#party in thranduil's wine cellar

[lee-pace-yourself]

Say what you like about our ill tempered King, he has excellent taste in wine. Come Elros try it

Haha! Who says elves don't like to get drunk. Look at them drinking Thranduil's wine behind his back and then all passed out in his wine cellar. LOLOLOLOL!

[tamurilofrivendell]

Beauty and the Beast | Chapter 30

Previous Chapters [1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29]

Read on AO3 [x]

Pairing: Thranduil/Fem. Reader Summary: A Beauty and the Beast inspired tale with Thranduil the Elvenking and a human reader from a nearby village Taglist: @captainchrisstan​ @rebleforkicks​ @yjrevolution​ @majahu​ @honey-wine @accio-boys​ @achromaticerebus​ @solomonssimp​ @tired-ass-show-girl​ @dreamlessnight​ @daddy-long-legolas​ @sleepyamygdala​ @coopsgirl​ @penguinlovestowrite​ @midsommar-nights​ @whore-of-many-hot-men​

“They have killed one of our own!” Vermund hollered from on high, pointing down at the dead body of the baker. “They have declared war!” Never mind the fact that he had riled all of these men up and brought them before the gates for no other reason but to attack. Never mind the fact that it was technically his fault the baker was dead. “Fight, men! Fight!”

Thranduil was completely rattled, not that it showed. He had more self control than that. However, the sight of humans in his realm, uninvited and armed, sent a rage through his blood that could not be quelled by mere talking.

The one who was yelling seemed to be in charge and Thranduil could already tell that this man had absolutely no honour in him. Using one of his own as a human shield! He was no better than an orc and Thranduil was disgusted.

“Tauriel!” He barked as the angry cries from the townsfolk behind him grew into a roar. “Get her out of sight.”

As his soldiers had surrounded their distracted king, moving between him and the group of armed men, Thranduil had taken you by the hand and all but dragged you towards his captain of the guard, who was standing beside Legolas. You had not noticed either of them in the commotion that had taken over when the humans approached.

“Thranduil!” You cried out, but he spared you no more than a glance before turning towards his son as Tauriel pulled you away back inside.

Thranduil and Legolas had followed but they veered off a different way, towards a staircase so they could ascend to wherever Vermund was. Your eyes never left Thranduil as he thundered up the stairs with a group of his people, pausing at the top for just a millisecond to seek you out in the crowd below. Satisfied you would be safe, Thranduil turned once more and disappeared from sight.

Tauriel pulled you towards a set of stairs that led down instead of up. You could hear the fighting outside at the gates and your heart was hammering in your chest. What was happening?! This wasn’t right, none of this was supposed to happen. Why was Vermund inside? What was he doing? You turned your frantic attention fully back to Tauriel, realising she had taken you down into the wine cellar.

“I’m sorry.” You found yourself saying to her, peering anxiously at the stairs you had both just descended.

Tauriel turned to look at you, her beautiful eyes full of confusion. “For what, my lady?”

“That you have been relegated to babysitting me instead of defending your own home from intruders.” You muttered, wringing your hands in frustration. “Intruders that I seem to have brought here.” She is the Captain of the guard! You thought. This must feel so beneath her.

Tauriel moved so that she was standing in front of you, lifting her hands to your upper arms to hold you in place. You blinked back at her. “Do not apologise.” She said firmly. “It is my honour.”

At your disbelieving expression, she gripped your arms a little more tightly. “My lady, if the King has chosen me to guard you... be assured that you are very important to him. That he thinks you very precious indeed. He would have no harm come to you and he knows that I shall let none.”

You didn’t realise you were crying until Tauriel reached up and swiped away your tears. You thought back to the festival, mere hours ago. Dancing with Thranduil, him sweeping the two of you away from the party to be alone, the mirror, the kiss... you knew Thranduil was a great warrior, you had seen it and you had read many things in the history books in the library over your time here. You knew he was no real match for mere mortals... but still you worried. Vermund was here and he did not play fair. You had seen rage in his eyes when he had shouted down from that balcony... he had the look of a man who would do anything.

Your thoughts were swept away as the clanging sound of sword upon sword came closer and Tauriel moved to push you behind a large barrel.

“Stay down.” Was all she managed to mutter before the cellar was infiltrated.

Thranduil had taken his son and his closest guards with him up the stairs. He didn’t know exactly how many other men this infiltrator had up here with him but he decided that the majority of their force needed to stay at the gate. The amount of men inside these halls could not outnumber the amount that stood before them.

When they reached the balcony, however, it was empty. There was not another being in sight and Thranduil was beyond angry. Where were they? He could not allow them to wander these halls unchecked, armed to the teeth, intent on fighting his people and taking you away against your will.

...was it against your will? He had technically set you free and your father was in trouble, unwell. Perhaps you would not be so averse...

Thranduil dismissed such thoughts quicker than he might have in the past, however. He thought back to the way you had clung to him down at the gates. The way you had been so eager to defend him and his people. The way you had seemed to balk at the appearance of that man.

His thoughts returned to the present moment and he whirled around, stalking back through the halls. “Find them!” He commanded in a growl, his fury sky-high as his guards scattered to hunt down the interlopers. “Kill them all.”

Vermund had ordered his men to scatter the moment the fighting had broken out. He needed to find a way to get the king alone and he needed to find you, in whichever order they presented themselves to him. Vermund needed all the distraction he could get. His men would keep the elves who were no doubt on their way up here busy.

Creeping through unfamilar hallways, his trusty sword at the ready, Vermund was fully alert and fully ready for whatever came his way. However, he seemed to rather easily have escaped most of the fighting so far, leaving it to the other townspeople... and sending those who had climbed up here with him to their doom to give himself a headstart and a distraction.

He came upon a half-hidden red doorway and, curious, Vermund pushed his way inside. Maybe he could find something expensive to steal while he waited for his chance to slay the Elf King.

Vermund could not have known that this doorway was one of the many entrances that connected the king’s private halls to the late queen’s. Nor could he know that the blackened rose he happened upon in one of the rooms beyond the door was so important to the king. He made a face at it before he turned and knocked the whole thing off the table, letting the glass case that enclosed the dead Starfire Rose smash to pieces against the marble floor. Its protective barrier vanishing as the rose turned to ashes and blew away in the breeze that blew in through the open window.

“You have just made a most grievous error.” A low, dangerous, voice rang out behind him.

Vermund whipped around from where he had turned to start stuffing his bag and pockets with the expensive looking jewels he had found on the nearby dresser.

Standing there before him was the King himself, armour-less, one of his twin swords in hand, narrowed gaze practically hot enough with anger to have burned through Vermund’s very skin like dragon fire.

Tauriel spun in place, thrusting her sword in front of her as a group of men came at her, outnumbering her and yet she fought tirelessly, moving with a grace that nearly had you mesmerised.

First she tried not to land a killing blow, under the impression that these people held beliefs that were not entirely their fault, but soon she was focused only upon keeping you safe and ridding the halls of the realm she loved and defended from the enemies at the door.

You had ducked behind the barrel when she had told you to but you couldn’t resist peeking out, registering some of the faces as familiar. The horsemaster’s son, the butcher’s brother. This was awful, why was this happening? Your two worlds had collided in the most violent of ways and all you wished was for everybody to understand, to cease this fighting, to come to peace.

“There she is!” The butcher’s brother cried out and, with alarm, you realised that he was pointing directly at you. “Get her! Quick!”

His words were cut off by Tauriel’s sword slicing through his leg. A cry left his lips as he fell to the floor but the other men had already heard and were turning their attentions to you. Tauriel, who would let no one near the king’s beloved, moved once more to stand directly in between you and the group of men who had started to make for your hiding place.

“My lady!” She shouted over her shoulder, swinging her weapon and preventing one from getting around her. “To the back of the room and out! Now! Go!”

Fuelled by dread the likes of which you had only felt when Thranduil found you in the West Wing the first time, you turned instantly and moved to the back of the room. There, behind a deep blue curtain, you found a doorway cut into the wall.

Glancing over your shoulder for just a moment, you pushed your way past the curtain and fled, running up the staircase, leaving Tauriel to take down the rabble of humans as easily as if she were cutting through shrubbery.

Thranduil stood, the tip of his sword pointed directly at Vermund’s chest. He had advanced slowly, moving with deadly ease, slow and deliberate.

“Who are you, who dares enter my domain, intent on attacking those who have never done a thing to you and yours.” Thranduil’s voice was level but there was a dangerous bite to it that was impossible to ignore, even for one as arrogant and conceited as Vermund.

He narrowed his own gaze back at Thranduil, lifting his chin defiantly. A coward though he may be, Vermund saw this creature as one of his greatest enemies in so short a time. He had seen the way you had latched onto this king by the gates, the way your face had fallen when you had seen Vermund himself. You were not locked away in a dungeon as your father had proclaimed you to be. Instead, you walked amongst these animals as though you were one of them, defended them as though they deserved it.

The evil sprite had obviously beguiled you with his dark magic. He wanted you for himself. Vermund would not allow it.

“One who would slay you where you stand, elf.” Came the reply, his tone a challenge all its own. “Vermund, son of Veraith. You will return what belongs to me or I will take it from you... in both scenarios, your life ends.”

Thranduil glared down at this man, the dangerous silence stretching as he regarded this villain. Vermund. Oh, yes, he knew of him alright. He recalled every word you had said about him. The way he sought to own you, hang you like an ornament at his side. The insistent way in which he had badgered you, wearing you down, demanding your hand again and again. He had seen the disgust in your eyes and, while you had assured him nothing horrific had happened at Vermund’s hand... Thranduil did not believe that would last. He knew of men such as this.

If there was a monster in this room, it was not himself, but the man who stood before him.

Thranduil sneered at him, pressing the blade a little harder into his chest. “Big words for such a small man, Vermund son of Veraith.”

With that, Thranduil moved to bring his sword back, preparing to bend into a swing. He wanted to end this, once and for all. He wanted this filth out of his halls - out of his wife’s chambers - and he wanted to take you to your father and bring the both of you back to the safety of these halls. Your village was clearly full of deranged imbeciles.

What Thranduil had not counted on was the other man hiding in the next room, back pressed against the hard wall around the open entryway, sword clasped firmly in front of him. He crept out as Thranduil had been speaking, his focus fixed upon Vermund. It was only at the last moment, as Vermund’s gaze shifted minutely from Thranduil’s face to the approaching man behind him and a small smirk crept onto his features, did Thranduil realise something was amiss.

He twisted his spin into a larger one, turning fast and hard upon the man behind him. Oeric raised his sword high, steel clashing upon steel, as his weapon met the Elvenking’s. Thranduil was staring down at him with contempt, practically snarling. “And who, pray tell, are you?”

“The distraction I needed.” Vermund said from behind him, leaping forward and giving Thranduil a massive shove. The action, mostly due to being so unexpected, sent Thranduil stumbling forward slightly. His sword moved with him, slicing through Oeric’s flesh like it was butter.

Vermund, seeing his supposed best friend as simply collateral damage in his rearview, turned and fled.

Thranduil, angry as a thunderstorm, stalked back out to the gates, where the fighting had now ceased. He saw the humans surrounded by his army but he was unfocused, his gaze flickering wildly around him. He was looking for that wretch, Vermund.

After the man had escaped him, Thranduil had dragged Oeric’s body from his wife’s chambers, and then scoured the entire floor, intent on finishing this once and for all. Trouble was, the man was now simply nowhere, and Thranduil’s anger would not be mitigated. He longed to carve into Vermund’s flesh and make a feast of him for the crows.

“Father.” Legolas approached, putting away his arrows and scanning the crowd that remained.

“Report.” He commanded his son, his gaze still flashing around the mob of humans now fully under control. Legolas gave him a brief rundown, assuring that the upper levels were clear. The men that were left were given a mercy, allowed to live so long as they fled this very moment and never again returned. The Elvenking made them understand in no uncertain terms that, if he were to ever set sights on any of them again, he would personally put to an end to their miserable little lives.

He turned back to his son as the humans fled into the forest, ignoring the fact that they were heading the wrong way. Getting a little lost in the darkness of Mirkwood was no less than they deserved. Still... he would send a couple of spies after them at some point, to make sure they did not perish... once he had cooled down.

He noted that Vermund was not amongst them.

Thranduil said your name then, turning from his son to scan around, seeking you in the crowd. “Where is she?” This directed at Legolas but his son could only shrug, having not seen you. He, too, turned to look around but you were nowhere to be seen.

“My King!” Tauriel’s voice rang out, loud and clear over the heads of his people. She came running from inside, having witnessed the entire thing. “He has taken her into the forest!”

Thranduil’s heart nearly stopped as he turned from Tauriel, unable to hide the dismay on his face, as he stared at the thick expanse of trees before him.

All that stood before him saw in the king’s eyes the heartbreak and the fear that coursed through him at the thought of that monster taking you away, and they recalled a similar expression upon his face the day his queen had been ripped from him and he had been unable to prevent it.

Without another thought or word, he moved, disappearing into the forest at speed.

[sotwk]

Thranduil's love of wine

If you’ve watched The Hobbit films enough times (or simply engaged regularly with Thranduil posts on Tumblr), you will surely have noticed that in multiple scenes, the Elvenking is seen with a wine goblet in his hands. In the book, a good amount is written about the Elvenking’s wine cellar, the inventory management process for his wines, and from where his favorite vintage is sourced. His “wine manager”, the butler Galion, is named in the book, whereas the name Thranduil does not appear even once.

It is likely Thranduil’s Wine was given a prominent role in The Hobbit mostly as a plot device to give Bilbo and the dwarves a means of escape. However, I don’t believe Tolkien made characterization choices randomly, so I would like to propose a few headcanons that link Thranduil’s seeming obsession with wine with certain aspects of his history.

What is the deal with Thranduil and wine? Does he have a drinking problem? Is he truly a wine snob? Does he have an iron liver?

Why does King Thranduil value wine so greatly?

Wine was used in his healing and recovery process after the War of Wrath. That unspeakably terrible war was a mass casualty event (to say the least), and Thranduil was among the young elves to suffer horrific injuries. The Hobbit movies depict him sustaining deadly burns from dragonfire, and although it failed to kill him, the burns would have required advanced Elvish healing and many years of painful recovery. Now consider this: if warriors from Valinor came to fight in the decades-long war, it would make sense that healers accompanied them as well. That would include some of the Maiar.

A Maia undertook the task of saving Thranduil’s life, likely one who served under Estë (healer of hurts), under whom Queen Melian also once served, which makes a neat little Doriathian connection. That unnamed Maia used their powers to heal Thranduil’s battle injuries--flesh burns, poisoning, damage to muscle and organs--and succeeded in eliminating nearly all physical signs of damage. But what did they use for anesthesia and pain management? A potent liquid akin to very, very strong wine. Thranduil consumed that wine while under the Maia’s care, and for a period afterward to aid in his recovery. It gave him strength and comfort during an extremely traumatic time in his life, and he never forgot its taste.

Thranduil has craved that same “wine” ever since. Sadly, since it was a product of Valinor, it is nowhere to be found on Middle-earth. His yearning for the taste of that specific libation has led him to search all the lands for any drink that could come close to matching it. He does not seek it obsessively as an addict would, but as one might ache for a fond but elusive memory from one’s childhood. His quest for the “Maia’s wine” and distaste for liquors that don’t live up to it, has led people to see him as a “wine snob”.

The Dorwinion wine is the closest he has gotten to tasting that special drink again. Early in the Third Age, Thranduil discovered the strong wine from this region and immediately initiated trade with Dorwinion to guarantee a regular supply of it. It became known as the Elvenking’s “special wine”, because it is reserved primarily for his consumption, and is offered only to special guests (e.g. Bard). On occasions of feasting, he orders enough wine to share with his people, but it is often too strong for other elves to drink much of.

Thranduil has had a very high tolerance for alcohol since he was young (likely as a result of consuming that drink from Valinor), and has almost never gotten drunk. He drinks the Dorwinion wine recreationally and on a daily basis, but noticeably consumes more of it in times of stress. The alcohol helps calm and comfort him to a degree, but does not impact his mental state.

Finally, on a less complicated and more light-hearted note, another simple reason why Thranduil loves wine is because he has a history of being a “party prince”. He has always enjoyed hosting and attending dinners and feasts, and values good food and drink in the company of friends. (This dialed back considerably after the death of his wife, but in the years before that, he was known for being a sought-after party guest.) He has a natural fondness for wines of all varieties, and not just the Dorwinion. To him, sharing a cup of wine with someone is a simple but genuine gesture of friendship.

[thran-duils]

Seduce & Destroy (Intro)

Title: Seduce & Destroy (Intro) Summary: A mother is desperate to save her daughter from being married off to the Master of the Town or worse, sold to the brothel for her father to be able to afford drink and rent when he is failing at bringing in money for the household. The mother finds a witch deep in the ancient woods willing to take a sharp cost to bestow safety on the daughter. If it truly ends up as safety... that is yet to be seen. Pairing: Dark!Thranduil x Fem!Human Reader Words: 836 Warnings (more may be added): Non-con, magical manipulation, mental abuse

Part One || Masterpost (mobile) || Fanfic masterpost

Tendrils of mist rose up from below in the caverns. You leaned against the damp rock, fingers gripping. You did not want to fall, you only wanted to see how far down it went. How far you would have to travel to the bottom to find where they threw the barrels out down the river. The river would take you away from here. It would take you back home. Not that it was truly home anymore as far as you knew… you were unsure how much time had truly passed here in Mirkwood. But you wished to even see the edge of the Long Lake again.

“If I didn’t know better, I would say that you were trying to plan an escape, my lóth.”

You startled at the sound of his voice, turning around quickly. You fell back against the rock – completely looking the fool caught with your hand in the jar. You should not startle so at his voice… not after this long. No, you were well versed on your best days. He was supposed to be a comfort. No matter how much he suffocated you. It was soft smiles and measured movements. You had learned well to mimic the movement of the elves, taking time to watch their gaits and interactions with one another. Being caught off guard like you were? Tsk. That was so very human.

His footfalls were light, but they sounded like pounding, warning echoes in your ears as he descended the stairs to you. His hands were clasped behind his back lazily, but his shoulders were broad, proud. His ego knew no bounds and it engulfed his aura.

Long dress robes dragging down the stairs behind him, he came to your landing in the staircase, and towered over you. You were donning your mask again, eyes wide and innocent.

Cocking his head at your blank expression, he drawled, “I frequently find you at loss for words, but not in such circumstances as this. Explain yourself. Why did you leave the party to come down to the bowels of the kingdom? You have no need to be here. You have been acting odd of late and it is starting to worry me, pet.”

You swallowed slowly and tossed a look over your shoulder. “I wanted to see the cellar.”

“Why?” His question as sharp.

“I have never seen the wine stores.”

“What concern are they to you? You have never found your goblet empty, and you never will.”

You changed tactics, “I wanted to see the river from inside the cellar as well… as I enjoyed a glass.”

“You can see the river from our balcony. You do not need to stand so close. It is treacherous with its white caps at this bend in the river, even in the winter. As you well know. I know you’ve seen it.”

Inhaling deeply, you looked to the side again, towards the edge. “I just—”

Your sentence was cut short at feeling Thranduil’s fingers grip beneath your chin to turn your head back towards him. You followed his guidance and blinked, your lashes brushing your cheek, keeping up the wide-eyed, innocent façade.

“You just need to follow what I say and go back upstairs. I don’t want you down here. Is that understood?”

His fingers curled in further, and you nodded with purpose, controlled. The mask was perfectly back on; you were in complete control. No impulsivity, no strong emotion… no humanity. You had been around Thranduil enough to notice the ever so slight twitch in his face that he was pleased. A twitch could mean anger, it could mean sadness, it could mean disgust. Those other things had faded as the decades had gone on. His twitches – on his face, as it were – were more often than not in approval for you.

Fingers trailing down your neck, they ran down between your breasts, and he inhaled deeply at the crease between them, feeling it. They trailed off course across your breast and brushed at your nipple that was peeking at the fabric, exposed in its arousal. His thumb traced it and you stood still, letting him decide what was to happen as usual. You had learned early on that that power laid with him – the King.

His eyes flicked back up to your gaze away from the roundness of your chest. You leaned into his touch as a response, and he pulled away. Wrong move. You usually made the right one but he seemed to want you obedient right now, not responsive.

Thranduil’s beckoned you with haughtiness, “Come back up with me. I won’t ask you again, lóth. You’ve cost us time away from the ceremony enough. It is unbecoming of a queen. I know you’re better behaved than this. You disappoint me with this lapse.”

His hand pressed in at the small of your back, pulling you back towards his orbit. It took everything in you to not look over your shoulder again at where you desperately wanted to escape.

~~~

lóth = flower

[halfelven]

Your headcanons are amazing! Could you maybe have some for Thranduil with baby/child/young Legolas? A lot of people think he was a shit dad but I think that if he was, Legolas wouldn't be the cheery, happy and sassy self he is

Thanks! ☺️

Legolas is so happy and bright and cheery and wonderfully strange and I'm sure Thranduil was an amazing father to him and encouraged him always to be himself.

I have always pictured them having a very close relationship. Thranduil's spouse dying in a skirmish in the forest when he was very young and Thranduil being tasked with raising their child on his own. I imagine Legolas younger than Arwen, so born after his grandfather's death. Also an only child.

They absolutely adore each other. Are known for their amazing parties. They don't have that many common interests but it doesn't matter because they love listening to whatever new and exciting thing the other is obsessing over or bond over their interests in good food, wine, and fabulous parties, which Legolas started helping plan as an adolescent.

Legolas was so small when Thranduil lost his love, and it hurt him deeply, but he was never cold and he never ever turned away from Legolas. He sang him to sleep every night and cried afterwards. He helped Legolas make flower wreaths to lay on the grave. He wished he could take all of his child's pain. Legolas still doesn't know how Thranduil could be that strong for both of them. He counts it the bravest act he's ever witnessed.

As a child, Legolas was very chatty and ran off after every shiny thing or furry creature he saw in the woods. He so trusted his father he didn't realise there was anything to be scared of. Thranduil kept a good eye on him though, so he didn't come to harm.

One of their favourite routines was their night time bath. Thranduil would run soap in the water to make bubbles. Legolas would bring in his toy boats and leaves to be even more boats or rafts. His knees became the islands and many adventures were had.

Thranduil always told or read bedtime stories. He started with brushing Legolas's hair and Legolas would brush his and then Thranduil tucked him into bed and told the story until Legolas was sleepy enough for a song. They just never stopped either. Legolas got older and started reading or telling stories sometimes and talked about their days. They don't do it every single night anymore, but Legolas knows he'd never be turned down if he asked for a bedtime story.

Legolas has nearly stopped Thranduil dead sometimes with his absolute childish recklessness. Jumping from dangerous heights. Log riding in the rapids when he is far too young to log ride in the rapids. Chasing off into the woods because he 'saw something interesting.' He thought he was indestructible, and it took nerves of steel to raise him.

Also, Legolas took his first steps in the wine cellar after he was set down for one moment and immediately tried opening a trap door which really goes to show that he was going to be trouble.

Thranduil's lullaby:

'My child, when you are older, the world won't look the same: the woods are filled with dangers that you can never tame. Many more troubles will make themselves known, but I can promise, baby, that you won't be alone. For always I'll be with you, my shining, silver boy. The world is full of sorrows, but you are full of joy. Behind the darkest clouds, the stars shine over you. The trees stand tall; the river runs true. So sleep now by moonlight, so sleep beneath the sun. For I love you truly, my darling little one. '

[lady-of-starlight]

Let The Star Lead The Way - Chapter 13 - Precious beyond measure

With the pendant stuck between the cold stone and the flesh of his palm, Thranduil closes his eyes, biting back the tears, not allowing them to emerge. He has been avoiding these feelings for years, he would not allow them to overwhelm him now. No.

But, this time, it proves to be more difficult than ever. He has been escaping his feelings for too long, and they demand to be felt.

He cannot remain in this room, but feels the need to withdraw into the peace of his own quarters. With every step, his restlessness grows, and by the time he reaches the doors to his chambers he is more than ready to rip his heart out with his bare hands, in order to prevent himself from feeling anything.

Shutting the doors, he leans against them. He raises his hand and eyes the star-shaped jewel, the broken chain entwined through his fingers.

“Why? Why now? And why this?!”

With the anger spreading through him once more, Thranduil casts the pendant away, hearing it clinking against the stone floor. Without glancing back, he heads to the shelves and pulls out a bottle of wine, downing it faster than what might be deemed possible. It does little to intoxicate him, but it might offer him the peace of mind he so desperately seeks, quieting the unwanted turmoil.

After placing the empty bottle on the table, he walks to his bed, sitting on the edge of it and throwing himself over the bedspread. Thranduil’s hand covers his face as he lies there, without thinking, absent of feelings, as he tries to find rest. His mind refuses it at first, with the feeling of a constant pressure nagging in the back of his head.

He feels himself drifting closer to sleep, wavering at the edges of his consciousness, and it is at this state that his mind suddenly lets go of its long-guarded control, allowing the pain to return, with flashes from the past: Memories he has so desperately tried to forget. But there isn’t a single device nor solution that would allow Thranduil to rid those memories from his mind. They have been carved into his very being, relentlessly bringing back all the images, the sensations...

The feel of her body as she had collapsed into his arms, her blood spilling over his armor as he had leaned over her.

The feel of cold steel against his fingers as he had pulled out the dagger that had pierced her heart.

The echo of the last words shared between them, before life had left her body: “I am sorry...”

Tears run down Thranduil’s cheeks.

“Silevreneth...”

And, as if her name was a summon, he feels the world shift - with her words, not made from any of his distant memories, reverberating through his head:

“My love.”

✽ ✽ ✽

It isn’t the first time this happens. Long, long time ago, on the nights they hadn’t been able to be with each other, they had passed thoughts and images between them. Even feelings, often lined with longing for the other person, far away from them.

But after her death, there had been nothing... Until now.

A feeling of curiosity that has nothing to do with the feelings of his own sweeps through Thranduil, both foreign and familiar at the same time. ”...You?”

“It has been such a long time.”

“But... How?”

“It is by your surrender that I am finally able to speak with you. So much time has passed, and yet you have avoided even the mere thought of me, or the connection we once shared.” a slight trace of her dissatisfaction curls around the edges of the words.

“It is the mere thought of you that is still close of tearing my soul apart... Can you really blame me for avoiding all of it?”

She doesn’t answer immediately, yet her presence circles him, wondering, searching.

“I cannot linger for long. I am not strong enough to hold the connection for more than a little while.”

Thranduil shivers. “There was a time when I thought about the words I would speak to you, the apologies I would give, if I had the chance to meet you once more...”

 Her compassion meets his senses, comforting him. “You have nothing to apologize for, my love. And there are no words that could change the things that happened that day, you know it just as well as I do.”  Then, her words turn sad. “You know I cannot return. The past, our past, has wounded  me too deeply, possibly beyond healing. But you...” A slight touch, almost like a ghost of a hand, passes over his cheek. “...you have the chance to move on.”

Thranduil is filled with agony, his words breaking as he answers: “How am I supposed to do such a thing? Perhaps I, too, am beyond healing?”

“You know that it is not true.” Her tender feelings caress Thranduil’s whole being, filling him with a tiny sparkle of hope. “I feel the change in you. New emotions, rising from a place in your soul you never thought to be able to get in touch with again.”

Realizing what she means, Thranduil freezes. “Do not talk to me of her!”

“Oh, but why wouldn’t I? You do feel for her, am I not right? Why not start over, with a whole new life?”

“She is but a thief, not only attempting to steal the gems of the realm but also my heart!”

“Careful, darling,” sadness floods over her words, “not everything is what it seems.”

“Why are we even speaking about this? There are so many other things we should be talking about--”

“I offer you the chance to move on, to free yourself from the darkness of your past. ”

Tears stain his cheeks. “And what if I find myself unable to do so?”

“You need to let go of me, my darling King. You need to let go of all that guilt you have kept inside your heart for all these years.”

Her presence begins to fade, her voice growing weaker. “I have found my peace, it is time for you to find yours...”

Thranduil tries to desperately hold on to the traces of her, not wanting her to leave. “Silevreneth, please...”

There is a last touch on his lips, the ghost of love long gone, doomed to disappear once more. “Farewell, my love...”

Then, she is gone, and Thranduil is left alone, accompanied only by his own aching heart.

✽ ✽ ✽

There is a loud sound that snaps Thranduil right awake. One of the guards has entered the room, looking astonished to find the King still sleeping.

“Apologies, my lord. One of the servants is asking for an audience.”

Thranduil brings his fingers over his eyes, finding them moist and quickly trying to clean them as he does his best to ignore how shaky his fingers are. How long has he been sleeping? “What time is it?”

“Almost noon, my lord.” The guard looks restless. “I wouldn’t want to hurry you, but the servant says that her matter is an urgent one.”

Thranduil sighs impatiently. “Very well, bring her in.” He rises from his bed and adjusts his clothes, before the guard returns with another elf. She curtsies before speaking:

“I am very sorry to disturb you like this, my lord, but I’m afraid something might have happened..”

“What?” Thranduil feels the unease growing within him. “What is this about?”

“Your guest from Lothlórien, my lord. She has not been seen since yesterday, and no one seems to know where she is.”

That’s when he recognizes her: it is the servant that the girl had befriended - Emlineth, wasn’t that her name?

“Have you searched everywhere? You are absolutely sure she is not just merely hiding somewhere?”

The servant looks confused. “Hiding? Why would she be in hiding, my lord?”

Thranduil closes his eyes, cursing himself for letting that slip. No one except him and the girl knew what had happened last night, and he would make sure no one would ever find out. “It matters not. Have you searched every possible place? The cellars? High chambers? The river caves?”

“Yes, my lord. There is no sign of her.” She looks deeply worried. “I found her gown from the floor of her chambers, but nothing else.”

At the mention of the floor, Thranduil’s gaze shifts towards the ground, searching for the tiny object he had thrown there earlier.

Which is nowhere to be found.

“Where is it!?” His voice booms through the room as he rises on his feet, searching the floor with his eyes.

“What, my lord?!”

“There was a necklace on the floor, who has taken it?!”

“We-we cannot tell, my lord, we have not been able to keep proper track of the visitors because of the feast...”

Both the guard and the servant shrink back at the sight of their King, now furious, with a fire blazing in his eyes as he turns towards them. “Arrest and bring me the two companions of our guest, at once! Someone in this realm knows where she is, and I will find it out, one way or another. My patience has been tested long enough. No more!“

Then, Thranduil takes one of his swords from where they lay, placed next to his armor, and strides out of the doors, his fury rising with every step he takes.

Someone would be held responsible for all this, and they would not escape without consequences.

- End of chapter 13 -

Silevreneth = One Who Glitters Like a White Crystal

Author’s notes:

A quick word, in case some of you aren’t familiar with Tolkien’s less famous texts - There has been some general discussion about the possible use of “telepathy” between elves (and the other beings of Middle-earth), in the form of ósanwë. I can’t recall all of it, but it was argued that all elves would have had the ability to use ósanwë up to a certain degree. It was said to be quite difficult and rarely used, but the ability was amplified if the two communicators shared some kind of an emotional link. Even then, it could be used only when both parties were “open” and willing to communicate. Which, in this case, Thranduil certainly wasn’t until he “opened” his mind to his memories and his late wife, thus permitting Silevreneth to enter his thoughts from the other side.

It was also said that ósanwë did not use any actual words and was, in fact, the opposite of spoken languages (as it was a direct way to pass emotions, memories and whatnot), but as this is my fictional story, I let that slip a bit.

As usual, feedback is always welcome! And thank you for your numerous messages!

Tagged persons: @shady-teenagers @danidac7 @bellastellaluna @blackcat995 @the-ship-amitiel @evyiione @tenduelimagines @raindancer2004 @bunnysneverdie (If you wish to be tagged in the future posts of this story, please leave a comment under the newest chapter. Those that have already been tagged once will remain tagged for the rest of the chapters.)

[sotwk]

First Sight (Thranduil x OC Wife fanfic)

Summary: At an autumn feast in Lorinand, Lady Maereth lays eyes for the first time on Thranduil Oropherion, the Sindar prince who would one day become her husband.

Chapter One of a series about the early friendship of Thranduil and Maereth, called "Sins of Our Fathers".

Pairing: Thranduil X FemOC (Reader/2nd Person POV is Maereth, his OC wife in my "Sons of the Woodland King" universe.)

Supporting canon characters: Celebrian, Lindir

Word count: 2.2k

Content: Budding romance, friendship, fluff, mild angst, Second Age events, Thranduil as a party free-spirited prince

Warnings: None

To Read on AO3: Link

Dedication: For my lovely new mutual, @ethuil-flower. She has just started a beautiful Thranduil-centered blog and I am so honored she has chosen to reblog many of my posts on it! Thank you for your kind support, mellon nin!

A/N: If you would like to be tagged in future Thranduil fics, please just say so in comments/reblog/DM!

Divider credit: @firefly-graphics

Sins of Our Fathers

Chapter One: First Sight

Second Age 1358

Egladil in Lorinand, Kingdom of Amdir

The Mereth Nuin Giliath is too important for you to miss, or so Celebrian insisted, when she implored you to join her and Nimeithel at the feast that evening. You had stumbled through your attempts to decline her earnest invitation, aware that your standard excuses would not suffice on this occasion. For it was true that all the people of Lorinand were expected to gather by the banks of the Celebrant to celebrate as a community, and withholding your attendance would be seen as terribly impolite towards your host. Lady Galadriel had been unceasingly kind and generous towards you since your unexpected arrival a fortnight ago. If her daughter truly wished for your company, obliging her would be but a small repayment.

By twilight, the sprawling green meadows of Egladil come alive with unnumbered revelers milling about the laden food tables and wine stations. The lively melodies of flute, lute, harp carry over the crowd’s voices to greet you as you arrive, walking just a few paces behind the cousins, two ethereally lovely maidens of silver hair and laughing eyes. Celebrian and Nimeithel draw the gazes of nearly every ellon they pass, gazes that you hope to avoid by keeping yours pinned to the ground.

But you catch yourself, steel your resolve to mind your manners, and rise above the impulse to hide away. The musicians on the central dais strike up a carola, and you are swept into a flurry of elves rushing together to form a circle. To your right, Nimeithel grabs your hand, and to your left, an ellon you have never met or seen before wraps his fingers around yours. His grip is gentle but sure, as bold and confident as the smile he flashes at you. At once the circle begins to turn, with every individual in it moving at the fast pace of the song, leaving you no time to think. This dance is not familiar to you, but you release your body to the music’s tempo, and your steps fall in sync with the rest of the group. 

A few more songs later, you are flushed and out of breath, half from exertion and half a result of sheer mirth. A cup of wine is pressed into your hand and you join in the conversation with some new acquaintances. You forget to care who your friends might be introducing you as, and it seems no one cares to question your identity anyhow. You find it proven yet again that the Tawarwaith are exceedingly warm and unabashed in their exuberance, and furthermore have a gift for enticing the shyest of newcomers to join in their merriment. 

“This is excellent wine!” proclaims Nimeithel, holding her empty cup aloft. Her fair cheeks have gone a telltale shade of pink. “But I’m afraid I cannot have another if I wish to stay on my feet for the rest of the evening!”

“It is stronger than any vintage I have ever been served,” Celebrian remarks. She had taken only a sip or two of hers before refusing the rest. “Is it from the King’s cellars?” 

“I believe it came from Greenwood, my lady,” says the ellon named Lindir, the same one who had taken your hand at the carola and since then remained in your group’s company. “I saw wine barrels with King Oropher’s mark being delivered to the feasting hall this morning.”

“Ah!” exclaims Gwaerendir, one of the King’s kinsmen and--as revealed to you in hushed confidence--Nimeithel’s suitor. “I should have guessed. It is not Oropher’s way to send such a gift. This is his son’s doing.”

“Thranduil!” Nimeithel’s eyes widen. “Has he come to celebrate with us? Why did you not mention this sooner?”

“You know him as well as I do. It would be easier to give advance notice of a gale in a storm than of Thranduil’s comings and goings,” laughs Gwaerendir. “I know not for certain if he is here, but I would be shocked if he sent his best wine to a feast that he is not attending.”

While they continue their banter, Celebrian draws you aside to whisper, “Thranduil is King Oropher’s only son, the prince of Greenwood the Great. They were raised together in Menegroth--he, Nimeithel and Gwaerendir.”

The dreaded coldness washes over you at the mere mention of Thingol’s fallen fortress. The urge to run away from present company threatens to overwhelm you. Celebrian is quick to notice and slips her arm across your shoulders reassuringly. 

“Remember my mother’s words, Maereth,” she says firmly. “You are among friends and have nothing to fear in Lorinand. You have our love and our discretion.”

You could not help but smile and draw courage from her stout declaration. “I have heard of the Prince of Greenwood, but did not realize he and Nimeithel were such old friends. Do you know him well?”

“He and his father lived in Harlindon for a time, before they migrated east. But I was just a child then, and those memories of him are few.” She links her arm through yours and steers you away from the rest of the group. “He would come to our home to visit my father. I watched them train with swords once, and when he disarmed Ada, it frightened me so much I cried.”

“How strange that I never encountered him then. It seems our paths should have crossed over so many years.”

Celebrian ponders this for a moment. “By the time you arrived from Mithlond, I believe Thranduil began to travel a lot, all across Eriador. I remember my parents talking about how King Oropher blamed Ada for influencing his son. But you heard Gwaerendir describe him--untamed like a storm’s wind.”

“Does he visit Lorinand often?”

“More often now that Nimeithel is here to complete the reunion of their trio.” Celebrian squeezes your arm in another effort to soothe your anxieties. “Do not let his trappings intimidate you. He is cut from the same cloth as Gwaerendir. I think you will enjoy his company. Or find it amusing, at the very least.”

But her well-intentioned statement only tightens the knot in your stomach. You cast a glance back in Gwaerendir’s direction, where he stands gesturing animatedly as he regales his friends with a tale. Handsome and charming and relentlessly cheerful, he has shown not a slight hint of the animosity many Sindar tend to harbor towards Noldor entering their lands. But you know his behavior is influenced in no small part by his devotion to Nimeithel. And he does not know the whole truth about you, a safeguard that can crumble with even a minor slip in conversation. 

Distraction comes to the rescue in the form of Lindir, who politely interrupts to request a dance with you. The refined young elf-lord is easy company, and before long you find yourself alone with him, losing track of your friends after several turns on the dance floor. You mention feeling hungry, and at once he escorts you to the banquet. 

Lindir exchanges familiar greetings with nearly every elf he encounters, and takes the extra step to introduce you as well. His gallant efforts to make you feel welcomed threaten to backfire as your anxiety blooms anew; calling attention to your presence is exactly what you sought to avoid. But as you take a seat at one of the long tables, you find most of the company are too preoccupied with their own enjoyment to pay close attention to a stranger in their midst. The Mereth Nuin Giliath draws visitors from as far as Imladris, making you just one among many new faces in the city. Your dining companions, with the exception of Lindir, interact with you very little, and seem more interested in their cups of the potent Greenwood wine than in asking you questions. Your nerves gradually settle and before long, you slip back into a state of relaxed, quiet enjoyment.  

After partaking of the sumptuous bounty of dishes from King Amdir’s kitchens, you accept Lindir’s offer to take a stroll along the banks of the Celebrant. He is happy to continue doing most of the talking, and sates your curiosity with detailed answers to your queries about Lorinand, about his duties in the royal household, and every topic you use to divert the conversation from yourself.

Back towards the festivities, you hear distant voices rise together in a shared song. You stop to listen more closely, moved by the sweetness of the unfamiliar hymn. Suddenly an even more melodious voice graces your ears, as Lindir begins to follow along, first humming in a rich baritone before singing the lyric, which you then realize is in the Silvan tongue. 

“You have a gift,” you murmur in shy but genuine admiration, for truthfully his was perhaps the single loveliest singing voice you had ever heard from an ellon.

He accepts the compliment with a gracious nod. “Do you speak Silvan, my lady?”

“Only a little, I’m afraid.”

He proceeds to translate the lyrics for you. The Iay narrates the romance between the embodiments of autumn and spring, of their tragic longing to be together, but their differences in nature would not allow it.

“Is that not a rather somber topic to sing about at a festival?”

“That may be so, but it is a tradition as old as the Mereth itself,” Lindir chuckled. “Many of us Tawarwaith learned the song from our cribs. And you will find that our people do not unnecessarily constrain ourselves with rules and convention. It is a beloved melody and so we will sing it no matter the occasion.”

You smile, knowing the implied comparison to the Noldor, your kin, who perhaps obsessed far too much about customs and propriety. “I will admit, that does sound liberating.”

Lindir tilts his head and studies you for a moment with an intent, but not ungentle, stare. “If I may,” he finally says. “Your eyes… I have never seen such colored eyes before. They are extraordinary.”

Startled by the compliment, you divert your gaze like a thief caught red-handed, even as you respond with a soft, “Thank you.” The way the hue of your eyes shift back and forth from green to gold is not within your control, but it is subtle enough that most people do not notice it, unless they have been staring at your face for a good while. 

You did not realize Lindir had been looking at you that closely. 

It is not the ellon’s interest that flusters you, however. It is the attention called to this very rare physical trait that, as far as you know, was bequeathed to you by your mother, and her mother before her. It linked you unequivocally to a lineage that you are in a constant battle to obfuscate.

"If I embarrassed you Lady Maereth, I do apologize," Lindir says to cut the awkward silence. "I am not usually so forward."

Before reassurances can leave your lips, your attention is redirected to Celebrant's flowing waters, where a distant shape materializes from behind the trees running along the curved bank, drifting lazily downstream in your direction.

Peals of silvery laughter rise above the river's steady babble, announcing the presence of passengers upon the approaching boat. As the vessel comes into clearer view, you see it is a work of art in itself, painted pure white and constructed in the shape of a swan.

The swanships of Alqualondë. Joy and grief clash in your heart to finally behold Lorinand's tribute to those fabled masterpieces of the Falmari shipwrights, mirroring the conflict between the two sides of your heritage.

You take a few steps back, your mind scrambling for an excuse to depart without hurting Lindir’s feelings.

But before you can turn away, you catch sight of him.

On the deck of the large boat are four passengers. Three giggling elleths cluster around the one ellon, upon whom your full attention has fallen. He stands tall with the proud, self-assured carriage only seen in lords of the highest status, his bearing further enhanced by the elegant make of his forest-green tunic. His silver hair falls to his waist, even longer and finer than Celebrian's, held in place by only a thin circlet. His face…

Suddenly, you find yourself looking straight into his eyes. Turning his face away from his companions and towards the river’s edge, he finds you. That gaze, greyish blue as a winter’s sky, locks onto yours, and traps it. You cannot move, helpless as those fierce eyes reach deep into you, probing with a curiosity that would not be denied. And as reticent as you have always been, and protective of your secrets, a small voice rises in your mind and echoes in your heart, calling for you to welcome him in, as though he belongs there.

No. You will not. Your will fights against this urging, this spell, or whatever magic the elf-prince Thranduil may be casting upon you, and you tear your gaze away. You catch just a glimpse of surprise, perhaps even frustration, on the Silvan royal’s face. You feel a swell of pride and triumph as you smooth the skirt of your dress and sniff as you physically turn away from Thranduil of Greenwood, and cast your smile at Lindir. 

“I would love to listen to and learn more songs of the Tawarwaith, if you would honor me.” 

Lindir beams as you slip your hand into the crook of his offered arm, and you let him lead you away from the riverbank, ignoring the furious stare that follows you in your departure.