#rexofsilva

[pheriannath-archive]

rexofsilva replied to your post:Okay, I finished my Guinness, so Ima go sleep now...

{ goodnight cookie, sleep tight! ~}

N'awww thank you dear! I will yes, I love my bed <3

[vezely-a]

meme || vezely Send ↯ for my muse’s reaction to yours holding a knife to mine’s throat.

⊰ ♔ ⊱ — Beautiful head is tipped up, the sharpness of the knife is felt against the pale skin at the slender throat —— He fears her not, he knows how easily he can turn the tables ———Thus kisses his lips, the gentlest of a smile —-

”It is very meaningless, would you not agree? —- All of this —- I wonder —- What is it that you are doing?”

It was not the emissary's designated task to kill the elvenking, nor was being faced with imprisonement in his dungeons. True intent thus wavered on the dagger's edge and with words carefully crafted.

        ❝Meaningless as our negotiations? I tend to         avoid taking actions such as this, but if you will         not understand my need for freedom by words,         alone, perhaps this carries more weight.❞

[halfthechessboard--archived-blog]

rexofsilva 

"And so this is when I meet  the fabled King Thranduil...  I knew the how of it, but could  never figure out the when."

[ugthal-blog-blog]

                    ❛   and what is it, exactly, that made you decide to  INVITE YOURSELF  into the halls of my forbearers, king thranduil?  ❜

rexofsilva has requested.

[woodlandborn-a]

'my muse is dead. tell me how yours is dealing with it.'

rexofsilva  ( whispers, your submit isn't open so here have this-- )

It is the first day since, and the air about him feels cold and thin. He does not take a breath when he does not need to; he does not move a muscle when there is no need. He simply stands, and looks upon his King's throne. It does not seem to be his place to sit upon it -- it is not his. It cannot be. And so, for a time, he keeps his distance.

The shadow over Mirkwood seems all the more prominent, even as the sun rises on the next day. Legolas can tell that somewhere high above it shines, but its warmth does not reach him, nor does it shine upon his kin. The realm is quiet, and seems more desolate than it ever has. 

He is an orphan now, he supposes. An orphaned prince, made king. 

King. The mere word frightens him when uttered as a simple thought within his head -- he does not want to know the affect it will have if such a word is given wholly to him, as a title. There is no King, and there will be none. Folly and boyish, his stubbornness may appear to others as he continues to dance away from his duties in his mind, but Legolas cannot think on them. He cannot even so much as begin to ponder on the truth of this situation. If his lungs were not so tight and frozen within his chest then he would sigh; and sigh again. For it seems that he will never cease in being exhausted now.

Time passes, and he fights the emptiness as best he can. But it chases him continuously, and like flames licking at his heels, it is vile and relentless. The heat of such flames do not reach him, however -- he does not burn from them. For still his body feels cold. Shadow and ice dwells within him and it pains him more than he could have ever comprehended.

Legolas has not broken, and he is not in pieces -- but he remains as a cracked vase; fragile and easily worried for. He does not ignore the glances offered to him; the furrowed brows and parted lips, the apologies that linger on the tongues of those who look upon him. It is not pity he wishes for, but a sorrow to be shared. So deep is this sense of loss that he can barely speak of it.

A king he was, but a father also. Sometimes distant and far away -- but always within sight. And now, Legolas can look across a vast room and find only a shadow, a fleeting breeze in an empty space. This happens often and something thick coats his throat, something heavy settles in his mind, but still he continues on. He continues on because he must.

It is only behind closed doors now, that his shoulders fall and his gaze rests upon the ground. Such thoughtfulness remains within him, he knows, but a buffer is placed between him and his notions, and all he is aware of is this void; this awful nothingness that swallows him whole. The tendrils of grey and disgusting fog that lingers evermore. Fear oft grips him; will it never leave? Fingers twitch, his chest heaves. The control is lost, and he almost collapses with the weighty grief crawling upon his back. Knuckles whiten at he grips the wall and he now feels older than his years -- too old and too tired -- and he does not understand. He weeps and he cries out, he curses and he falls down, but only behind his closed doors.

The Kingdom lost their king and all feels foul. Legolas lost everything that he had left, every tie to his line and every link to his mother -- to his past, his future, and all that rests between. Gone, vanished. Not distant, not far away and vague, but completely, and entirely gone.

[father-of-durin]

       "What do you want, Thranduil?         I doubt you've come and found         me for a simple conversation."

[tenensvati]

If you could ship with a Thranduil who would it be?

Well, considering I don’t ship BardxThranduil. I’m just going to target an innocent Thranduil for fun’s sake.

It’d be rexofsilva I mean, wow. What a hottie.