Oh sweet lullaby

Writer & Fan

[lullaby-lilies]

Hihi!

I have been writing on and off since I was 12 — that’s 12 years now! So I can safely say I know what I’m doing 🤓 My fandoms are IMMENSE, but I'll mostly focus on Tolkien’s works (ROP included).

You can also find my stories on AO3

Sideblog:

@thorns-and-starlight — moments between Thranduil and my OC Elenariel.

@elenariel - all about my Tolkien OC

Masterlist

“You can’t use up creativity. The more you use, the more you have." - Margaret Atwood

[aeiou142857]

Elvenking and King under the Mountain

[lullaby-lilies]

In case you missed my last post, I finally went ahead and created a sideblog solely focusing on Reader Inserts from Tolkien’s world - including the show Rings of Power. It'll also be here where I'll continue with my winter themed stories.

You can find the blog here @tolkien-reader-inserts

[tolkien-reader-inserts]

#001 - Legolas

Legolas x human!Reader

– Silver moonlight softens the forest, but Legolas’s gaze warms you far more deeply.

Night in Mirkwood is never truly dark.

Even in winter, when the forest sleeps in frost and shadow, the moon filters through the bare branches like liquid silver, pooling softly across the forest floor.

You stand outside the palace, breath forming little clouds in the cold air, wrapped in a cloak as moonlight spills over everything—softening, brightening, blessing.

“Could not sleep?”

His voice is a whisper of starlight behind you.

You turn to see Legolas, pale hair glimmering as though it stores the moon’s glow. He stands with the ease of someone born of forests and winter light, his presence quiet but powerful.

“I didn’t want to waste a night like this,” you admit. “The moon is beautiful.”

He steps closer, gaze lifting to the sky—or perhaps to the way the moonlight touches your face.

“Elbereth herself would envy such a night,” he murmurs.

You blink, surprised. “Is that an Elven compliment?”

He tilts his head. “It is a truth.”

Your heart stirs, unsure whether he meant the moon or you.

Legolas moves until he stands beside you beneath the bare branches. The light catches the fine angles of his face, making him look almost too ethereal to be real. You watch the soft silver glow curve along his cheekbone, the faint shimmer where frost dusts the ends of his hair.

The moment feels suspended—quiet, endless, fragile.

“You humans,” Legolas says softly, “feel moonlight more deeply than Elves do.”

You glance at him. “Is that a bad thing?”

He shakes his head. “No. It is… curious.”

He pauses, searching for the right words.

“You cherish what is fleeting. It makes every winter night precious.”

His eyes drift back to you, lingering.

“I find myself cherishing it as well,” he adds quietly.

Your breath catches. “Because of the moonlight?”

“Because of the person standing within it.”

The forest seems to hold its breath. Even the wind stops its wandering to listen.

Legolas steps a fraction closer. Not quite touching, but close enough that you feel the warmth radiating from him despite the cold. The moonlight spills across both of you, and for a moment, it feels like the world has shrunk to this—silver light, quiet breath, and the soft steadiness in his gaze.

“You shine beneath the moon,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Did you know?”

“I don’t,” you murmur, “but you do.”

A subtle smile touches his lips—rare, sincere.

“Come,” he says, offering his hand in that gentle, courtly way. “Walk with me. The forest is peaceful tonight.”

You place your hand in his.

His fingers curl around yours—light, sure, reverent.

Beneath the moonlight, Legolas leads you into the quiet silver forest as though he is guiding you into something more than a winter night— something deeper, softer, beginning.

[lullaby-lilies]

NEW SIDEBLOG @tolkien-reader-inserts

I'll be sharing all of my reader inserts here - currently focused on the remainder of the winter holidays.

[lullaby-lilies]

Day 8 - Eomer

Eomer x Reader – A playful shout, a handmade gift—Éomer’s surprise warms you far more than the firelight.

The Golden Hall glows with firelight, lively with the noise of feasting and laughter as Yule approaches. You slip outside for a moment of quiet, stepping into the crisp air where snow blankets the courtyard in soft white.

You breathe in deeply—only to nearly leap out of your skin when a voice shouts behind you:

“Surprise!”

You whirl around, hand at your chest.

Éomer stands there—broad grin, windswept hair, far too pleased with himself.

“Éomer!” you gasp. “What in the world—?”

His grin widens. “I wanted to see if I could startle you.”

“You did,” you scold, trying to calm your racing heart. “Nearly gave me a heart attack!”

He winces dramatically. “Forgive me then—though it was a rather impressive reaction.”

You swat his arm. He laughs, a warm, bright sound that rolls across the snowy courtyard like firelight spreading.

“But in truth,” he says, stepping closer, “the surprise was not merely to startle you.”

“Oh?” you ask, wary but curious. “Then what was it for?”

He reaches behind his back. You brace yourself for anything—from a snowball to a mischievous grin.

Instead, he holds out…

a small wreath.

Not large, not extravagant—just a simple ring of winter-green sprigs tied with a leather cord. Your breath catches.

“I made it,” Éomer says, suddenly more sheepish than a warrior of the Mark should be. “Or tried to. I’m no artisan, but I thought—well, I thought you might like something to brighten your chamber.”

You stare at it, touched. “Éomer… it’s beautiful.”

His shoulders loosen, relief flickering across his face. “Good. Because I feared it looked more like a tangled bush than a wreath.”

You laugh—soft, affectionate—and take it from him.

“It’s lovely,” you say, meaning it.

He steps closer, close enough that his breath warms the winter air between you.

“I wanted to give you something,” he admits, voice deepening with quiet sincerity. “A reminder that you are welcome here. That you are—” He hesitates, searching. “—a bright presence in the Golden Hall.”

Your heart stirs. “You didn’t need to surprise me to do that.”

“Ah,” he says, grin returning, “but then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of seeing your expression.”

“And what expression was that?”

He leans in, teasing warmth in his eyes.

“The one you’re wearing now.”

Before you can retort, Éomer gently adjusts the wreath in your hands, fingers brushing yours—steady, warm, lingering just a moment too long.

“Surprise,” he murmurs, softer this time. “For you. Only you.”

Your cheeks warm despite the cold.

Éomer—proud warrior of the Riddermark—looks at you as though you were the real surprise of the evening.

[lullaby-lilies]

i am jumping around at your fics they are so good thank you for writing!

Aww, that's very kind of you to say, thank you!

[lullaby-lilies]

Day 7 - Boromir

Boromir x Reader – Boromir warms your frozen hands, refusing to let winter steal even a piece of you.

Snowstorms in Gondor were rare, but this winter had come with teeth.

Your fingers sting as you struggle to secure the bundle of firewood in your arms. The wind whips harder across the courtyard of Minas Tirith, biting through your gloves as if the cold means to make an example of you.

“You should not be out in this weather.”

The voice booms behind you—firm, unmistakable.

You turn, breath clouding the air, to find Boromir striding toward you with that commanding presence he carries even when simply walking across a courtyard. His cloak whips behind him, the fur at his shoulders frosted with snow.

“I was managing,” you insist.

His eyes flick to your hands, your shivering arms, your pale cheeks.

“You were not,” he counters, already lifting the bundle of wood from your grasp as though it weighs nothing. “Your fingers are nearly frozen.”

You flex them, wincing at the ache. “It’s just a little cold, Boromir.”

He gives you a look—equal parts disbelief and fond irritation.

“‘A little cold,’ she says,” he mutters, and then his gloved hand closes around your wrist, guiding you into the nearest alcove where the wind cannot reach.

The moment you’re out of the gale, he removes one glove with his teeth, tosses it aside, and takes your hands between his bare ones.

Warmth. Blessed, overwhelming warmth.

You gasp softly at the contrast; Boromir’s grip tightens.

“Don’t fight the pain,” he says gently. “It means the blood is returning.”

His thumbs rub slow circles into your chilled skin—firm, careful, grounding. You stare at him, at the fierce concentration on his face, as though warming your hands is a task of military importance.

“You act as if I’ve lost a limb,” you murmur.

His gaze snaps up to yours, and the intensity there steals your breath.

“You could have,” he says. “Frostbite is no trivial matter. Many soldiers have lost fingers for less.”

Your voice softens. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“You did,” he says simply. “Terribly.”

His hands enclose yours fully now, enveloping them in heat. When you try to pull away—more out of embarrassment than anything—his grip tightens.

“Leave them there,” he orders softly. “Until they are warm.”

You fall silent, heart thudding.

Snow drifts past the archway, pale and cold, but in the dim sheltered corner, Boromir stands close—so close you feel the heat of him even through layers of winter clothes.

“Next time,” he says, voice lowering, “you ask for help.”

“That seems unfair,” you tease weakly. “You never ask anyone for help.”

A slow grin tugs at one corner of his mouth.

“That is because I am Boromir.”

“Then what am I?”

His expression shifts—soft, open, unguarded in a way he rarely allows.

“You,” he says, “are someone I’d rather not find frozen solid in the courtyard.”

Your cheeks warm. He senses it—of course he does—and his smile deepens, proud of the effect he’s having.

Finally, when your fingers stop aching, Boromir lifts your hands to his lips, brushing warmth across your knuckles.

“There,” he murmurs. “Better.”

Outside, the cold still howls but with Boromir standing this close, you cannot feel it at all

[lullaby-lilies]

Day 6 - Thranduil

– Elven punch burns warm; Thranduil’s nearness burns far hotter.

The winter feast in Mirkwood was a breathtaking affair—golden lanterns floating in the air like drifting stars, music threading through the halls, and long tables adorned with crystalline bowls of jeweled fruits and shimmering beverages.

One such bowl sits before you now, filled with the Elven winter punch—a luminous drink the color of frost-kissed berries. You swirl your cup gently, watching the liquid catch the light as though it carries starlight within.

“Be cautious.”

The warning rolls over your shoulder in a voice you’d recognize anywhere—smooth, cool, annoyingly beautiful.

You turn slowly.

Thranduil stands behind you, hands clasped behind his back, posture effortlessly regal as only he can be. His eyes are fixed on your cup.

“It is just punch,” you say.

“It is Elven punch,” he corrects, stepping closer. “Mortals tend to underestimate it… just before it outmatches them.”

You lift a brow. “Are you implying it’s too strong for me?”

A soft huff leaves him—almost a laugh, but refined into something dry and elegant.

“I am stating,” he says, “that it is strong enough for Elves.”

He reaches for the ladle in the bowl and pours the drink into his own crystal cup. The movement is graceful, deliberate, and annoyingly mesmerizing. When he takes a sip, his eyes never leave yours.

“You see?” you tease lightly. “You’re drinking it. I’ll be fine.”

“Hmm.” His gaze lowers to your cup again, the faintest glint of amusement in his eyes. “I would not place such confidence in your ability to remain upright if you drink more than one.”

“You think I can’t handle a holiday drink?”

He steps closer—so close you can feel the faint scent of winter spice and cedar clinging to him.

“I think,” he says softly, “that your kind is… delightfully fragile when indulging.”

Your cheeks warm. “And why does that ‘delight’ you, Your Majesty?”

His lips curve in a small, knowing smile.

“Because,” he murmurs, “it gives me reason to intervene.”

You blink. “Intervene how?”

He leans in slightly, voice a low whisper meant only for you.

“To keep you from tripping over your own feet in front of my court.”

Your breath catches. “I don’t do that.”

“Not yet.”

You scoff, lifting your cup in defiance—and take a bold sip.

Warmth floods instantly through your chest, spreading quickly, surprisingly potent. You exhale, eyes widening.

Thranduil’s smile deepens—not mocking, but rich with satisfaction.

“Ah,” he says, tone silky, “there it is.”

“Okay,” you admit, “it’s strong.”

“You have no idea.” His voice dips. “One more cup, and you will be reciting poetry to the chandeliers.”

You snort a laugh. “You’re exaggerating.”

“I am not.”

He takes your cup gently from your hand—fingers brushing yours, warm and deliberate—and sets it on the table.

“Thranduil—”

“You will thank me later,” he says.

“And if I want another?”

His head tilts, eyes gleaming like polished ice.

“Then I will simply have to stop you.”

A beat.

“By whatever means necessary.”

Your pulse jumps.

“Is that a threat?”

“It is a promise,” he answers, voice velvet-dark.

Somewhere across the hall, the Elven punch glows softly in its crystal bowl—utterly forgotten—because the heat in Thranduil’s gaze is far more intoxicating.

[lullaby-lilies]

Day 5 - Faramir

Day 5: Faramir x Reader – Simple tea, steady hands—Faramir finds peace in your quiet company.

The fire crackles softly in the small chamber set aside for visitors of the Citadel. Evening light spills through the narrow windows, cool and pale against the warm glow of the hearth. You sit at the small wooden table, fingers wrapped around a steaming cup of tea.

It’s simple tea—mint, with a hint of something floral. Comforting. Steadying.

A soft knock sounds at the door.

Before you can respond, the door opens just enough for Faramir to step inside. His presence is unassuming, gentle, as though he’s afraid to disturb the quiet of the room.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” he says, voice warm as the fire.

“Never,” you assure him, and gesture lightly to the second cup on the table. “I thought you might join me.”

He smiles—a real one, soft and grateful. “Then I will consider myself fortunate.”

He closes the door behind him and approaches the table with quiet steps. Faramir doesn’t take the chair opposite you—not at first. Instead, he pauses beside you, eyes drifting to the steam curling from your cup.

“What blend is this?” he asks, curiosity warm in his tone.

“Mint and wildflower,” you say. “It’s calming.”

Faramir’s eyes soften. “My mother favored the same combination. She said it soothed the soul.”

His voice lowers slightly. “I find she was often right.”

He sits, finally, fingers brushing the ceramic as he lifts his own cup. The warmth seems to settle into him—his shoulders easing, the tension of the day slipping away. You watch him for a moment, struck by how different he is from the other captains, the other lords—less guarded, more quietly aware of the world around him.

He takes a small sip, sighs softly, and then meets your gaze.

“You have a gift,” he says gently.

“For what?” you laugh softly. “Making tea?”

“For creating peace,” he answers without hesitation. “Even in the smallest of moments.”

He pauses, thoughtful. “Especially in the smallest ones.”

Your breath catches. “I didn’t know you needed peace tonight.”

“I often do,” he admits, eyes flicking toward the fire. “But it is rare to find it.”

The room rests in a comfortable hush as the two of you sip your tea. Faramir watches the steam rise from his cup, contemplative.

“You know,” he says quietly, “tea is… more than a drink to my people. It is a way of slowing time. Of choosing stillness.” His lips curve faintly. “We often forget to choose it.”

You smile. “Then I’m glad you chose it with me.”

His eyes lift to yours—so sincere they make your chest ache.

“I always would.”

The words land between you like something fragile and precious.

Before you can respond, Faramir gently nudges the teapot toward you.

“Pour me another?” he asks softly.

Although his voice is calm, steady, polite— you can see something glimmering behind it. Something warm, something hopeful.

You pour and he watches your hands as if the moment itself is a gift

[lullaby-lilies]

Day 4 - Elrond (ROP)

Elrond x human!Reader – Silver bells chime; Elrond stands closer than tradition should allow.

Lindon never felt more alive than during winter.

Elves strung delicate silver bells between white lanterns, their chimes drifting on the cold breeze like scattered laughter. The sound was light, melodic—each note tumbling into the next with an ease you envied.

You stood in the courtyard beneath the canopy of lights, watching as another gust of wind sent the bells dancing.

“You seem captivated.”

The voice was unmistakable—smooth, warm, with a thread of curiosity woven through it.

You turn to find Elrond beside you, hands clasped neatly behind his back. His hair is pulled half-up as usual, but a few strands have escaped, moving gently in the winter air. His eyes soften when they meet yours, as if the sight of you is its own quiet comfort.

“I’ve never heard bells like these,” you admit. “They’re… beautiful.”

Elrond steps closer, tilting his head slightly as if listening more deeply than anyone else could.

“They are crafted by our artisans to hold starlight,” he explains. “The metal remembers it. When the wind touches them, the sound carries echoes of the night sky.”

“That sounds impossible.”

A small smile touches his lips.

“In Lindon, many things that seem impossible are merely… tradition.”

Another breeze sweeps through, and the bells above sing their crystalline song. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the sound settle into you, warm and bright even in the cold.

When you open them again, Elrond is watching you.

Not with curiosity.

Not with politeness.

But with something quieter, deeper.

“You like the sound,” he observes gently.

“I do,” you say. “It reminds me of snow falling at night. Peaceful. Soft. Like everything’s clean for just a moment.”

Elrond seems to consider this, gaze drifting upward to the bells as if seeing them anew through your eyes.

“Peaceful,” he echoes softly. “Yes… that is a rare thing. Even here.”

His voice carries a weight—duty, memory, longing—and before you can think of a response, a stronger wind arrives. The bells chime brighter, louder, almost swirling around you.

Without thinking, you step back from the breeze—

—and Elrond steps with you.

A hand, warm and steady, comes to rest just above your elbow. Not gripping. Simply there. An anchor in the flurry of sound.

The bells fade. The wind calms.

But Elrond does not move his hand.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs, though his thumb unconsciously grazes the fabric of your sleeve. “The ground can be uneven here.”

You glance at his hand, then up at him. “Elrond… I’m not going to be swept away by bells.”

His cheeks—only barely—color.

“No,” he admits. “But the wind is unpredictable, and I would prefer you not fall.”

“Is that your diplomatic way of saying you were worried?”

A breath leaves him—half a laugh, half surrender.

“If I must be honest,” he says gently, “yes.”

The bells chime again—softer this time, like they approve.

Elrond’s eyes lift toward them, thoughtful.

“If they bring you joy,” he says, turning back to you, “then perhaps… a smaller set could be crafted for your quarters. Something that will sing when you open the window.”

You blink, startled. “Elrond, you don’t need to do that.”

“No,” he agrees softly. “But I wish to.”

The wind stirs once more, and the bells whisper above you but all you hear is the warmth in his voice.

[lullaby-lilies]

Day 3 -Thorin Oakenshield

Thorin Oakenshield x Reader  — A king shields you from winter, revealing warmth beneath stone.

The mountain winds never stopped.

Even after Erebor was reclaimed, the air that wove through its stone corridors carried the same restless chill—sharp, insistent, as if the mountain remembered every year it spent hollow and grieving.

You stand at one of the high carved archways overlooking the valley, letting the breeze brush your face. It smells of pine and cold stone. It feels alive.

“You’ll catch a chill standing in the draft like that.”

You don’t have to turn. There is only one voice that sounds like a storm trying not to soften.

“Thorin,” you greet, smiling a little. “I wanted fresh air.”

His footsteps approach, slow and solid. Dwarves do not glide like Elves—Thorin’s presence is weight and earth and quiet authority. When he reaches your side, he folds his arms across his chest, dark hair fluttering in the wind.

He watches you first. Always you.

As if he can’t help it.

“You humans,” he mutters, though there’s a warmth beneath it, “always chasing the breeze as though it’s a friend.”

“It is a friend,” you counter gently. “It makes me feel… free.”

Thorin’s brow furrows, thoughtful. He turns his face toward the wind, letting it lift the dark strands from his cheek. For a moment, he looks younger—less burdened, less kingly, almost… peaceful.

“I forget,” he says after a long silence, “that you are not made of stone and fire as we are.” His voice lowers. “That you need the sky.”

You blink, surprised by the softness—by the understanding.

Then the breeze picks up, colder this time, tugging at your cloak. Before you can react, Thorin shifts closer. Not touching. Not yet. But close enough that his body blocks the wind from hitting you fully.

“You should stand on the other side of me,” he says quietly. “The wind will not bite so sharply.”

You meet his eyes, rich and intense.

“Are you shielding me from the breeze, Thorin Oakenshield?”

He grunts, chin lifting.

“I am shielding you from the cold.”

It isn’t the same thing, but you let him keep his dignity.

The wind sweeps through again, tugging more insistently this time. Thorin exhales, frustrated with the elements themselves, and suddenly he’s shrugging off his heavy fur-lined cloak.

You raise your hands in protest. “Thorin, no—”

But you gave in soon enough and lowered yourself where he was able to drape it over your shoulders, the weight swallowing you in warmth and the scent of leather, steel, and something profoundly him.

“You feel the chill more deeply than you admit,” he says, tone gruff but eyes gentle. “Let the mountain winds bother me, not you.”

Your breath catches, but he pretends not to notice.

Together, you stand at the archway as the breeze stirs the valley, carrying distant echoes and the promise of winter.

After a long, quiet moment, Thorin speaks again—low enough that the wind nearly steals it.

“One day,” he says, “I hope you will let me show you the places where the breeze sings through the stone. Where the mountain breathes. I think… you would find it beautiful.”

Your heart thuds hard enough to feel in your throat.

“When you invite me,” you whisper, “I’ll go.”

Thorin’s jaw tightens, a flicker of something unguarded crossing his face.

“Then I invite you,” he says.

And though the mountain wind still bites at him, he doesn’t move—

because you are beside him, wrapped in his cloak, and for Thorin Oakenshield that is warmth enough.

[lullaby-lilies]

Day 2 - Haldir

Haldir x human!Reader —A lone pine, a quiet elf—comfort found in unexpected closeness.

The scent of pine in Lothlórien is unlike anywhere else—cleaner, sharper, touched by something ancient and golden. You inhale deeply as you stand beneath the towering trees, your gloved hand brushing the rough bark of one particularly massive pine whose branches sweep outward like a sheltering canopy.

“You favor that one.”

His voice is soft, but it carries easily through the stillness.

You turn before you even think to. Haldir stands only a few paces away, composed as ever, his silver armor catching faint glimmers of filtered starlight. His bow is slung over his shoulder, his posture relaxed yet unmistakably watchful.

“You walk too quietly,” you say, hand over your heart. “One day you’ll startle me into an early grave.”

A faint curve touches the corner of his mouth—so slight it could be imagined.

“I doubt that,” he replies. “Your spirit is more resilient than you believe.”

Your cheeks warm at the unexpected praise. You clear your throat and nod toward the pine.

“This one reminds me of home.”

Haldir steps closer—one soundless stride, then another—until he stands beside you beneath the wide boughs. The air shifts subtly with his presence, cool and steady as a winter current.

“You miss the place of your youth,” he observes.

You nod. “The forests were nothing like Lothlórien, but the pines… they always smelled like this. Crisp. Comforting.”

Haldir considers your words in that quiet, measured way of his.

“Elves do not often associate pine with comfort,” he admits. “Its presence signals the edge of winter, of long marches, of battles fought in the cold.”

He pauses, tilting his head faintly toward you.

“But for you, it holds gentler memories.”

Your breath escapes softly.

“Yes,” you say. “It does.”

The breeze whispers through the needles overhead, sending a cascade of soft, fragrant scent around you. Haldir inhales, and for once he does not hide the way he slows to savor it.

“I see why you favor this tree,” he murmurs. “It stands alone from its kin. Strong, steadfast—even in seasons that would weaken others.”

You blink, turning toward him. “Are you… comparing the tree to me?”

His gaze flicks to yours—sharp, striking—as if weighing whether to confirm it.

Finally, he speaks.

“I am.”

The word hangs between you like a held breath.

Before you can respond, he lifts a hand—not touching you, but close enough that the gesture carries warmth.

“If the scent brings you solace,” he says, voice a quiet vow, “then I will see that your quarters are lined with pine boughs through winter’s end.”

You stare at him, stunned. “Haldir… you don’t have to do that.”

His expression softens by a fraction—an elf’s version of a confession.

“I know.”

A pause.

“I wish to.”

The wind moves again—cool, fragrant, and gentle—and you find yourself leaning ever so slightly toward him, your shoulder brushing the edge of his cloak.

Haldir does not move away.

For a moment, beneath the sweeping limbs of the ancient pine, Lothlórien feels less like a golden realm of starlight and more like home.

[lullaby-lilies]

Day 1 - Thranduil

Welcome to my 25 Days of Christmas! Each day I'll be sharing a short story featuring a canon (mostly) character and you, the human reader.

Without further ado, here's to Day 1!

Thranduil x Reader

– “If you insist on greeting the snow,” he murmured, eyes on you instead of the sky, “then allow me to be the one who stands with you when winter touches the world.”

The first snowfall in Mirkwood was always silent—so quiet it felt deliberate, as though the world held its breath for him.

You stand at the balcony just beyond the palace halls, breath misting in the cold air as you watch the first flakes drift like pale feathers through the dark boughs of the forest. It’s peaceful, serene… until a voice like cool moonlight melts the stillness.

“You should be inside.”

You don’t have to turn to know who it is. No one walks with that kind of soundless authority. No one carries presence like a mantle of starlight.

“Thranduil,” you greet softly, fingers resting on the carved stone railing. “It’s the first snow of the season. I didn’t want to miss it.”

He steps beside you, tall and regal and utterly unreadable. His silver hair catches the dim light, shimmering like the frost beginning to settle on the balustrade. He does not look at the snow—not at first. He studies you.

“You are mortal,” he says, as if it’s a fragile, inconvenient fact. “Your kind is not built for the cold.”

“Yet here I am,” you tease lightly.

His eyes narrow the slightest fraction—not irritated, but something like… amused. Subtly. Barely there. The kind of reaction he’d deny if you ever brought it up again.

The snow begins to fall thicker. You tip your head back to watch it, but the shift in air tells you Thranduil finally turns toward the forest, gaze lifting to the sky.

For a moment, he is still—carved marble and quiet reverence.

“It is beautiful,” you whisper.

He answers without looking away.

“It reminds me of things long past.”

There is a softness in the words, not sadness exactly, but memory. Echoes of winters older than your bloodline. A weight you can feel but cannot name.

Another gust of wind curls around you, colder this time. Instinctively, you wrap your arms around yourself. It’s only then that Thranduil moves.

A sweep of his cloak, subtle but precise, drapes over your shoulders. Warm, heavy, smelling faintly of cedar and kingsfoil. You glance up at him, surprised.

“You’ll freeze,” you murmur.

He arches a perfect brow.

“Hardly.”

The snow thickens, and for several quiet moments, the two of you stand together beneath the falling white.

You watch the flakes cling to the ends of his hair; you watch the way the winter light reflects in his pale blue eyes. He notices your gaze but says nothing, choosing instead to let the silence linger, comfortable and strangely intimate.

Finally, he speaks again, voice low.

“If you insist on greeting the snow, then at least allow me to join you.”

“Is that an order, Your Majesty?”

For the first time, unmistakably, he lets a faint smile touch the corner of his mouth.

“A suggestion,” he corrects gently. “One I find myself… inclined to make.”

Your cheeks warm far more than the cloak can account for.

And so you stand together as the first snow blankets Mirkwood, the world quiet except for the soft whisper of falling flakes.

[wakingupthetrees]

lotr au where everything is the same except they have phones so for half of the journey legolas is getting spam calls from thranduil asking where tf he is

[lullaby-lilies]

The parchment lay half-signed on his desk, the ink long since dried to a dull sheen.

Thranduil stared at it as though the word itself—quit—were an enemy he could strike down with a blade.

Outside, the forest whispered against his windows. His people would never know the weight of it, nor would he allow them to. Kings did not quit. They endured, as stone did. As he always had.

Yet tonight, his crown sat untouched beside the parchment, and the silence pressed too close.

He closed his eyes, just for a moment, and whispered into the emptiness—

“I am so very tired.”

[thorns-and-starlight]

His touch was winter. Her light was summer. Together, they made autumn — brief, beautiful, and impossible to keep.

— A Crown of Autumn Leaves 🍂

[lullaby-lilies]

Moodboard for my new Thranduil x OC story that I'm excited for!

[fiyeli]

Long ago they fell under the dominion of the One, and they became Ringwraiths, shadows under his great Shadow, his most terrible servants

insta: _fiyeli