne, his duties. The air hums with a quiet magic, one that whispers of simpler joys. And you, in this peaceful moment, feel the pull to something even lighter, even more carefree. The world seems to have slowed down, just for you two.

𐂂 You watch Thranduil for a moment, the subtle grace in his every movement, the way he holds himself with effortless nobility. There’s no escaping the fact that he’s a king, not just in title but in essence, his every gesture exuding command and poise. And yet, there’s an intimacy in the air now, one that makes your heart race with anticipation. It’s the kind of moment that feels intimate, delicate—a quiet intimacy that only the two of you share. A playful idea stirs in your mind, one that stands in stark contrast to everything Thranduil represents. You smile to yourself, the glint of mischief twinkling in your eyes. Without a second thought, you turn to him, your words light and teasing, the excitement bubbling in your chest. “How about we make snow angels?” The suggestion floats between you, and for a moment, Thranduil doesn’t respond. His icy gaze flicks toward you, narrowing ever so slightly as he processes your words. His brow furrows in the briefest flash of confusion, as if trying to decipher the absurdity of the suggestion. Then, his lips twitch, a barely-there smile teasing at the corners of his mouth. But the amusement doesn’t quite reach his eyes—not yet. He’s still trying to understand why anyone—least of all someone as regal as he—would engage in something so simple. “Snow angels?” Thranduil repeats, his voice smooth and rich, dripping with disbelief. The way he says it makes it sound as though the very idea is foreign to him, as though it belongs to a far less serious world. His gaze flickers to the snow, then back to you, and you catch the faintest edge of disbelief, mixed with genuine curiosity. “Surely you jest. You must be joking,” he adds, his tone mocking but with a hint of intrigue beneath it.

𐂂 You can’t help but laugh at the incredulity in his voice. It’s so perfectly Thranduil—stoic, composed, caught off guard by something as innocent as making snow angels. The image of the King of Mirkwood laying in the snow, creating an angel in the most carefree of ways, is almost too much to fathom. And yet, there’s a part of you that’s determined to see it through. “It’s a simple winter tradition,” you explain, your voice light and coaxing, as you step a little closer to him. “You lie down in the snow, move your arms and legs, and make a shape—an angel.” You smile, your eyes meeting his with a gleam of playful challenge. “It’s relaxing and joyful, Thranduil. It’s one of my favorite things about winter.” His gaze softens for just a fraction of a second—there it is, that crack in his cool demeanor—but it quickly returns to its typical calculated calm. The corner of his mouth twitches into a sly smile, and there’s something in his eyes now, an unreadable gleam of both teasing amusement and curiosity. “You think,” he says, his voice smooth as ever, “that I, King of Mirkwood, should indulge in such… childlike behavior?” His voice drops, tinged with playful challenge, his lips curling into a mischievous smirk. The regal authority still lingers in his words, but beneath it, there’s an undeniable spark of interest. His eyes search yours, sharp and calculating, but with something warmer beneath, a glimmer of curiosity. He’s testing you, gauging your resolve, and yet you see something deeper—a quiet amusement, a willingness to humor you, just a little.

𐂂 You step closer, the space between you shrinking, your heart quickening with the proximity. You lock eyes, and without thinking, you reach up, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. It’s brief, just a gentle touch of your lips to his cool skin, but it sends a rush of warmth through you. The moment your lips meet his skin, you feel him freeze for an instant—his breath catching, his sharp inhale betraying a sudden shift in his demeanor. His posture stiffens for the briefest of moments before he slowly exhales, a faint blush tinging his features. Pulling back just slightly, you catch his gaze again. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything—just watches you, his icy blue eyes unreadable, yet there’s something softer in them now, something warmer. The king has been momentarily disarmed, and you can see that he’s… considering it. You can feel the tension of the moment, and the air between you two feels charged with something unspoken. Finally, he smirks—just a little, enough for you to catch the amusement dancing at the corners of his lips. “Very well,” he murmurs, voice low and tinged with a teasing warmth. “I shall indulge your… ‘winter tradition,’’ he adds, the words wrapped in a teasing, half-mocking tone, but the glint in his eyes tells you everything you need to know. He’s not opposed to the idea. In fact, he’s intrigued. You can hardly contain your excitement. You smile widely, practically bouncing with joy as you take a small step back, giving him space. Thranduil sighs dramatically, his chest rising and falling with the motion, but the glimmer of amusement still lingers in his eyes. Then, with the same fluid grace he uses to navigate any royal affair, he lowers himself to the snow, his body moving with an almost otherworldly elegance.

𐂂 Even in something so simple, he moves like an artist, as though every motion is meticulously planned. His body glides into place in the snow with such precision it seems almost choreographed. He lies down with minimal sound, his back a picture of control and grace, his arms sweeping outward with deliberate care, his legs following in slow, measured arcs. His every movement speaks of a man who lives by the rhythm of his own perfection. You watch in silence, a smile tugging at your lips as you realize that his snow angel is not like yours. Yours is carefree, a chaotic tangle of limbs. But his is… almost too perfect. The arms are spread out with an artist’s precision, the legs following in symmetrical arcs. The final result is a work of art—sleek, symmetrical, and too refined to be anything but royal. It’s more of an insignia than an angel—a mark of his regal nature, even in something as simple as the snow. Thranduil rises with the same fluid grace, brushing the snow from his cloak, inspecting his work with an expression of self-satisfaction. He looks at the pristine, perfect angel and then back at you, a smug smile playing at the corners of his lips. “I believe this is the most refined snow angel ever made,” he says, his voice dripping with pride, his gaze never leaving his work. There’s a sense of accomplishment in his voice that matches the satisfaction of completing a masterpiece. You bite your lip, trying to hold back your laughter, but the sheer perfection of his creation makes it impossible. His angel is too controlled, too perfect—there’s something almost comical about it. You can’t help it. You step closer with a sly smile, your eyes glinting with mischief. Thranduil’s back is turned, his focus still on his pristine angel. That’s your opening. Without a second thought, you leap forward, diving straight into the center of his carefully crafted angel. You kick up the snow, completely ruining the symmetry, collapsing it into a messy, lopsided pile.

𐂂 Thranduil spins around, his eyes wide with disbelief, and for a moment, there’s a stunned silence. “What in the name of the Valar—” he begins, but before he can finish, you’re already laughing, scooping up a handful of fresh snow and shoving it into his face. The cold hits him, and he freezes—his regal features caught in shock as the snow drips down his face. Then, the world shifts. His eyes narrow, his lips curling into a slow smile as a dangerous glint enters his gaze. “You dare?” he asks, his voice low, rich with teasing challenge. Before you can even react, he’s on you, his movements swift and sure. His arms circle around you, pulling you into a playful but firm grapple, and in mere moments, you’re pinned beneath him in the snow. The cold bites at your skin, but Thranduil’s warmth is right there, his breath warm against your face as he hovers above you. His eyes gleam with mischief, but there’s a depth to them now, something playful and intimate. “I believe,” he murmurs, his lips curling into a smirk, “this was your plan all along, wasn’t it?” His voice drops, and the teasing warmth is palpable. “You thought you could ruin my perfect angel and get away with it?” You laugh, your heart racing with the thrill of it all, but before you can say anything, he leans down, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that is both gentle and commanding. The world around you fades into nothingness as the kiss deepens, and in that moment, you know that while his snow angel may have been perfect, nothing could ever compare to the warmth of this—this moment, this kiss, this beautiful chaos.

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[silvantransthranduiltrash]

So you know how Mirkwood teamed up Lothlorien during lotr? Imagine after that battle's over one of the mirkwood elves is just like "man, I'm fucking STARVING after all that" then just sits down and cuts a piece from an orc's arm before popping it in their mouth. To the horror and concern of the Lothlorien elves, the elf actually swallows it like it's nothing. Then the rest of the mirkwood army proceeds to follow their lead and do the same thing.

Celeborn looks over at Thranduil like "you seeing this?"

But Thranduil just says with a slightly disappointed tone, "they couldn't even wait to season it. Or at least roast it, like damn- at least set up a fire!"

Thranduil immediately rushes off to order everyone to to set up proper camp and fires, and while some elves do whine about it, they comply bc this might be the last time some of them get to eat orc now that sauron is gone so they gotta savor it.

When asked by celeborn, thranduil replies with: “do you have any idea how hard it is to get supplies when you’ve been under siege, essentially, for millennia? Letting dead orcs rot is a waste of meat and at least this way that bastard can’t use their corpses for whatever necromancer magic he wants. Besides, orcs and spider and wargs routinely want to eat us. I don’t see why we shouldn’t eat them right back.”

Of course some lothloriens complain about it UNTILL some of the silvans from lothlorien join in with their mirkwood brothers and sisters bc, while they’ve relinquished most of their silvan culture under the rule of galadriel, they do still remember that in the past they used to chomp down on orc meat bc why not?

Soon the atmosphere turns almost festive as pots and pans and spices are brought out and fires are started and everyone is celebrating their victory and the silvans are trying to convince the lothloriens to take a piece (some do and some dont). Either way, it’ll certainly be a story that gets passed around once the elves reach valinor. How the silvans turned the tables on sauron by not only defying him but also eating his soldiers right back.

Silvan: wait until we tell them we used to eat balrog during the first age before they became extinct.

Legolas is hundred of miles away and lowkey pissed he couldn’t attend this impromptu party. He also stealthily took some chunks of meat from the orcs after his own battle bc if there’s one thing he learned, it’s that humans don’t react well to perceived canabalism.

[elerondo]

The worst and most inaccurate shade one could throw on Elrond is that degenerate "he didn't even want to be king" and using that to say "Thranduil is better / mightier / Greenwood had it worst". Why is this even a comparison, as though to say Thranduil had any choice in the matter? As though it is a good thing that Thranduil became king?

As though Angmar wasn't a thing in Eriador.

As though all the kings of the Noldor didn't die against Morgoth and Sauron.

If Elrond was king he would also die on the plains of Dagorlad like a Valar forsaken prophecy, and then the last of Feanorian memory, and the valour of Fingolfin's line would have died with him.

As though his own brother - a king - didn't also die and Elros' people later propelled the rise of Sauron, which caused all the mother fucking kings to also die.

Never again would a Feanorian star be bannered in Middle Earth, and Morgoth would have well and truly won against Feanor's kin.

Thus Sauron would have gotten hold of one of the Elven rings, Vilya, the mightiest of the Three.

So no shit, Elrond cannot be king. He chose to serve a king, then the realm, and all the free folks of middle earth.

He played the longest con through all of his PERMANENT LOSSES and you dare trash on that? Why even compare when the elves are all tragic, and Tolkien's main story is the victory of the little people, not the glorfication of war and heroes?

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Part 4

Pairing: Thranduil x Fem. Reader (Elf/Noldor |Third Person POV)

Themes: Minor angst | Soft-ish ending

Warnings: Alcohol use | Weapons use | Injuries | Betting

Wordcount : 2.1k words

Summary: During the feast of Mereth Nuin Giliath, Thranduil tries to apoligize for hurting y/n

Minors DNI

A/n the previous chapters can be found here: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Thranduil POV

Mereth Nuin Giliath began as it always did, with evening prayers after the first star for the night was seen.

Thranduil, garbed in silks of pale blue with a crown fashioned to look like glittering stars sitting amidst his hair, walked just behind his father as he led the procession to Varda’s shrine. The lamps had been dimmed, and the candles had been snuffed out. All the windows were opened to the night sky, and starlight slowly flowed in.

It was a somber affair, to be sure, and long and tedious. Still, Thranduil willingly played his role in all that was required of him and conducted himself in a manner befitting a crown prince during the rituals.

Once the solemnity of this affair is over, he reminded himself, the merrymaking can truly begin.

And the solemn affair did come to an end, much to the quiet relief of many involved. Then the elves poured out of the shrine and walked in twos and threes and more, making their way past lofty halls and vaulted ceilings and into the grounds that had been prepared for the evening’s contests.

The braziers had already been lit by the time Thranduil took his place by his father’s side in the gallery while the others took their places on the field. Then he looked around for y/n. The maid was standing behind them all with a pitcher of wine in hand. She startled and turned her gaze toward her feet when she found the prince’s eyes resting on hers. The sleeves of her new livery reached up to her wrists, but he was certain the bruise that had been an inadvertent gift of his was still there.  

“You stare at her, my son,” Oropher remarked, though not harshly. “May I ask why?”

“No reason, father,” Thranduil returned and turned to face the field again, his voice perfectly calm. Deep within, he was haunted by feelings of guilt.

The king studied him keenly for a while. “The maid is quite fetching, I grant you,” he allowed, albeit rather reluctantly. “But do not allow yourself to grow too attached to the likes of her. She is one of them, after all.”

It was Thranduil’s turn to startle. Does he truly think I am drawn to her? He thought. Does he not know what happened?

Feren had assured him—after expressing his disappointment with the prince’s behavior, of course—that no one in the kitchens had been the wiser. Y/n had not uttered a word of what took place in the gardens that day.

“I am not attached to her, my lord,” he replied. And he had to reply. His father was waiting on an answer. “There is no cause for you to worry on that score.”

Oropher, gratified, nodded. Then the master of revels came forth, and the first of the contests began in earnest.

It was a mock battle, and it was fought on soil that had hardened due to a late autumn frost. The elves that took part protected themselves with shields and armor and blunted swords, and yet, more than one fell to the earth, crying out from pain. Cheers and loud gasps followed each blow and each loss, and healers stood nearby to aid those in need of them.  

While elves fought and laughed and cursed out on the field, beneath canopies of green and gold velvet, food and wine flowed freely for those who watched. The stars burned brightly that night, as if the Star-Kindler herself was watching the spectacle taking place beneath the night sky. Thranduil, however, did not savor the magic of the night. He paid little heed to the rousing cheers that greeted those who did well, and the encouragement shouted down to those that fared poorer. He did not see the last warrior stand to accept their victory, the archers that took the field after a series of targets were neatly arranged at the far end of the field, the courtiers who parted with their jewels or the others who readily accepted purses full of gold coins. All he did see was the maid going from noble to noble, pouring wine and clearing dishes whenever it was asked of her, without saying a word in return.  

“Y/n,” Thranduil called softly before he could stop himself. “Wine, if you please.”

She obeyed and came to him. He watched her discretely, how her hands trembled even as she poured more wine for him. Then her sleeve shifted ever so slightly, and the bruise came into view. Thranduil kept his composure. He felt his father’s eyes on him.

“My thanks,” he replied, then turned his attention to the two remaining contestants. Feren and Angon were all that remained of the archers, and the next few moments would decide who would be the victor.

A hush settled upon the field, and the throng went silent. Angon was the first to nock his arrow. He took a deep breath, and then took aim. When he breathed out again, the arrow flew toward its target, and everyone watched, breathless. A soft thud was heard. The arrow nearly found its mark.

“A fraction too far from the center,” Oropher observed to his son. “But I wonder if it is close enough.”

“Feren still has to take a turn, father,” Thranduil replied. “Anything can happen.”  

They waited with bated breath while a herald called Feren to come forth. Thranduil’s steward took his position, nocked his arrow, and breathed in. When he exhaled, the arrow flew true to its aim, and all who had gathered erupted into thunderous applause when the arrow struck the target in the center.

“A pity we did not hold a wager, you and I,” Thranduil smiled, rising.

“A king does not partake in wagers, not even with his son." Oropher’s steely eyes glinted with amusement. “Come. It is time we rewarded the victors and prepared ourselves for the feast.”

While the service of prayers was a somber affair, the feast itself was not. Minstrels walked from table to table strumming harps and playing viols and flutes, while servants brought forth dishes of quail and venison and boar roasted in honey and herbs. There were heaping platters of cheese and pears and wild berries and apples and apricots, with golden flagons of wine and ale and mead for anyone who had a thirst for it. Many of those present ate and drank their fill. Some drank more than they should, and they gathered together in groups of threes and more to sing vulgar tunes that would have made even the bawdiest sailors amongst the Edain blush.

His father saw no harm in such amusements. He would have participated in them as well, had he not been king. More than once, Thranduil caught him drumming his fingers against the table and humming along to songs that caught his particular attention. Then he made his excuses and left the dais, and Thranduil watched while his father stopped by one table or the other to speak with their guests. The prince joined him not long after and waited his turn to be introduced to those he had never met before, unwed maidens in particular.

Father still clings to the hope of my wedding and producing an heir, Thranduil thought with affection. Ever since he attained the age of majority, his father spoke to him about prospective brides and encouraged him to form friendships with them. And while the prince was ever willing to indulge his father where friendships were concerned, he practiced greater caution when it came to his choice of bride.

I will make my own way when it comes to marriage, Thranduil thought to himself. And after I have finished establishing a household for myself. 

That household was a vast cave system north of Amon Lanc, and the work to make it a suitable home for a crown prince was nearly complete. His father encouraged it, thinking it was high time his son established a proper home for himself.

“Will you stay for the dancing, my lord?” A nobleman inquired of Oropher.

“Alas, my featherbed calls,” Oropher replied in jest. “And I fear that for tonight, I must answer it.”

The others laughed softly, then bowed when the king took his leave of them and retired to his chambers for the night. Thranduil remained. He returned to his seat on the dais, his golden hair limned by the flickering light of clear, amber lamps. Then the music changed, and the singing stopped. The time for dancing had come.

The prince had to leave his place a second time and he joined the others, graciously asking one lady to dance with him before turning to another after the music stopped and partners changed. His eyes widened like anything when Angon finally mustered the courage to ask Nitiel to dance with him in full view of his mother and father, and he quickly turned the other way when the general found him looking and flushed all over.

So it has happened, Thranduil realized after seeing thin bands of silver gleaming around their fingers. He has finally made the lady his wife. But will his mother and father accept his choice?

If Angon’s mother and father were displeased by their son’s brazen act, they did not show it. They simply rose and joined the others in dancing and exchanging pleasantries with their son’s lady. Then he became distracted by the sight of Feren walking toward the few remaining servants that had gathered at one end of the feasting hall. His steward approached y/n and then asked her to dance with him. Perhaps it was out of pity, as many of the others had been asked to dance. Or perhaps, he simply asked out of kindness. Either way, it did not alter the fact that Feren asked the lady to dance with him, and she, after a great deal of reluctance, agreed.

Thranduil gracefully led his own companion on more than one turn around the hall, but his eyes were on Feren and y/n most of the time. The maid proved to be a skilled dancer, and she followed Feren’s steps with great ease. When the music changed, partners changed, and whenever a change took place, Thranduil found y/n dancing with Angon, and then Galion, and then Elros, a wet-behind-the-ears elf who pledged himself to the king’s service only a turn of the moon ago. The elf’s countenance was bruised; he was one of the unfortunate warriors to take a blow to the face during the mock battle.

The music changed again, and this time y/n danced a turn with Amdír. The king of Lórien was a splendid dancer, and he made her laugh more than once. It was the first time Thranduil heard her laugh, and he shivered despite himself. Then, when the music changed for the final time, the prince himself had to dance a turn with y/n.

“My lady,” he bowed, for all eyes were on them now. “Would you do me the honor?”

“I… Of course, my lord,” y/n returned, and she dipped to her knees in a deep curtsy. When the music started, she placed her hand in his, and they danced in a circle around the floor.

While kindness or perhaps pity drove Feren to ask y/n to dance, shame over his own conduct led Thranduil to talk.

“You dance uncommonly well, my lady. Was it your mother who taught you how to dance?”

“My father… my lord. My mother… she said that was how father caught her eye. By how good he was with dancing.”

“I see,” Thranduil commented. “And how do you find life in Amon Lanc, my lady? Is it to your liking?”

Y/n was startled. “I do not understand my lord. Has… has someone said something? Has the king said something?”

She was frightened; it would have been plain to anyone who saw.

“No one has said anything against you,” he said softly in an effort to dispel her fears. “I merely wish to know if you are happy here.”

“I… I suppose I am happier here,” she replied.   

“Good,” Thranduil said. Then he felt her palm against his. It trembled. The hand resting on his other arm shook even as he held her steady. “Are you afraid of me?”

She was quick to shake her head and declare otherwise. Thranduil was not fooled, however, and whispered, “You are afraid of me. And I know my own actions have led you to fear me. Please, allow me to make amends for my behavior.”

“Why?” She asked after a while, in great confusion. “You are the crown prince of this great realm. I am Noldor, and I am the daughter of a kinslayer. Why would you even wish to do such a thing?”

Why indeed. Thranduil did not understand why the notion of asking for forgiveness entered his thoughts, only that it was there and that he would know no peace until he did.

“I do not know myself,” he confessed. “All I do know is that I truly desire to make amends for my behavior from before. Please grant me the opportunity to do so.”

tags: @deadlymistletoe @lemonivall @coopsgirl @tigereyesf @thranduilseyebrows​ @cupids-got-me​ @jane0error @asianbutnotjapanese

[madwomansapologist]

Autumn Thunderstorm | Chapter 5 - Enough is enough

Navigation | Series Masterlist | AO3

series synopsis: Thranduil thought the recent attack of spiders on a periphery village was the only thing deserving of his attention. If he could've imagined what he would found there, who he would found there, the Elvenking would wait a millenia in front of that river so he could see her sooner. Or: how Gandalf managed to keep a secret for 14 months.

fifth chapter synopsis: As the Enemy's actions became more and more clear, Thranduil discovers that there is a traitor among the free people. After an unexpected problem, you have to made a decision. [4K]

warnings: female!reader. lotr kinda of violence. pre-Smaug.

glossary: Mellon: Friend┆Lossëistar: Ice Mage

Many think that the determining factor in a battle is strength. Others that it is strategy. A minority truly believes it is luck. But those never saw the strongest falling down or the smartest failing to plan, and they never felt that luck sided with their enemies. It is so easy to find simple and objective truths when you are far away from the real conflict.

Moonlight spilled through the rotten trees. The gravel crunched under the elk’s paws. His beast, the creature that always protected and obeyed the Elvenking, followed the tracks of the remaining worm. Unhesitating, Thranduil led his little army through the night. And he did it unhurried.

Thranduil could say that they were strong enough to win this chase, and there is a high chance that it would turn out true. Thranduil could say that his strategy is failsafe, and it was in so many occasions. Thranduil could use a deity’s name as a promise of victory. But knowing the truth of real conflict, it would be vile to make those shallow promises. 

And Thranduil is not a mad king.

He fought for his people, and led them from survival to tranquility. While Elrond argued if the Enemy was alive or not, while Galadriel and Celeborn conserved what they already had, Thranduil was the one to see Mordor, to feel its flames, and survive it.

Protecting Woodland from Sauron’s harassment, Thranduil kept his throne and sanity.

He would never put his people in danger relaying only on such ephemeral things. His soldiers followed him, hunt that worm with him, because they swore to fought for him. They would die for him, just like many did before, but not out of fear: because of honor. They believe on Thranduil’s judgment. They saw him making sacrifices to keep their realm safe and sound. They would do anything Thranduil demanded without questioning.

Exploring the forest, blending with the darkness, they hunted as one. Not a group, not a army, they were one and same. No orders were needed, and soon that disgusted thing was cornered. No matter how far that wicked monster ran, he was already dead.

Blood dried on Thranduil’s face. He could feel the ferrous taste. His gaze was not that of a king, Thranduil was only a hunter now. The long sword on his hand was nothing but a extension of his body. The orc’s snarls grew louder and louder.

The amorphous figure broke away from the shadows. A sound of glass mixed with the snarls, the bag swinging in the orc’s hands gleaming in the moonlight. With his curved body burning in exhaustion, his steps only managed to slow him down. It was almost unfair to fight such a being. What chance did it had of surviving?

And that is why Thranduil started this chase. Thranduil saw the strongest unable to stand up, the smartest unable to protect themselves, the luckiest unable to react after a betrayal. He knows what really determines the outcome of any kind of battle. Thranduil knew they had what it takes to win.

There is no need to be faster. To be stronger. And there is no such a thing as a infallible strategy. There is only one thing that separates you from victory. All you need to do is to last longer than your enemy. And Thranduil proved time after time that he and his people will always endure.

No matter what, the Sindars endure.

The king raised his sword. Swinging his leg against the elk, making it turn at the right moment, he brought it down fiercely. The orc’s arm broke away and black, viscous blood gushed through the cut. He continued wandering.

Thranduil would follow him, at that moment an attack of his bordered on mercy, but something stopped him. A whisper. Something in the dark, something he could almost recognized, tried to lure him. The orc was not wandering: he knew exactly where to go.

Thranduil stopped his elk, and his army mirrored him.

The determined orc took a few stumbling steps, his gripping on life loosing with time, until the place where the pearly shine no longer reached. When the only thing left for him was to die, he was snapped up by the darkness. All that was left of him was a cold arm on the ground.

Enough. Thranduil had done more than enough for Elrond and his realm. No kindness, no moral reward of any kind, would make him led his people into that hungry obscurity. The White Council may not understand it yet, but Woodland knows the Enemy stands firm. And if Sauron decided to protect his army from Thranduil’s campaign, then he will travel back to his realm and do the same.

The War is closer, and Woodland will endure it.

The sound of breaking bones brought him back his cautious choice making. An archer broke the cold orc’s fingers to free the bag from it. “It must be precious, my king. He held it until the end.”

He smirked. “There is nothing precious he can give to me.”

The archer opened the bag either way, and struggle to see what was there on the dark. He immediately reach out to his king. Thranduil’s smirk died slowly.

Records of rivers. Counts of Ents. Marking of floods and droughts. Maps and more maps comparing old and recent constructions, studies of walls, notes in ancient, forgotten languages. There were atlases of Gondor, Rivendell, Khazad-dûm, the Shire, Rohan, Erebor, Isengard.

Woodland.

Somehow, those monster were able to study the realms. But how did they do it without being noticed? So many places, so many informations. No. Thranduil knows that they would never be able to do such a thing. All realms were betrayed. There is a spy between the free people. Someone trusted enough to be able to join all this information.

Thranduil do not know for how long that person was able to fool him and the others, but he knows that now they are not a person anymore: they are a walking corpse. 

“This campaign is over,” Thranduil announced. He guided his army back to the camp, but not before looking one last time to the hungry obscurity. “And so is peace.”

He took the maps out of the muddy bag to observe them, hoping to notice any detail that would show who designed them. But after he took the last one from it, the dirty rag was heavier than it should have.

A pendant. It was heavy and pointed, with three inches of height. The tear shape crystal had a pearly liquid inside it. No. Not a liquid. Thranduil could almost feel the velvet texture of it against his skin. It was snow. In the heat of Rivendell, it had snow inside it. Details of wood circled the crystal, running through it as a black thread of blood.

It was the most exquisite thing Thranduil ever saw.

Back to camp, Thranduil gave new instructions. They would spend the night there, and by the morning travel back home. They rod to Rivendell in twenty. And in twenty they will came back to Greenwood.

Thranduil went to his tent. He spread the maps out on the table, and analyzed them carefully. Dozen of clandestine, unsigned maps with official informations. Who made them even knew what are the shifts of patrols in Rohan. The orc did not steal that, it was given to him.

Thranduil sat down to write letters to all leaders. He explained his return to Elrond, warned Saruman and asked him to do the same with the Ents of Isengard, insisted that Galadriel improved the defense of her realm. Thranduil even wrote for the dwarves of Khazad-dûm.

Surrounded by papers, heating the wax to seal the letters, he almost did not heard when a crow entered his tent. Apparently, Aerin’s inn do not have carrier-pigeons. Only crows. An easy way for him to know when your letter is the one being delivered.

Thranduil longs for the moment when your letters will be on his hands. As soon as he hears the characteristic caw of crows, his body fills with determination. Everything that happened, from the bad ones to the horrible ones, do not matter anymore. Because he knows that when he reads your careful handwriting and honest words, everything will be all right.

But when he read the content of that letter and saw the picture that your words painted on his mind, a desire made impossible for him to rest. All he did was think, unable to decided if he should do as his heart craves. Because what he read was exactly what Thranduil needed: an excuse to bring you closer to him.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⋆✦⋆ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Luthien opened the door before you could knock on it. “I wonder if you are always that punctual,” she leaned against the door frame. “Or just yearning,” she whispered the last part.

You brought a jar of honey, milk and herbs for tea. “I do not want to waste your time,” not exactly true, not exactly lie. You gave her your most brilliant smile, but not before you roll your eyes. “Are you busy?”

The healer gave you space to enter her house. You remember when Luthien explained that you were treated on the same table in which you place everything you brought to make a nice tea. She told you that your blood was quite difficult to clean. Her house smell like buttercup, so she was able to clean it.

Luthien filled a teapot with water and took it to the fireplace. “I told you to not bring me food anymore, so you decided to bring me tea?”

“It is my way to thank you. For the nursing, company and discretion. Now stop complaining.”

Luthien sat in front of you, and rested her chin on her hand. “To think it took a warg to make us talk to one another. How is your shoulder?”

“It is better,” you reassured her. You opened her cabinets, knowing where she keeps her tea-cups and spoons. “It feels heavier, and it has a gross scar, but only hurts when I try to reach something high.”

“Give it time, mellon.” Luthien said that so many times before. She took the teapot away from the flames, and waited until you prepared the tea-cups to fill them. It smelled good. She put a spoon of honey on hers. “Although I know you will not hear me. You are not exactly patient.”

“What do you mean by that?” You took a sip of tea. It burned your tongue.

“You are here,” Luthien tried to hide her smirk. “I told you a hundred times that I will carry your letters to you, but you cannot wait. Here you are, waiting for them.”

You concentrated on blowing the tea, ignoring her eyes.

Many do think that words are just representations of thoughts in a way that others can understand. But such a cold perspective can make them forget that words are more than just things to understand. They are feelings. They are knowledge. And their use, or the lack of, matters way more than most people are comfortable in admitting.

Yours. A possessive pronoun, commonly used as a attributive adjective. When it is used, people knows you own something. But not just that. Yours convey possession. Yours convey pride. Yours convey belonging. A house is just a house, but your house is a home. A word present everywhere, pronounced by everyone, and used before what really matters.

But you do not use it so often. 

Yes, technically you do own a few things. You saved for two months to buy your pair of boots. And you have your own mount saddle. But you cannot say that the bed where you sleep is yours. That the roof over your head is yours. Or the dress on your body. The food digested in your stomach. 

When you collapsed on her doorstep, Aerin could have helped you or not. She decided on the first. She made her choice, and she kept deciding on you since then. Aerin gave you clothes, aid, nourishment. Aerin gave you dignity. She gave you all you have. Even the money you used to bought the only things you can call yours came from her.

But how can a letter addressed for your eyes to see and only them not be yours? How can words written for your mind to imagine not be yours? Yours letters, his letters, mean the word for you.

So maybe this is the reason why you hid them under your mattress. Maybe this is the reason why you did not tell anyone you are still in contact with the Elvenking. Maybe this is the reason why you only read them at midnight, and why you never have a great answer to why suddenly you started to use so much paper. Maybe this is the reason why you are here. You fear that maybe someone else will open them if you are not there to receive them, so you trusted Luthien to that task.

It is not a secret or a sin. You do not hid them because they are wrong, but because they are yours. Only yours. And you have dozens of them. From small ones to multi-pages, about everything and anything in particular. Thranduil always writes back for you. You lost count on how many letters you have under you bed, but it is enough for you to feel something under it when you lay to sleep. 

“Fair enough,” you sighed. “I told him about the… incident.”

“Oh.”

“Yes,” you took a sip of your tea. It burned your tongue again. “Oh, indeed.”

Lossëistar. A word that mattered more than you were ever comfortable admitting. For fourteen months you heard that word more than your own name, until the moment they felt like the same thing. Until even you stopped using your name. For fourteen months you ignored it, but now you cannot take it anymore. You told people to stop calling you that, only to discover that most of them do not even know your name.

And now, every time someone asks you what your name is, you feel betrayed. How could they not know? How could no one know? Fourteen months. You saved those people countless times. And they do not even know your name. But the last straw was when Aerin stuttered to call you. She almost said a different name. She realized her mistake, but not before opening her mouth. 

Enough is enough.

You just walked away from her, not even thinking about where you were going to. You just wanted to be alone. You did not realized when you entered the forest, when you found the clearing, when you knelled on the floor. You did not noticed your tears, your fingers deep in the ground, the world shattering around you. You just noticed when you felt the cold.

The first thing you saw was the ground. Darkened, dry, lifeless. Blurs stained your vision. You blinked away the tears to see better, only to realize your vision was not blurred: there were water drops floating in the air. Water taken by force from the dead grass, dead trees, dead flowers. The drops attracted each other, even your tears, forming a floating thin river. And before you could make anything, it turned into snow.

“It never happened like that,” you felt the urge to explain yourself one more time. “Without my control.”

Luthien drank the rest of her tea. “Have you ever thought about not wandering alone in forests anymore?” 

When you looked up, you saw her smirk. That made you giggle. You took a sip of your tea, finally not burning your tongue. “Apparently nature wants m…”

Something knocked on the window. It sounded as if pebbles were being throw at the glass, but Luthien recognized it instantly. She has more experience with birds than you. When you saw her opening the window, the crow flew towards you.

Thranduil answered you. You do not know why you wrote about what happened to him. You only realized that you did it when the crow disappeared after a cloud. It was to late to change anything. All you could do was to wait.

You sighed before tearing the seal, and did not breath again until you finished to read its content. When you were done, you folded the letter and put it back in the envelop. You stared at your empty tea-cup.

“What did he say?” Luthien went to reach the letter, but stopped herself. “You did not intend on doing anything, It was not your fault. If he thinks so, than he is a stupid king. You did nothing wrong.”

“He said I am powerful,” you murmured. “Naturally powerful. That he can only imagine what I would be able to with a proper education.” You fixed your posture, still glaring at your cup. “He invited me to study in Mirkwood.”

Luthien blinked.

“That is amazing!” She grabbed your hands, shaking your body. “I heard the elves from Mirkwood are so in touch with nature, it will be useful for you to understand more about you. When will you go?”

“But I,” you looked at her. “I… Aerin needs me. And Gandalf will be so worried if I go to another place.”

Luthien held you tighter. You blinked, not paying attention to her. “You can write a letter explaining everything to him and leave it if me,” she said slowly. “You can go, if you want to.”

“This is… This is a lot. I do not even know where exactly Mirkwood is. I do not know anyone there. What I would do there. And I… This is too much. Definitely too much.”

“Are you afraid you will not like it, or that you do not deserve it?”

“No… I mean, I do not know.”

“You should go,” Luthien told you one more time. “Think about it, think for however long you need, and then make the right choice. Follow your heart. It already knows the answer.”

After saying goodbye, you returned to the inn glaring at the letter in your hands. Your hand kept thinking, weighing his options, unable to come up with an answer. 

On one hand, you had the possibility of answers, of learning, of a reunion. Thranduil. He wanted you next to him. He wanted to help you learn more about yourself. This is your chance of seeing him again. On the other one, you had your duty, your gratitude, everything you know. You entire life, or at least what you remember of it, happened right here.

What should you do? What should you do? What should you do?

Upon arriving at the inn, you held the letter in your hand as if it were your most prized possession. Maybe it was. But how could you know? What if you accept his invitation and it turned into your worst decision? What if you do not, and you regret it forever? How could you… Gandalf! He’s the smartest person you know. Perhaps, if you wait until his return, you can ask his opinion. He probably will be there soon.

When you entered your room, Aerin surprised you. She was there, sat on your bed, waiting for you. And she had all your letters spread out on your bed. “What are you doing here, lady Aerin?”

“What am I doing?” Her scream made you stumble backwards. Aerin pointed at the letters, gesturing towards you. “What are you doing? A king!” Aerin got closer to you. “How can you bother him? This is so disrespectful.”

Oh. She scared you for half a second. You thought she was mad at you, but she is just worried. Aerin do not know that you both share a friendship. “He was the one who first wrote for me. I would not do something to embarrass myself, lady Aerin.”

“You just embarrassed yourself! Look at all those letters. The Elvenking pities you.”

You did not knew what to say. Why was she being so mean? Even if you were bothering the king, Aerin could be a little more calm. You swallowed, your throat now aching. “Why are you saying those things?”

“How can you be so naive? The Sindars are dangerous!”

“I heard stories about Mirkwood too,” you tried to argue if her. “But they are not truth. The Elvenking is not mean. He would not mock me, or pity me. He is kind, and brave, and a good friend.”

Aerin sighed. You are talking back. Since he came you changed! How can she protect you, honor Gandalf’s trust, if you are feeding those dreams? She thought you were mad at him. Aerin needs you to be there. And Gandalf told her to do everything she can, even if you hate her for it. If you will be safe, then so be it. 

“You will stop that,” she grabbed all the letters on your bed. They folded against one another, some even being torn. “No more letters between you both. It is a order.”

You have the right to keep some things just for yourself. You were never disrespectful or needy, you were just talking to your friend. There is no need for a reaction like that. 

“I know you care about me, but I can make my own decisions.”

“I did everything for you,” that hurted Aerin so much. To say such a cruel thing. But she can pretend to be mean and cruel, as long as you stop dreaming and went back to what you were. You changed a lot since the Elvenking, but you can come back to your old self. “You will obey me.” 

“No.”

Aerin marched out of your room, taking all of your letters with her. You followed her down the stairs, tucking the last letter you received into your dress. She was practically running from you. “Lady Aerin, can we please sit and talk? There is no need for you to be so worried.”

Ignoring you, Aerin ran to the kitchen. You sighed. Why this is happening? It feels like you committed an crime, but all you did was talk to someone. Aerin was never cruel to you. Why would she started being now? Did she read your letters and thought that Thranduil was as mean as in the stories about him? Aerin saw how good and kind he is, she would not believe on such nonsense.

But when you entered the kitchen, you found that your patience have limits. You are a calm person, you try to be understanding, you really put on an effort to not fight with anyone. When you feel sad, you hide it. When you get mad, you hide it. When you get heartbroken, you hide it.

But Aerin just reached all your limits.

“What have you done?!”

When you got to her, there was no longer anything you could do. The paper were dissolving against the charcoal. All you could do was observe the delicate paper burning, the handwriting fading, all your memories being erased. They were yours, and now they are gone. 

Just like your name. Just like your old memories. Just like what you were before.

Gone.

“I am protecting you,” Aerin hissed. “One day you will understand.”

Maybe one day you will. Maybe one day you will understand exactly what she meant by that. Maybe one day you will even thank her for that. But for now, right now, there is only one thing you can think about. 

You had enough of this place.

[Sixth Chapter]

AUTUMN THUNDERSTORM: @ferns-fics @notanalienindisguiseblink @rayrlupin @elvyshiarieko @graniairish

if you enjoyed, please reblog! i promise it makes a difference ♡

@ madwomansapologist.tumblr.

[aspenrockymountainhigh]

Thranduil, son of Oropher, was an Elven king who ruled over the Woodland Realm in the Third Age. Though inherently cautious, his army was key to victory in the Battle of Five Armies and he defended his realm against the forces of Sauron in the War of the Ring. He was the father of the Elven prince of Mirkwood, Legolas, who was a member of the Fellowship of the Ring.

[sotwk]

Hi! I loved reading your headcanons on Arvellas and I was wondering if had some for Turhir? He's my favorite Thranduilion brother and I was just curious. No pressure to do this or anything if you don't want to. 😊Thank you!

Eeek! I am *so* happy when people ask me about Turhir, because I'm really trying to grow his little fanclub (I know you've consistently been on Team Turhir since Day 1 @stormchaser819, so bless you!), and here is another opportunity to give him a little marketing boost!

If anyone were to ask me who among the Thranduilions I would label "The Sexiest", the answer is easy. THIS Prince. They're all attractive of course, and certainly "sexy" is extremely subjective, but I hope my headcanons (and eventually, more fics!) can make my case for me. :)

Prince Turhir Thranduilion

15 Fun SotWK AU Headcanons

When Elvenqueen Maereth was pregnant with her second-born child, she carried so big and heavy, an outside observer would have thought she was carrying multiples. However, with Elven mothers having the foresight they do, Maereth knew it was just one future-prince. And she knew he would be a giant!  

Maereth endured the hardest labor with Turhir--three whole days of active labor pains! Turhir was also the only child to stay significantly past his due date, and some might connect this to his special love and devotion to his mother. Turhir (“Victorious Master”) was also the only prince to have been named before he came out of the womb. 

Turhir is the only prince to be taller than the Elvenking. Turhir is 7 feet, 6 inches while Thranduil is 7 feet, 3 inches. (The next tallest prince is Mirion at 7 feet.) 

Turhir’s earliest childhood ambition was to be a member of the Kingsguard, so he could protect his parents, especially the mother he adores. However, this was a position unbefitting a royal prince, as his father would explain to him. The King suggested that he instead aspire to be the Master Trainer of Eryn Galen’s forces, a top position Turhir would eventually earn in TA 542. 

Young Turhir was always keen on pleasing his parents, so it is difficult to know whether his lifelong career as a soldier was his genuine aspiration, or borne of a desire to please Thranduil, who took immense pride in Turhir’s natural military prowess.

Turhir has leonine agility and grace despite his immense size. When he walks or moves, he seems light as air and silent as a shadow, able to attack stealthily, while still striking with the force of a hill-troll.

But what makes Turhir a truly extraordinary warrior is his focus and precise control over his strength and skills. He never goes into blind rage, even in the heat of battle, but fights methodically, his every move measured and with intent. He has great knowledge about incapacitating opponents without killing them, or injuring someone (even of different races/physiologies) just a hairline shy of causing death. Although he will not hesitate to kill when necessary, he does not take pleasure in it; neither is he insensitive to loss of life.

Out of everyone in his family, Turhir is the most proficient hand-to-hand combatant, learning from the most veteran native Silvan warriors who specialize in this. He can fight with any weapon and can turn anything into a weapon (i.e. John Wick with a pencil), but he most favors polearms, ranging in size from lances to throwing javelins.

When Turhir was appointed prince-regent of Thangail in T.A. 280, he was the only prince to build his city of residence from the ground up (literally, he helped in its construction). His domicile in the north-west corner of Greenwood, Barad Aithron (“Tower of Spears”), is in fact a fortress that includes the largest barracks in the realm, housing the soldiers known as the Hedryn. 

Around TA 300, Thranduil worked with Turhir to formally establish the Hedryn (“spear-throwers”), a division of Eryn Galen’s infantry that consisted of foot soldiers armed with shield and spear, similar to the Ancient Greeks’ hoplites. These soldiers were primarily trained to be deadly individual warriors, but also trained to fight as a unit in phalanx formation, on the rare occasions they deployed on an open field. Each single Hadron underwent rigorous training with their commander, Prince Turhir, before being accepted into the ranks. Although the Hedryn were dissolved soon after Turhir’s departure in TA 2601 (340 years before The Hobbit), much of their influence can still be seen in Mirkwood’s forces as they fought at the Battle of the Five Armies.

Turhir’s greatest passion outside of his military job is carpentry and joinery. He likes working with timber to construct things, especially buildings. He would often show up at community builds (even homes are built as a community effort), volunteering his labor as discreetly as possible so that gradually people just got used to the prince working alongside them. 

Although Turhir generally tries to fly under the radar at the realm’s community celebrations, Eryn Galen’s annual “Teilien Laer” (summer games) is where he naturally shines, and allows himself the attention. Crowds gather to cheer on the display of physical prowess from all the Silvan Elves, but Turhir in particular is the main attraction in every event he participates in.  

Turhir is a mysterious legend to the Dúnedain, specifically the Men of Arnor. Old songs passed down through the centuries tell of a great Elf-Knight, “Turoquen”, who won the great tournament held in the summer of TA 280 in Annúminas, celebrating the birth of Tarcil, grandson of King Eldacar. This was the first and only time Turhir ever participated in a tournament outside of his own realm, but it was enough to make a mark in history (although he is never truly credited in the songs and tales). 

Turhir is on much more familiar terms with the various Northmen tribes who occupied the lands around Eryn Galen throughout the Third Age. Out of all the princes, he engaged the most with these peoples and formed relationships with them that lasted across centuries, including the Lôthéod (a tribe that preceded the Éothéod, the ancestors of the Rohirrim), and the shape-shifting ancestors of Beorn. 

Turhir is one of the best horse masters in the Woodland Realm. He was responsible for propagating the arrochs, a very rare breed of giant horses descended from war steeds brought over from Valinor by the Host of the West. The arrochs were very few in number, allowing Turhir to personally break and train every single one that was birthed.

Thank you again for the Ask, @stormchaser819! <3 I apologize for the unexpected info dump; even I didn't realize I still had SO much to stay about this character! XD

While my fancast for Turhir is Sam Heughan, I also take inspiration from the following characters, especially in regards to his fighting style: Tarzan, Achilles (Troy 2004), and Nuada (Hellboy)

Want to learn more about Turhir ? Turhir Headcanon Masterlist

My Asks are always OPEN!

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Main Headcanon Masterlist

[fel-09]

Hello. I have a question. What do you think Thranduil would do if his partner was offended by his sarcasm? He truly loves his partner (is in love).

Well, we'll see.

____________________________________

It's gone too far or....

Thranduil reclined against the doorway, his gaze weary but determined as he watched you. His earlier words echoed in his mind, mocking him: "Do you think I care about what you do?" He had meant it teasingly, laced with his usual dry sarcasm—a language he thought you understood. But the tear-filled anger that twisted your face had told him otherwise.

He had erred, deeply, and the realization clawed at him all day. He wanted to explain, to fix things, but royal duties piled high, and you avoided him at every turn. When he tried to share your bed that night, you sent him off to the couch without a word. Sleep eluded him as guilt gnawed relentlessly.

By morning, Thranduil couldn’t endure the tension anymore. He cornered you in the quiet of your chambers, closing the door firmly behind him. His hands found your shoulders, his grip firm but not unkind. He lowered his forehead to your shoulder, his sigh heavy with remorse.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “I didn’t mean it. I thought… I thought you understood me, that you knew how much I—” His words faltered, a rare vulnerability creeping into his tone. “I love you. Sometimes, I just don’t know how to say it properly. Please, believe me.”

You wanted to hold onto your anger, to make him feel the weight of his mistake. But how could you? The sight of your proud king crumbling before you, his regret so palpable, melted your resolve. Slowly, your arms encircled him, pulling him close.

Thranduil exhaled in relief, burying his face in your neck. “You’re too kind to me,” he murmured, his voice tinged with gratitude. “I’ll try to do better.”

This time, you both held on a little tighter, understanding one another a little better.

____________________________________

A more canonical version for me

____________________________________

"Do you think I care about what you do?"

Thranduil froze the moment the words escaped his lips. His heart sank as he saw you trembling, on the verge of tears. Regret gripped him instantly.

"I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that," he murmured, his voice softening. "Please, I’ll do anything—just don’t—"

"Have you said enough?"

Your calm interruption cut through his panic. Thranduil stopped mid-sentence, his composure cracking. He hesitated, then nodded carefully.

"Good," you whispered, leaning in close to his ear. "Because to smooth out a vein, you must..."

The rest of your words sent a shiver down his spine, leaving him pale with dread.

Later that day, in the privacy of his chambers, Thranduil sat at your feet, his head resting on your lap. Your fingers stroked his hair as a mischievous grin spread across your face. The delicate cat ears you’d placed on his head tilted slightly as you cooed, "Who’s my little kitty~?"

He let out a reluctant, low meow, his tone a mix of embarrassment and resignation.

You chuckled softly, your victory unmistakable. And last words, never think that tsundere is bad, because embarrassing them is heaven for the eyes.

[just-some-sad-bitch]

I dont care if bagginshield is a ship of the past, if no one reads this or finds it I DONT CARE I NEED TO WRITE THIS DOWN BULLET POINT STYLE.

Ok so this is an AU where Erebor was never attacked by Smaug, the ring doesn’t exist and dragon sickness is related to like old age and long exposure to gold rather than a curse that haunts the line of Durin.

In this AU, as I said, Smaug didn’t get to Erebor but was taken down in Dale. This results on a disaster to both kingdoms because while dale was dependent of Erebor for trade, gold, etc. Erebor heavily depended on Dale for its food, sure the kingdom had cattle and what not but in the midst of the disaster Erebor begins to suffer.

Thranduil is still an asshole and states that he owes nothing to either men o Dwarf.

So, regent king Thrain strikes a deal with the only kingdom that responds to their call: The Shire

Of corse the shire doesn’t respond out of the goodness of their heart, they are in dire need of protection. It is well known that hobbits are a peaceful race, rarely conflictive and with no actual army, they see no need for it for they have no enemies, however, in the last few years goblins have stationed themselves on the blue mountains and when they see fit, they attack the shire and everyone in it.

So the Thain and King Thrain strike a deal

Erebor will send an army to provide protection against the goblins, possibly chasing them out of the Blue Mountains and getting to keep the new mountain

In return, the shire will build a road that leads directly to Erebor making sure to have a direct way of sending food and supplieas all year round

Both kingdoms sharing their surplus, strong armies and nurturing food

However the deal must be strengthened by more than paper and ink, and so a marriage is in order.

The shire will send the Thains grandson to become the master of agriculture of Erebor and marry the second son of the house of Durin, Frerin the golden

FINALLY with all this convoluted background I present you:

Bilbo arrives after years of building the great road that unites the two kingdoms, he is obvs accompanied by Gandalf the grey and dozens of caravans filled with grain, cattle and rich soil

Waiting for their arrival is the regent king Thrain who took the role from his father Thror after he fell ill to gold sickness. With him were his family

Lady Dis, known for her character, forwardness and cunningness as well as beauty and strength. and her two sons; Fili, heir to the crown eventually and Kili, his younger brother, the pride and joy of the kingdom

Thorin, crown prince of Erebor, strong warrior that fought valiantly against the white orc and in his victory earning the title of Thorin Oakenshield. Loyal to his people above anything else and commited to becoming a great king one day.

And of corse the groom, Frerin who had little to say in the matter of his marriage but couldn’t refuse. You see, his older brother will inherit the great kingdom, such promise cannot be waisted on diplomatic endeavors, and his sister, one of the smartest dwarves to ever walk middle earth had already gifted the line of Durin with two strong heirs. So what was he to do? Refuse the only thing that would allow him to show his valor? Of corse not, he was as much prince as his brother and sister, and if his father commanded he be married to an outsider in order to save the kingdom, he would a thousand times.

What he did not expect however, was having his brother fall head over hills for his betrothal upon first meeting. Of corse no one noticed, everyone was too focused of the arrival of the hobbit, but himself and his sister notice right away how Thorin could not stop looking at that creature as if he was the most beautiful being in all of middle earth

The hobbit, however was fat too focused on the king’s speech, the strange surroundings and his wizard companion to notice

He was mad, but similarly to Frerin, he found himself in a situation that he could not escape, his parents were taken by the awful goblins and if being married off is what he had to do in order to save the shire then he will marry whoever and whatever the Thain asked him to

And that’s it, that’s all I got, sorry if grammas is wonky it’s almost 2:00 am and English is my second language, also I was too lazy to review it over. I would love for this story to develop in a way in which Thorin is trying to woo Bilbo while also trying to not Interfere in the deal. Also Bilbo falling in love with thorin but also feeling guilty because were dwarfs marrying for diplomacy is super common, hobbits usually marry for love and I imagine him feeling guilty for loving Thorin while he is supposed fo be marrying Frerin. Also Frerin and Dis egging them on even though they KNOW they shouldn’t. I just imagine this ending with Thorin proclaiming his undying love for Bilbo and both of them being torn between running away and living together but also knowing they have a duty to their respective kingdoms. Of cors everything would work out in the end but Idk

If someone has a similar fic to this please please please share it with me I AM STARVING. Anyway thanks for reading bye!!!

[ardafanonarch]

Heirlooms of the Númenoreans: Aranrúth and Narsil

Swords of the First Age, Part 2 of 3

[This is a continuation of the response to this ask.]

Aranrúth

Meaning: King’s Ire. Sindarin.

Maker: Unknown. (See discussion.)

Owned/wielded by: Thingol, [Dior?], Elwing, Elros, the Kings of Númenor. (See discussion.)

Fate: Did not survive the downfall of Númenor (Unfinished Tales, ‘A Description of Númenor’, note 2).

Aranrúth. ‘King’s Ire’, the name of Thingol’s sword. Aranrúth survived the ruin of Doriath and was possessed by the Kings of Númenor. Index of The Silmarillion

‘I ask then for a sword of worth,’ said Beleg; ‘for the Orcs come now too thick and close for a bow only, and such blade as I have is no match for their armour.’ ‘Choose from all that I have,’ said Thingol, ‘save only Aranrúth, my own.’ The Silmarillion, ‘Of Túrin Turambar’

Discussion

We do not know who made Aranrúth. We do, however, know that the Sindar’s first weapons were forged by the Dwarves:

Therefore Thingol took thought for arms, which before his people had not needed, and these at first the Naugrim smithied for him; for they were greatly skilled in such work, though none among them surpassed the craftsmen of Nogrod, of whom Telchar the smith was greatest in renown. The Silmarillion, ‘Of the Sindar’

So potentially Aranrúth was forged by Dwarves, perhaps even Telchar.

There is another curious passage about Thingol’s armouries in The Children of Húrin:

Now Thingol had in Menegroth deep armouries filled with great wealth of weapons: metal wrought like fishes' mail and shining like water in the moon; swords and axes, shields and helms, wrought by Telchar himself or by his master Gamil Zirak the old, or by elven-wrights more skilful still. For some things he had received in gift that came out of Valinor and were wrought by Fëanor in his mastery, than whom no craftsman was greater in all the days of the world. The Children of Húrin, ‘The Departure of Túrin’

Dwarven smiths, including Telchar and Gamil Zirak, are mentioned again; but according to this passage, at least, Thingol also possessed Noldorin weaponry, including objects wrought by Fëanor himself!

And, of course, we know Eöl, formerly Thingol’s subject, was a weaponsmith so it’s not like none of the Sindar possessed this skill. We also do not know when it was forged, save that Thingol definitely possessed it by the time Anglachel passed to Beleg. In sum, there are myriad possibilities for the maker of Aranrúth.

Was Aranrúth ever used in combat? Yes: While we do not see Thingol fight much in the Silmarillion, he was involved in combat in the First Battle (The Silmarillion, ‘Of the Sindar’). In an unwritten Canto of Lay of Leithian, Tolkien wrote the outline of a battle between Thingol’s army and Orcs who were searching for Lúthien on the borders of Doriath. It is said that “Thingol himself slays Boldog,” the Orc captain, in their victory (The Lays of Beleriand, The Lay of Leithian, ‘The Unwritten Cantos’ 12). So Thingol did engage in combat, and it’s reasonable to assume Aranrúth was his weapon in these battles.

Unfinished Tales (‘A Description of Númenor’, footnote 2) tells us:

The King’s sword was indeed Aranrúth, the sword of Elu Thingol of Doriath in Beleriand, that had descended to Elros from Elwing his mother.

This is one of those places with frustratingly, and tantalisingly, few details and gaps in the narrative. First of all, we do not know how Aranrúth passed from Thingol to Elwing (presumably via Dior, but not confirmed). Second, we don’t know how Aranrúth was saved from both the sack of Doriath and the sack of Sirion. This is complicated by the fact that Elwing was a child at the time of the former, and Elros her son was a child at the time of the latter. Surely an adult would have been involved in the transportation and transferral of this mighty weapon, but who? This is where you’ll find some interesting possibilities explored by fans: Was Oropher perhaps involved, the Iathren father of Thranduil never written into the Silmarillion? Or Galadriel, whose whereabouts at this time are inconclusive? Did Gil-galad find it in Sirion and pass it on to Elros later? Or did Maglor bring it with him out of Sirion and pass it on to his foster Elros? Up to you! Canon does not tell us.

Finally, all we know of Aranrúth’s fate is that it did not survive the Downfall. But if Ar-Pharazôn had it on him when he went ashore in Valinor, might it have been buried with him?

Narsil

Meaning: Red and White Flame (according to LotR index). Quenya.

Maker: Telchar

Owned/wielded by: Unknown; Elendil, who wielded it in the War of the Last Alliance; shards borne by Isildur, Valandil and his line; reforged as Andúril and wielded by Aragorn in the War of the Ring.

Notable for: cutting the Ring from Sauron’s hand.

Fate: broken in the War of the Last Alliance; shards borne by Elendil’s heirs through the Third Age and eventually reforged as Andúril.

But at the last the siege was so strait that Sauron himself came forth; and he wrestled with Gil-galad and Elendil, and they both were slain, and the sword of Elendil broke under him as he fell. But Sauron also was thrown down, and with the hilt-shard of Narsil Isildur cut the Ruling Ring from the hand of Sauron and took it for his own. The Silmarillion, ‘Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age' 'Here I set it,' he said, 'but I command you not to touch it, nor to permit any other to lay hand on it. In this elvish sheath dwells the Blade that was Broken and has been made again. Telchar first wrought it in the deeps of time. The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, ‘Chapter 6: The King of the Golden Hall’

Discussion

Narsil is a fascinating sword of the “First Age” because the only reason we know it even existed that early is Aragorn’s one mention of Telchar in The Two Towers, quoted above. The problem is, Elendil is the first confirmed owner of Narsil — at the end of the Second Age! This leaves over three-and-a-half millennia of history unaccounted for. Nothing in canon tells us how Narsil got from the smithies of Nogrod to Elendil. (Until I did this research, even I was certain that Elros was confirmed to have owned Narsil; not so.)

This mention has led fans to do some imaginative mental gymnastics devising a history for the famous Blade that was Broken. One popular interpretation is that Elros received Narsil from Maedhros, and this is not without basis in canon. For one, we know that Elros was fostered by Maglor and presumably knew Maedhros also (in some versions, it is in fact Maedhros who fosters the half-elven twins). There is also a canonical link between Maedhros and Telchar, recounted in the Narn i hîn Húrin in Unfinished Tales (the story was not reproduced in the Children of Húrin): when Maedhros saves the life of Azaghâl lord of Belegost in an Orc raid on the Dwarf road, Azaghâl gives him the Dragon-helm of Dor-lómin — another work of Telchar — as guerdon. Could Azaghâl have given him Narsil at the same time? Of course, there are plenty of other ways Maedhros might have received Narsil besides, this is just one of the more direct links.

There are also countless other ways Narsil could have come to Elendil. Another equally plausible explanation would be that it was one of the weapons in Thingol’s armouries, saved, like Aranrúth, from the sack of Doriath. And we don’t even know that Narsil was ever in Númenor! Could it have been Elrond’s sword, that he gave to his cousin many-times-removed when he came to Middle-earth? There are many, many tantalising possibilities.

Part 1 | Part 3

[coopsgirl]

Thranduil Fic Masterlist

The Darkening Forest: Set in the Woodland Realm around the year 1050 of the Third Age as Greenwood the Great begins to turn into Mirkwood. King Thranduil meets a young elven woman and his life will never be the same. AO3 link

Words: 34,506

From a Far Away Shore: Set at the beginning of the Third Age just after the victory against Sauron by the alliance of elves and men, Thranduil has just become king after the death of his father Oropher in battle. He gets help from a most unexpected source as he tries to fill his father's shoes and guide his people back to peace and prosperity. AO3 link

Words: 56,048

The Shadow and the Sunrise: Ranyare, a member of the original eldar who awoke on the shores of Lake Cuiviénen, has survived into the Third Age and has lived hidden away from others in Fangorn Forest. Forced to come out of hiding, she meets the elves of Lothlórien and Greenwood. Much to her surprise, she and Thranduil become friends and together they will work through their pain and traumas to finally find peace and love. AO3 link

Words: 22,447

All fics are completed and safe for work. I hope you will enjoy them!

[mistergandalf]

ULTIMATE TOLKIEN BLORBO: ROUND ONE IS COMPLETE!

Here’s who won:

Thorin Oakenshield vs. Bard the Bowman

Bilbo Baggins vs. Dwalin

Kili vs. Gandalf

Fili vs. Thranduil

Legolas Greenleaf vs. Éomer

Aragorn vs. Éowyn

Elrond Peredhel vs. Elladan & Elrohir

Frodo Baggins vs. Meriadoc “Merry” Brandybuck

Gimli vs. Peregrin “Pippin” Took

Samwise Gamgee vs. Boromir

Faramir vs. Galadriel

Maedhros vs. Celebrimbor

Maglor vs. Finrod Felagund

Glorfindel vs. Morgoth

Sauron vs. Celegorm

Fingon vs. Fëanor

Looks like the next round is going to be contentious! Hope you’re ready.

And now, for a special announcement…

Did your blorbo lose UNJUSTLY in Round One? Fear not! They shall have their chance to shine! All characters who lose in the primary bracket will get a second chance on the secondary bracket. But if they lose here… welp, guess they’re not cut out for victory…

Rankings to seed this bracket were taken from your votes. Whoever received the most votes (not the highest percentage) was ranked first, and whoever received the least votes was ranked last. Then #1 was paired with #16, #2 with #15, etc.

You may notice there is a new contender! Yes, Arwen Undómiel has entered the competition! Because of the way I pulled data from AO3, I accidentally eliminated her, and she totally deserves to be here. So to right my wrongs, I have removed Dwalin from the running as he lost by the largest margin. For maximum fairness, she has been paired with Finrod as he was in the very center of the data.

New polls will be posted starting 12pm EDT (GMT -4) tomorrow (or today, if you’re in Europe). I will be posting polls for the primary bracket first, then the secondary bracket the next day. May the best blorbo win!

And now, for some analytics…

Who got the most votes?

Éowyn blew everyone else out of the water with a staggering 1,699 votes to her name. I imagine this is due to the very intense campaigning between her and Aragorn.

Who got the least votes?

Elladan & Elrohir, with 174 votes. You are small but mighty, twin fans!

Which races were the most contentious?

Aragorn vs. Éowyn was the most widely-circulated poll, but Éowyn managed to win by a 1.8% margin.

Maglor vs. Finrod Felagund was pretty contentious, with the results wavering back and forth over the 50% line basically the entire time. Maglor managed to eke out a 0.8% margin of victory!

Fingon vs. Fëanor was the most contentious of them all, with Fëanor winning by a slim margin of 0.4%. This one also went back and forth! As we all know, Silmarillion fans are extremely passionate, and the notes on these posts prove it.

I have more questions!

Cool! Send me an ask and I’ll give you some answers!

That’s it until next time. Best of luck to your blorbos!