To be fair, I donโt know the โrulesโ for posting fanfics on tumblr. I believed a fanfic didnโt necessarily had to be about a romantic relationship with the chosen character. I had a father/daughter dynamic idea with Thranduil and because it was about Thranduil, I tagged it โthranduil x readerโ (It even had another tag: โthranduil x daughter readerโ), trusting that while reading the synopsis it would be clear enough it was about a father and daughter, nothing more. Clearly it was not the case because of whatever sick ideas people have in their minds that leave no room for anything not romantic or sexualized.
Just in case, I would never write anything as disgusting as inc*st and before accusing a writer of doing such a thing, maybe read it and confirm it.
๐ตecause she has not crossed the threshold of the Elvenkingโs halls since she was a small child, she has become a myth among the lower realms and traveling merchants. They call her the Lost Princess or the Hidden Jewel of Mirkwood. Outside the heavy oak doors, people whisper that she possesses a beauty so radiant it would blind mortal men, or that she is made of starlight itself. In reality, her absence is not of her own making, but the result of Thranduilโs crippling, suffocating grief. When his queen fell, a part of the Elvenking died with her, and in his desperation to protect the last delicate piece of her legacy: his soft-spoken, gentle daughter, he locked her away in a cage of root and stone, convincing himself it was for her own safety.
She was born with an ancient, volatile magic. Perhaps the ability to manipulate the flora and fauna of the forest, or to weave illusions out of moonlight, but it remains entirely untested. She doesn't want to use it for malice or vanity; her heart is deeply empathetic, and she longs to venture into the darkening woods to purge the giant spiders and the shadow of the Necromancer. Yet, whenever she brings it up, Thranduil shuts the conversation down with terrifying finality. To him, her power is not a weapon to be wielded; it is a beacon that will draw the dark forces of Middle-earth straight to her. He views her magic as a fragile glass ornament: beautiful, but easily shattered if exposed to the harshness of war.
Legolas is entirely torn between his duty as the Captain of the Guard and his role as an older brother. When he is out in the field, he is a fierce warrior, but the moment he returns to the palace, his fierce demeanor melts into a profound, protective gentleness. He loves the sweet, soft-spoken nature of her sister, often bringing her pressed wildflowers from the borders of the forest or smooth stones from the riverbeds she hasn't seen in centuries. However, he sings the exact same tune as their father. When she begs Legolas to let her slip into the training yards or accompany his scouts, he will place a heavy, gauntleted hand on her shoulder, his eyes swimming with a mixture of guilt and absolute resolve.
"You speak of fighting, little sister, as if the shadow is something that can be reasoned with," Legolas would murmur, his voice a strained, quiet plea. "You have a light in you that this forest desperately needs to keep alive. Let me face the dark so you never have to know its touch. Do not ask me to fail our mother's memory by letting you fall."
Her interactions with her father, Thranduil, are a dance of quiet grace and immense, unspoken tension. She does not scream or rage against her confinement; her sweetness and innate nobility prevent her from throwing tantrums. Instead, she approaches his throne with a fluid, silent step, her presence like a calming breeze in the otherwise tense, paranoid court. She speaks in soft, melodic tones that remind Thranduil so acutely of his late wife that it physically pains him.
One evening, after Legolas returns wounded from a skirmish, she confronts her father in his private chambers, her gentle demeanor masking a quiet, desperate resolve.
The Elvenking stood by the expansive stone balcony, his long silver hair catching the pale moonlight, a silver goblet of wine untouched in his hand. He did not turn when she entered, though the soft rustle of her silk robes betrayed her presence.
"You should be asleep," Thranduil said, his voice a low, resonant baritone that carried the weight of millennia. "The night grows cold, and the shadows creep closer to the walls."
"The shadows are already within the walls, Adar," she replied softly, stepping closer, her hands folded neatly in front of her. "I felt the forest weep today. I felt Legolas's pain when the poison grazed his armor. I have the power to mend the roots, to push the dark back. Why do you force me to sit in darkness while my brother bleeds?"
Thranduil turned slowly, his regal features carved from ice, his cold blue eyes boring into hers with a sudden, fierce intensity. The sheer aura of his authority filled the room, heavy and suffocating.
"Do not speak to me of what you can do," Thranduil commanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous, gravelly whisper as he stepped down toward her. "You see a battle to be won. I see the end of my bloodline. You think your magic makes you invincible? It makes you a prize. The darkness out there does not wish to fight you, child. It wishes to consume you. It wishes to tear the light from your veins just as it tore your mother from my arms."
He stopped just inches from her, the harshness in his eyes cracking for a fraction of a second to reveal a hollow, desperate terror. He reached out, his long, ring-adorned fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek with a tenderness that contradicted his stern words.
"I have watched the world burn, and I have buried everything I ever held dear," he murmured, his grip on her shoulder tightening just enough to emphasize his words. "I will lock you in the deepest vault of this mountain before I let the world take you, too. You will stay where it is safe. You will be the peace that remains when everything else is gone. That is my final decree."
Confined to the inner sanctuaries, she spends her days tending to the few remaining untainted gardens within the cavernous palace. Under her gentle touch, flowers bloom out of season, and small birds slip through the high arrow-slits just to sing to her. Thranduil often watches her from the high walkways, hiding in the shadows so she won't see the sorrow on his face. He knows he is breaking her spirit by keeping her a prisoner, but to Thranduil, a living, resentful daughter is infinitely better than a dead, heroic one.
On the anniversary of the Queenโs passing, the rules soften just a fraction. Thranduil will summon her to his private study, away from the eyes of the court. There, the rigid Elvenking lets his guard down. He will sit with her in complete silence, brushing her hair or letting her pour his wine, finding a profound, aching comfort in her gentle presence. In those quiet moments, she holds his hand, using her soft voice to sing the old lullabies of the Woodland Realm, acting as the emotional anchor for a king who is drowning in his own immortality.
๐๐ฟ๐ถ๐๐ฒ๐ฟโ๐ ๐ป๐ผ๐๐ฒ. ึบึผื โฆ๏พ ึบึผื ใใ Iโm the biggest nerd and I absolutely LOVE lotr. I just had to try and write this idea that has been in my head for months.
