Will INSIST you stay in bed while he fetches clothes, warm water, food and whatever your heart desires
Like literally will push you back down onto the bed if you try to get up
"Relax, melamin. You need rest."
He will come back and wrap you up in a cocoon in one of his large, fur coats, making sure your warm and tucked in all nicely after he has cleaned you of his and your fluids
Kind of also loves that you will smell so strongly of him, especially being wrapped up in his coat like this
You find yourself laying on his lap while he combs his long fingers through your hair and you hum softly at the feeling
Uses his nail to lightly rake along your head as well to lull you to sleep
Asks you if he hurt you at all, which he never does, but if you say some part of you is aching, he will massage the skin softly and use his elven healing powers to grow warmth of the spot and soothe the deep ache
Like on your neck and shoulders where he bit, or your hips and waist where he gripped you while he pushed into you, or your back where he left small scratch marks when he was lost in pleasure from being inside you
Always makes sure that there is candles lit in the room to keep the romantic aspect
If you're in such a state after he's done with you, he will walk you over to the hot bath so gently, sometimes carrying you if your legs are shaking, and washes you with gentle hands and forehead kisses
His tone would be so quiet, so intimate, so different from how he was a few moments ago with you
When you're drifting in and out of sleep, you catch small phrases of Sindarin that he is singing to you in a soft voice
If you feel self-conscious at all after sex, he will hold your face in his hands and reassure you until you're laughing at his cheesy compliments
Will keep a hand on you at all times, whether on your hip, shoulder, thigh or belly, protectively, and wanting to anchor you to him
Although he does not sleep, when you eventually drift off, he will remain by your side and continue to watch over you during the night, shushing you if you wake with a start at all
Would've already had told the guards to not disturb you both... but if he leaves in the morning, he makes sure to let them know to let you sleep in
Taglist: @pumpkin-soup333 @cinnamon-girl-writes @bloxholden35 @woodsofsunlight @polinforya @mybrainsamess
Requests for headcanons / reactions are always open~
Description: After coming across your presence, Sauron is beguiled with dark malice. He abducts the wife of a certain elf.
Warning: dub-con, non-con, mind manipulation, sauron shenanigans, smut.
Pairings: thranduil/reader, annatar/reader
A/N: A horrible attempt at smut. ya'll don't come for me. Inspired by the Odyssey and the Illiad. HELEN OF TROY INSPIRED. My friends say that I should get a real boyfriend and stop being in love with Thranduil.
So, I wrote an angst to get over him.
Prince Thranduil welcomes the emissary with a thin-lipped smile. He does not know the reason, but a voice in his mind is warning him, telling him to be cautious around this ‘Emissary of the Valar. ’
“I apologize for treating you with hostility.” he lowered his head, clearly remembering that he had pointed his arrow at the intruder — before the man spoke out and proclaimed himself friendly. Called himself an elf.
Nowadays, even an elf is not to be trusted.
“It is seldom that an elf visits our lands. There is nothing much to see.” Thranduil adds, even though his kingdom proves to be worthy of song. The prince did not want this emissary speaking tales of the Woodland Realm’s beauty, lest people from distant lands visit.
“You keep to yourselves,” the emissary echoes a sentiment shared by the foreigners.
Thranduil turned to look at the emissary, and he saw great pain behind the older elf’s eyes, a slight shine in his features that reminded the prince of someone familiar. “I am Annatar,” the emissary introduced himself. “Thranduil,” the prince answers as they continue walking deeper into the heart of the kingdom.
“I understand your skepticism, and I will leave for Lindon soon. I merely hope to regain my strength as it has been a long and harrowing journey." Annatar explains, and he wasn't entirely lying.
Merging into this form has taken a lot of power — and he refuses to admit it, but he feels weaker.
“You need not to explain. Having a representative of the Valar in our halls is already a great honor.” Thranduil forces a smile. Centuries spent in King Thingol’s courts taught him how to be courteous to guests, regardless of the guest being suspicious.
They both continue walking until they enter a hallway, an entire corridor made from pure Narra trees. Annatar assumes that these are the sleeping quarters. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of pine and moss — out of all the elven kingdoms, the Woodland Realm is closest to the fea of Arda.
It was a marvel of its own, its architecture masculine in aesthetic nature, but its forests were fluid as the wind. His gaze trails upwards to admire the chandeliers made of amber, but a light from the corner of his eyes catches his attention.
Pure and unbrindled innocence.
He indulges in the beauty, his eyes reaching the veranda of the level above him.
An elleth as beautiful as the morning, and her mantle as dark as the night. Annatar has never seen anything as beautiful or as innocent. He has bared witness to Luthien dancing naked in his master’s courts, and he has seen human maidens slaughtered in the hands of orcs, but he has never seen this, for you are the only thing capable of stealing his non-existent breath.
You are not Luthien, no.
Not even Galadriel.
You looked nothing like the elf-maidens of Valinor — your face was a type entirely new to his eyes. Whereas Annatar's skin is as pale as moonlight, yours holds the warmth of the sun. Shining in the morning and hiding in the night, but inevitable.
He remembers his promise to Galadriel. Halbrand's promise to Galadriel. It must be forgotten, for Annatar must make a stronger vow — a tale so enchanting that an elleth of the Woodland Realm shall fall victim to its lies.
The Prince halts, staring at the elf, who is motionless, mouth agape as he gawked at you. Thranduil clenches his jaw, an unfamiliar feeling blossoming in the bottom of his chest. He has always been aware of your ability to strike any creature with fondness, the kindness of your smile has always allowed everyone to feel comfortable.
The children run in your direction, babbling nonsense as you cater to their every story. The wives tell you everything about their married lives, sometimes even asking for advice, and the young soldiers of Greenwood see you as their mother. They are all fond of you.
But this is the first time he’s seeing this type of fondness.
Thranduil raises his gaze, watching as you pluck the strings of your harp, singing a melody that he composed during the years of your courting. A song of love, the changing of seasons and waiting. The song was composed during the first years of King Oropher's reign, when your family still resided in one of the small villages up east.
Thranduil would always visit your family home, bringing gifts — the finest gifts and equipment to ensure that your brothers hunted with ease. He had fallen in love with you upon first glance, and slowly but surely presented himself — introduced himself.
Made you fall in love with things beyond his physical appearance. You were wed after a century of courting, and the Woodland Realm has only known peace and happiness since then. As long as Oropher is King, the Woodland Realm will only feel thus.
You meet the Prince's gaze, and your lips turn into a fond smile.
Thranduil looks away.
“She is my wife,” Thranduil says, almost like a warning.
Annatar nods his head impassively. Marriage is not enough of a reason for him not to be besotted with you. “— She has been for a thousand years now.” The Prince adds sharply, glaring daggers at the emissary. Valar be damned, no one dares to look upon his wife.
“I see no elflings running around.” Annatar keeps his kind tone, but Thranduil can see beyond its explicit meaning. “None yet,” the prince snaps, his smile long gone from his features.
Thranduil halts in front of one of the guest quarters.
“This shall be your room, Lord Annatar.”
.
.
.
“When shall the emissary leave our courts?” Thranduil inquired, annoyance flashing across his features. In the seldom times that the Woodland Realm has received visitors, the prince has always been courteous with them. King Oropher raises an eyebrow.
‘What is so different with this emissary? What did he do to cause my son such a reaction?’ Oropher mused while taking a sip of his wine.
“He has only been here for a day, ion nin.” Oropher says, not thinking much of the situation. Thranduil mumbles something along the lines of eye and wife but his father is unable to decipher the entire sentence. “What did he do?” Oropher asks.
Thranduil remains silent. He takes a sip of wine.
“It is nothing,” the prince shakes his head.
‘It is nothing but my possessiveness. There is nothing to be worried about; Annatar may lay his eyes on my wife. No, Annatar may not lay his eyes on my wife! My point is, I am the only one that she loves.’
Oropher chuckles, watching as his son’s eyebrows move in different directions. Thranduil reminds him too much of the Queen.
The Queen that never was.
“It is almost luncheon; tell your wife to dress, for we have a guest.” Oropher commands, his voice never faltering in its elegance. “Is he that special that we have to dress?” Thranduil’s eyebrows merged.
“Your wife would want to look appropriate. I have had this conversation a thousand times with your mother. If you let her march into the halls wearing her lounge wear, you’ll never hear the end of it.” Oropher rambles, chuckling at the memory of his wife.
“- but truly there is no difference between their lounge wear and their outside wear. It all looks the same in my eyes.” Oropher adds. Not because a husband is unable to see the difference, but because their wives will always look beautiful regardless. “It is because of our love for them that we indulge in the simplest beauty of things.” Oropher smiles.
“Alright, ada.” Thranduil sighs, pretending not to care about his father’s tedious ramblings, but truly, the memory of his mother still sends shivers down his spine — memories of the war and the fall. He cannot bear to think about it again.
.
.
.
Thranduil enters your shared chambers, a gentle smile on his face as he sees you sitting on the floor and reading a book that he had previously discarded.
“I was wondering why I couldn’t hear music,” he refers to the harp standing motionless on the veranda.
“It was fun, but the sun became too bright. It bothered me,” you explained, rising to greet him with a small kiss. “We have a guest over for luncheon; Ada expects us to greet him,” Thranduil informs.
You nod.
“What kind of guest?” You inquired, opening your closet. Unlike him, you tried to keep your clothes few, only those of the greatest quality that would last for a hundred years. It has always been the way of your people — to be sustainable, to only take what nature wants to give, to never be greedy, for that is where you will be trapped.
“An emissary of the Valar. I walked with him, you did not see?” He asks while placing a hand on the small of your back, resting his head on your shoulder as you try to choose between your two favorite dresses. “I saw you.” You answer, always oblivious to the person trailing behind your husband; it is only him that you see.
“You did not greet me,” you frowned.
“Apologies, lover.” He indulges.
You choose the blue gown, the same color as his robes. He lifts his hands away from your body, reaching for the buttons behind your gown, helping you undress. “Beautiful,” he whispered underneath his breath, his hands dancing across your naked back, lifting the gown over your body, and he throws it inside one of the open hampers.
“Only the best for my handsome prince,” you hummed while turning to look at him. Utterly drowned by his beautiful blue irises. Your husband has always been the most beautiful elf in your eyes (and you care not if others feel the same way, for he is yours).
He places a kiss on your lips.
Lost in the perfume of love.
His hands snake towards your waist, about to lift your shift, but you hold both of his hands. Instead, you face them on your face until he is cupping your cheeks.
“Lover, we must have luncheon first.” You cleverly reminded him while turning around to wear your gown.
Thranduil groans, cursing the presence of Annatar. He walks towards your nightstand, grabbing one of the earrings that he had forged for you. “Wear these,” he says, and you comply — finding them to be the perfect choice.
He ties the ribbons of your gowns, all the while whispering about all the things he will do to you once luncheon is over.
.
.
.
Annatar presses a finger to his lips. More beautiful up close.
Your ears tapered into delicate points, your hair uncombed, flowing down like the waves of the elven-river and effortlessly framing your face. You were wearing a simple blue gown, its tulle covering the curves of your body — making you seem like a maia of the river.
And your smile.
It is not like Lady Varda's smile that has a knowing glint, shining with the wisdom of a creature that has lived since the beginning of time, but rather, your smile is new. A breath of fresh air after a cold winter, a smile that is shy and real — moldable. "It is a pleasure to have you in our halls, Lord Annatar." You greeted, your voice reminding him of the birds that chattered on his window.
As green as summer grass, trusting and willing.
That pink tinge on your cheeks tells him that you were born in these lands, not marred by the light of the two trees. A slight in your eyes that tells him that all you've ever seen are the dense forest canopies of the Woodland Realm. A feeling entirely new to him.
He must have more.
"I apologize for not having arrived with gifts." he gives a charming smile, but your attention is focused on your husband. It will be difficult to corrupt you when this elven prince has already seduced your heart. "Your presence is enough of a gift, my lord." You turned to look at Annatar.
Feeling his light shining amidst the darkness.
Annatar was handsome, like the tapestries that King Oropher uses to decorate the corridors of the sleeping quarters. He looks like a swan rising from a great lake. His skin is pale like alabaster. His hair is golden like your husband's, but the sight of his eyes brings shivers down your spine. Sea-green like a muddied river. Sea-green like the eye of the storm, inescapable and not to be trusted.
He gives you another smile, and you return it reluctantly before reaching for your husband's hand and entwining it with yours. "Thranduil, you must eat — you have a patrol later." The King dutifully reminded his only son, placing another spoonful of mead on the Prince's plate.
"Yes, father," Thranduil relaxes, pulling his wife closer to his body. "But I do hope that you stop taking all those late night patrols..." King Oropher's voice fades in the background.
Annatar continues staring at you.
A dark plan was hatching in the back of his mind.
.
.
.
It was the dead of night.
You could hear the cicadas chirping from outside your window, the fire gently flickering as it filled the room with warmth. Your lips pressed into a thin line as you watched the rising moon. Your husband ought to be back by now...where is he?
Thranduil always preferred late-night patrols, as the guards averted from volunteering around that post. As always, your husband does the work that nobody wants to do. A true prince, you smiled.
The sound of something heavy falling frees you from your thoughts.
'What was that?' You rise grabbing a dagger, and opening your bedroom doors.
"Meleth." Thranduil opens his mouth to speak, startling you.
"Meleth?" You placed a hand on your chest, attempting to calm yourself down but also fighting against confusion. Thranduil has never called you meleth, but you suppose that there is a first time for everything. "Did I startle you?" He asks, reaching for your dagger and placing it on the tall table beside the door.
His hand snakes down to the small of your waist, guiding you back inside the chambers with haste. "Yes, I did not sense you, but where did that sound come from?" You raised an eyebrow, features flooded with concern. "One of the amber from the chandelier fell, but it is alright; the servants are already cleaning it up." He answers sharply.
'The servants?'
Thranduil has never referred to your people as servants.
Your husband reaches for your chin, forcing you to look upon his eyes, and for a second — the only thing that you see are the eyes of the storm, the sight of a muddied river. "All is well." He whispers.
All is well.
A sense of tranquility floods your body. What was it that I was thinking about again?
"Were the patrols alright? You have arrived longer than usual." You made an observation while helping him undress out of his armor. "One of the guards could not attend the patrols; his wife gave birth, and I promised to cover him." He explains with full control of the conversation. You raised an eyebrow.
Normally, he is too tired to speak after his patrols. Normally, he chooses to sleep on the couch, too tired to get rid of his armor — and too worried to dirty your bed. Normally, you'd wait until he has fallen asleep before stripping him of his armor, using a wet cloth to clean his body — and he'd wake up wearing a fresh set of clothes.
He sits on the couch.
"That is very kind of you, lover." You say while reaching for the wet cloth, prepared to clean his body from all the mud and twigs, but to your surprise his body is entirely clean. "I already took a bath," he notices your alarm — well if he had already taken a bath, then why is he still wearing his armor.
"Do not think too much," he whispers again.
You blink.
What was I supposed to say?
His hands rest on your hips, marvelling at your beauty. The fire engulfed the room with a red-orange glow, illuminating your figure. You were wearing your favorite nightgown, a transparent purple shift that was perfect for nights like these — where it was hard to decipher between coldness and warmth.
The elf continues looking at you, devouring your body with his gaze.
"Lover," you opened your mouth to speak. You wanted him to look at your face, to stare deep into your eyes like he does every day.
He gives you a smile.
A smile that you cannot decipher the meaning of.
He pulls you closer until you are settled on his lap. Your breasts pressing against his chest. "I have news to share," you whispered, seeking for the warmth that his chest always provided, but tonight he is cold to the touch. "Yes?" He asks, pulling his pants down, pressing his cock on your entrance, eliciting a moan out of you.
"Look at me," you demanded.
He gives you another lazy smile.
"I am listening," he humms, pressing his cock around your entrance.
"Aaah," you moaned feeling his cock press against your cunt abruptly, and without preparation. "- Give me a second to speak." You reached for his hands that were settled on your ass. "Apologies," he lowers his head — ceasing his thrusts.
"I am with a child," you smiled — your face painted with absolute joy.
He bites his lower lips.
"Wonderful news!" He says, reaching for your chin and bridging your lips together. His kiss feels different — sloppy, needy, and filled with lust but it is your husband. Right?
He feels the stress on your shoulder, and he pulls away from the kiss.
"Be at rest," he continued thrusting.
"Hmm," you hummed while bridging your lips together again.
.
.
.
Annatar continued staring at your sleeping figure. Your body is covered by your husband's shift now, but he cannot remember giving it to you. His hands trace invisible lines on the curve of your butt. You must have gotten cold in the middle of the night. You must've instinctively reached out for something familiar.
He closes his eyes, sensing Thranduil's close presence.
He looks at you.
He remembers the sight of you moaning in pleasure as he bounced you on his elf cock, chasing an inevitable high, pressing your lips together as your eyes rolled back. Oh, he might've placed you under the illusion that he was Thranduil, but every second was real. All of it.
You are his.
The Queen of the Sea and Storm.
He smiles.
When you wake up inside of his dark castle, will you be thankful to have all the power within arm's reach? Will you grow to lust after his body or will he have to use his power to make his voice echo in the back of your head once more? Will you weep and beg to be returned to your husband? Will he have to chain you?
All those scenarios made his stomach flutter with warmth.
His cock almost springing back to life.
You look so beautiful while chasing an orgasm. He wonders how beautiful you will be with your body painted purple with bruises under the weight of his torture.
Planted with his seed, always ready and willing.
His greatest conquest.
.
.
.
It was morning when Thranduil was dismissed from his patrols. The sun was already shining in its full glory, birds chirping, but he knows that you are still sleeping around this time.
His head hangs low, and his shoulders are slumped as he prepares for the inevitable scolding — not from you but his father. He feels guilt bubble from the bottom of his stomach. You must've been awake the entire night, tossing and turning as you awaited for his arrival.
'I am sorry, lover. I did not mean for the patrols to last that long, but Daeniel's wife had given birth the night before, and I promised to take over his patrols. He promises to name us both as the godparents. If that is any consolation.' He rehearsed his apologies as he held a bouquet of flowers in his right hand.
He sees the faint outline of the Woodland Castle. He continues marching forward, but to his surprise, Galion sees him and begins sprinting in his direction. "Mellon!" His best friend looked worried, afraid, with bags underneath his eyes — elves do not get eyebags, unless under great stress. "What happened?" Thranduil raises an eyebrow, walking inside of the gates — confused as to why all of their guards are armored and armed.
"A letter from Galadriel came — that Annatar is not to be trusted and-and-and." Galion breathes heavily as if he is unable to speak.
"What?!" Thranduil's eyebrows merged, concern and anger flashing across his features. As if he knew deep inside that Annatar was not to be trusted in the first place. "He has taken the princess!" Gilda, my wife's closest lady royal, screams at the tops of her lungs. Gilda has tears in her eyes.
"W-we had thought that it was you who came to the chambers last night. But then this morning, when I came to prepare the princess' bath — she was gone. Which I found peculiar because the princess does not wake during these hours — but then a letter from Lady Galadriel came warning us of a possible intruder." Gilda explained as she continued to weep.
"GALION, PREPARE OUR SOLDIERS!" King Oropher shouted commands.
Hot rage bubbled inside the Prince's heart. He takes a deep breath. Do not let your anger sabotage you, he remembers King Thingol's words. He will defeat the very darkness if it means having you back.
Thranduil adjusts his arrow, "They cannot be far from here. I have already patrolled our South border; they must be in the North." Thranduil says, his calmness making him appear all the more terrifying. With his eyebrows merged and his eyes shining with rage — hell shall set Annatar ablaze. He takes a deep breath, allowing his connection with the trees to channel through his veins.
He closes his eyes, and he sees you, sleeping in the arms of a pretender.
He marches forward, a couple of soldiers following after him.
.
.
.
Locked inside a black room — you cannot see anything.
'This is a dream,' you tell yourself as your eyes navigate the infinite walls of this imaginary room. Your eyebrows merge, attempting to open your real eyelids, but you do not awaken from your slumber. "Maliwag," a voice calls you by your Silvan name — the name that your husband did not give to you.
You turned to look at the source of the noise.
A gasp escapes your mouth.
"Elbereth," you kneeled.
She is truly a creature of the stars. A beauty that you cannot describe for you have not seen anything as beautiful yet.
"My sweet child," she speaks in a rhythm, "— I cannot purge the lust of every creature's heart." She explains as if you have had this conversation a thousand times before.
"What do you mean, my lady?" You raised an eyebrow.
"You must go where Sauron is scared to go," she continues to speak.
"Apologies, but I do not understand."
"Wake up! It has been a year, Maliwag."
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.
.
You hear the sound of a babe crying from beside you.
"Legolas," you whispered frantically while reaching for the boy. Your son has inherited his father's features. Shining genuine blue eyes that remind you of clouds, his silver straight hair and his cute dimples. It has been a year since you were abducted from your home — asleep and oblivious, how stupid, you cursed yourself.
Partly because Sauron's curses have made it through your mind now.
He calls you all sorts of names, but he pretends to be gentle with Legolas. He holds the babe with a gentle hand, looks at him with a smile even when threatening you, even when he tells you that he shall throw your child from the tower's windows.
You know that his false kindness has its limits. For now, your babe is his only leverage against you. "The babe has been weeping for quite some time now." he leaned on the frame of the door, watching you as a predator would do to its prey. "I'm sorry," you whispered quickly, nursing your son with a breast upon his lips.
"— the babe cannot stay here any longer. You must return him to the Woodland Realm." You continued your speech. You have been convincing Sauron to send your babe back for an entire moon now. He has always refused to listen to your pleading because he knows that Legolas is a means for him to have control. "He will die here, and if he dies, then I shall follow. I swear of it." You gritted your teeth.
If you must become a monster to keep Legolas safe. You will do it.
"Making threats now, how adorable." He teases.
"I have always been true to my words." You frowned.
He stares deep into your irises.
He knows the truth.
Mordor is not a place for elflings, it is detrimental to their fea, and you can feel your son fading from his prolonged stay here.
"Fine, but I will not return him to his father." He chuckles.
"Where will you bring him? I will know if you hurt him. I will feel it." Your eyebrows merged.
"He will be useful for my plan. I will tell Lord Celebrimbor that Legolas is my son, then I shall work under his command as a smith. Earn my ranks and then introduce my magnum opus, which are the rings. I have already strayed from my plans by taking you," he looks down at you, undressing you with his mere gaze.
"No one will believe that you are his father," you rolled your eyes.
"We already look so much alike," he smiles — merging into a form that looks similar to your husband. But not quite.
He steals your husband's nose, hair, and eyes — but in a way that sends shivers down your spine. Makes you fearful of him. For your husband has always gazed upon you with warmth, and you see nothing but darkness in his eyes.
Legolas begins to weep.
Sauron places a hand on your forehead, and everything fades to black. It will be years until you gain control of your consciousness again, years until you fight against his power — Elbereth, please keep my son safe.
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.
.
"Welcome to my halls," Lord Celebrimbor greets.
When Mirdania spoke of an elven-family seeking refuge, he did not expect such a sweet looking family. The father, who introduced himself as Echthrós had long silver hair almost reminding Celebrimbor of Elu Thingol, if it weren't for the michevious glint in the man's eyes. He says that he is a smith and can work in Celebrimbor's forge.
The mother, Danaë, kept to herself. She had long golden curls, her ears were tapered into delicate points, and her eyes were green. She looked almost like Galadriel if it weren't for the kindness in her movements that set her apart. "- And who is this little boy?" Celebrimbor smiles at the cooing elfling.
He turns to look at Danaë, but there seems to be no thought behind her eyes. Celebrimbor pauses for a moment, attempting to reach out to the mother's fea but he is answered with nothing but silence.
"Legolas," Echthrós answers, placing a hand on Danaë's back.
"A silvan name," Celebrimbor smiles.
A tear trickles down Danaë's eyes.
next chapter>>
Maliwag is a name that means 'the difficulty of labor'
Summary: On a boring day you have time to walk around, and recall different memories from your past.
You loved taking walks in the woods and your gardens.
Seeing your kingdom bloom and glow just did something to you, it was special.
Spring was your favourite season. Seeing new life everywhere around you made you want to be a mother once again.
You could still recall when your son was born.
Legolas became the center of your world in a simple moment. As soon as the midwife-elf placed him in your arms, it was over.
Both for you and for your husband.
He was the cutest little elfling you have ever seen. Looked just like your husband but behaved just like you.
Even when he was little, you took him out to the gardens on walks, showing him the world. Every single time you looked at all the different rose bushes or hydrangeas all you could see was him as a little elf let's elfling playing amongst them, you just wished you had something to capture that moment with so you would be able to show it to your husband.
Now Legolas was a fully grown up elf, who was more interested in all the different kinds of fighting styles than nature, and also your husband did sometimes had time to spend with you right now he was too busy with his kingly duties, so you were left alone to walk the woods and your gardens.
And that is exactly what you were doing that day. You woke up and somehow amazingly sunny it was that day, so you made your way out to your favorite place in the garden. Your favorite place was where there were these huge hydrangea bushes, all different colors and shapes and sizes you loved every single one of them.
That part of the garden was a present from your husband to you as an anniversary gift. Since he knew how much you adored flowers, he added every single flower that she liked to the garden just to please you.
There were different statues as well in the garden, all of them beautiful.
You left out a long side on your way to your favorite bench. If only you could have the two men who meant so much to you there with you.
You felt so lonely at that moment, it might sound arrogant to some people that the queen was complaining but you really were rather sad that you had to spend such a nice day all alone although you did enjoy every second of it and you did make the best of it, but you still missed both of your boys.
Maybe that's why the idea of having another child was so inviting to you, then you would have finally someone who would need your attention all day long and they would give your attention all day long as well before they grow up. You missed that, you missed having someone who relied on you so much. Legolas it's already too old for him need you in such a way. Even If he did sometimes come over to you asking for your advice it wasn't the same.
When you tried to hint a new baby to your husband but he was too oblivious for your tries or he simply didn’t want to tell you that he did not want another child.
So, you didn’t bring the topic up after that. Although, it did hurt a little bit, you were happy with your life. Even if you felt lonely at times like this, you were happy.
“Naneth,” you heard someone say.
“Oh, Legolas. What are you doing here?” you asked as your son came over to you and sat down next to you.
“You looked lonely, Mother. So, I came to keep you company. Is Father still in a meeting?”
You offered him a kind smile, it warmed your heart that he thought about you.
“He is. But you don’t have to be here, I am not lonely, I have my flowers, you should practice.”
“Nonsense. No training or practice is more important than you, Naneth.”
“Thank you. How was your day?” he always loved to show or talk to you about his training. Ever since he was little he was a quick learner.
“Really good…” then he went on and on about his day. Telling you everything about swords, bows and more.
If you were honest you never truly understood everything he said or referred to but you still listened with a smile. Seeing him be so interested and happy about something warmed your heart.
You listened to everything he had to say. Every single word.
You saw so much of your husband in him. But you were there as well. You still couldn’t believe that you had the privilege to be the mother of this exceptional elf.
“Adar!” said Legolas out of nowhere which made you look the way he was looking. And you saw your husband, walking towards the two of you.
“Nin hén, Nin mel, what are you two doing out here in such an hour?” you failed to notice that the sun started to go down.
“Mother was lonely so I came over to give her some company.” replied Legolas as Thranduil joined you.
“It is getting late, it would be best if we all headed to rest.” you said and both of them agreed. Thranduil guided you towards your chambers after you said your goodbyes to your son.
“We have a wonderful child.” he said as you laid down in bed.
“Indeed, I cannot believe he is so big, I feel like I can still recall holding him as a young elfling.” you let out a long sigh at the happy memory as you felt your husband’s arms move you towards him. “I have been thinking, Nin mel.”
“About?”
“Another child.” Thranduil almost jumped up as you said that.
“A-another?”
“I have been feeling lonely with Legolas leaving us so frequently and with you being in meetings all day. I always wanted a daughter as well, you know that.”
“I do. I know it.”
“It was a silly idea.” you said after his long silence. “Forget it, Thranduil. I’ll be fine.”
“We can have another child. I’m only thinking of ways to ensure it would be a girl.” his confession nearly made you choke on air, then you smiled.
“No need. I would be happy with a boy as well.” you said as you pulled him closer and kissed him.
Thranduil knew, whatever the Queen of Mirkwood wanted, she got it.
So I know my master list of imagines is long so I decided to make this top 2 imagines for main characters (no background elves) by going through them so anyone can just see this and read a few instead! I am putting them based on the most liked.
Frodo, Samwise, Bard, Bofur, Gimli, and Bilbo are not included because they only have one or two imagines
* female reader
Legolas:
Legolas giving you flowers (all three parts are technically the highest)
The Prince (after the series above this is the next highest, this is also a series)*
Fili:
I belong with Amrâlimê
Adrenaline rush
Thorin:
The Truth
Not a damsel in distress*
Kili:
What were you thinking
I’m Here
Elrond:
A watchful Eye (this series is the highest as well)*
Decisions
Boromir:
Braid your hair
Significances of braids
Pippin:
Goodbye
Just a kiss*
Thranduil:
Tell me you love me
Dragon fire
Haldir:
To the keep
Haldir thinking you like Legolas (This series was the 2nd)
Éomer:
Words from the mist of battle & Battles & everything in between (These had a tie)
Princess of Starlight; Thranduil x elfling child reader
*Author's note*
Well guys this took me awhile to get around to making and a couple of weeks to write it all down but this weekend I finally had some time to fully sit and write it out and now it's ready! So @soralinklokidottirofmirkwood I appreciate your patience with me and I now present to you your request. Hope you enjoy it as well as any reader who catches this little gem.
Warnings: parental death, spiders (yeah those arachnophobes out there like me, BEWARE OF SPIDERS!!) mentions of infertility and stillborn children, some angst and fluff.
I managed to duck down into the root of a tree and quickly buried myself with some old leaves and twigs and stayed as quiet as I could until I heard the sound of their clicking and hissing. I then watched as their shadows went past the tree I was hiding under, hoping and praying to the Valar that they wouldn’t see me.
After what felt like forever, the last of them finally walked passed my tree so I slowly peeked out clenching my father’s crystal necklace he had given me before he and mother told me to run and hide. There was nothing but silence in the woods, no birds, no wind, not even the sound of running water.
Very carefully I decided to venture out of my tree in hopes of finding another place to hide, or maybe get out of the woods all together. Suddenly out of nowhere I was pinned down by three long, hairy legs and heard a hiss-like roar behind my back. I tried to fight but I felt myself being wound up in the sticky web of the spider that had me pinned.
Then as quickly as I felt it starting to wrap my up, it stopped. I heard the whizzing sound of arrows being shot, blades being unsheathed, and the terrible sounds of the spider that had me pinned along with more spiders from above the trees. Soon there was silence once again and I heard someone say in my language.
“How many are left?”
“I counted five more escaping during the skirmish my lord Legolas.” Said a female voice.
“Kill them all. None must be left alive. By order of the King.” The male voice said again. The female then proclaimed an Elvish command and I heard some running away from the area.
“My lord Legolas, what about the victim?” oh no. I tried to wriggle myself out of the web but it was so thick and sticky, I couldn’t even move my arms up that had been pinned to my side. So like a warm, I tried to inch myself to a hiding spot (even though I could barely see through the silked webs) but I was soon stopped by another foot.
This was it, this is where I would meet my end. Not by spiders but by my own kin. I felt as the webs were being cut away and I was now staring into the sharp, blue eyes of an elf in what almost looked like dragon-like armor.
“Stand down, she’s only an elfling.” He ordered to the few dozen guards that remained at his side. Unlike the others who had either dark or red hair, this elf before me had blonde hair, just like my mother did. I jumped out of my web trap and pressed myself against one of the trees and the elf told me, “It’s alright. No one will hurt you.”
Even though he looked intimidating, there was a comforting aura around him that I was sensing from him thanks to father’s necklace.
“Do you speak in the Eldar? Or do you also know common tongue?” he asked me. But before I could answer, I noticed a large shadow slowly coming down from above. It was one of the younger spiders whose feet are so light, they couldn’t even be detected by our Elvish ears. One of the guards happened to look where I was looking and proclaimed.
“Hir nin Legolas!” my necklace soon glowed and I extended my hand out and a powerful wind blast sent everyone falling down including the spider. It’s back slammed hard into the trunk of a tree before falling down on a spiked log, piercing it through it’s center and it quickly fell limp. The elven guards plus the elf who had tried to talk to me, Legolas according to one of the guards. They all looked at me in either shock or awe at what I had just done.
“I’m sorry.” I finally spoke to show that I knew both Elvish and common tongue. “I didn’t want that one to hurt you. They’re more deadly than the bigger ones, nana and adar were attacked by one just like that. The venom spread so quickly mother barely had the chance to cry out.” Suddenly one of the guard withdrew his bow and arrow and aimed it at me. I jumped back fearfully but Legolas stood in front of me, shielding me from the oncoming attack.
“Lower your bow Feren!”
“My lord, she had hurt you!” Feren snapped.
“It was an accident. She saved my life, and as such it would do you more harm than good to bring harm to my rescuer.” Feren without question removed his arrow from his bow and stood down. Legolas turned back towards me and knelt back down in front of me. “Little one, how do you know magic?”
“My father’s amulet. It just—glows whenever I feel high levels of fear and fires the magic. I didn’t mean to hurt you I swear it.”
“No apologizes necessary, may I be permitted to see your father’s amulet? Don’t worry I won’t take it from you.” I looked into his eyes and felt deep down he was telling the truth. I reached underneath my shirt and pulled it out and held it out to him. He gently took it in his hands and as he admired the crystal gem, I noticed how his eyes widened when he turned it around to look at the runes on the back.
“Am I—in trouble?” I asked nervously. He looked at me and told me as he handed me back my father’s amulet.
“No penneth. But we would like for you to come with us, the King would like to know of your presence in our part of the forest.” The King? As in King Thranduil? I had made it to King Thranduil’s palace?! I had but lost hope that I would make it here.
Before I had lost my father, he had told me to reach the realm of Thranduil. If I showed him my amulet, he could protect me. Those were his last words before the younger spider got to him and dragged him off into the woods, never to be seen again. Legolas kept his hand out for me to take it and so I did and he ordered the remaining guards to follow us.
As we walked, I soon began to feel the light of the sun upon my face as we reached a different part of the woods. I couldn’t recall the last time I had felt the light of the sun or have been able to feel all of Yavanna’s great creations all around me. The feel of the spray of the rushing waterfalls beneath us, the smell of the fresh air instead of the decaying one I had been under.
We soon came to a great fortress that had been built within the trees themselves. Gates of iron stood before us as Legolas ordered the guards to close the gates behind us. Once inside I was amazed at the interior of this grand palace.
Narrow walkways of tree bark and light that seemed to be glowing on it’s own from what appeared to be sap from the trees. Elves all around were walking the various pathways that either were below or on top of us. Soon enough, we came before a large, intimidating throne of wood and stone.
Large antler-like structures stood on either side of the throne that was at the foot of a narrow staircase at the foot. And sitting upon the throne wielding a staff was none other than the King of all Mirkwood, King Thranduil.
He resembled Legolas almost to a perfect picture but his eyes held a harshness that felt like winter wind hitting you in the face. A crown of autumn leaves stood upon his head and he wore robe of onyx and hanging off his shoulders was a blood red cloak.
“Legolas,” his voice held a deep booming sound to it that almost resembled thunder in the far off mountains. “Who is this child you have brought before me?”
“My lord, this young elf was found within the outer boarders of your realm. The spiders had ambushed her and nearly had her killed. She in returned saved me from a spider that we had missed that would’ve killed me.” Thranduil’s eyes shifted to me.
Seeing him upon his throne lounging against it and his icy blue eyes staring down upon me gave me an intimidating feeling.
“And you had killed it? It wasn’t left alive?” he asked me.
“Yes, Great King of Wood and Stone.” I said bowed to him.
“The child has manners. And a great debt is owed to you for saving my son.” He told me. Legolas is the son of the King?! I had saved the Prince of Mirkwood?!
“It is also best that you know this young elfling saved me not with a steel of any weapon, but of magic. A powerful magic that I had never crossed paths with before.” Legolas said again. I watched as Thranduil slowly came down the steps of his throne and stood before us and told his son and the guards.
“Leave us.” They bowed and soon I was left alone with the great King of the Wood. “Rise young one.” I got back to my feet and looked up at him nervously, fiddling with the ends of my tattered dress. “How long have you been traveling in the woods on your own?”
“I—lost my parents what feels like an age. But counting from what I could tally in the ground and trees, it had been nearly a year and a half since I had been on my own.”
“And from where did you hail from in my kingdom?”
“The Southern borders of Mirkwood my lord. Near the fell fortress. My parents and I escaped the spider raid when they first came upon the lands.”
“What were your parents names?” he asked me.
“My mother’s name was Thessa, and my father’s name was…..”
“Orrian.” The King finished for me. I looked up at the King in shock.
“You knew my father?” the king knelt down to my height and asked me.
“Answer me this, do you bear his family’s amulet? A clear diamond surrounded in silver?” I reached down into my shirt and pulled out the amulet necklace and Thranduil’s eyes widened. “By the grace of Varda. You are her. You are Orrian’s young starlight. You are just as he described.”
“My father spoke highly of you, but I always thought it was because you were the King of our realm.”
“Not only that child but your father and I go back a long time into our elfling hoods back in our old home of Doriath. He was the youngest cousin to the Queen Melian. And my greatest friend. Oh the times we had together as elflings.” His voice held a warm, gentleness and his eyes that once struck me with a cold feeling now held a warm, tender look to them. “I am sorry for your loss my dear child, but know that your father truly loved you. More than anyone, more than life.”
“That’s what he said before telling me to find you. Saying that you would protect me. I had but given up hope that I would even find sanctuary and that his and my mother’s deaths would’ve been in vain.” Thranduil placed a comforting hand to my shoulder and said.
“You need not think that anymore dear one, your parents can finally rest in peace knowing that you will indeed be safe here in my realm.” Then I did something I never would’ve thought I had the guts to do.
I embraced the Elven king. He tensed up at the surprised hug but gladly embraced me back.
Later that night after being provided with proper lodgings, food and medical attention to the scraps and bruises from running through the thick shrubberies. Thranduil sat down with me on my bed telling me all the stories of him and my father growing up.
“And had it not been for me, your father would’ve never had gotten the courage to ask a dance from your mother.” He finished the tale of how he had helped my father and mother begin their courting.
“Father always said he’d learn to thank you for giving him the proper push.” I fiddled with his amulet necklace. My heart growing heavy with grief. “I miss him and mother every day.”
“And they loved you dearly. They feared that they would go through life without being able to conceiving a child. Everytime your mother started to bear one, it was either a stillborn or she ended up losing it. But when you came along, there was something about you that made your father believe that you were the one. You were going to be the grace of Varda herself, and he was right.” He tucked some of my hair behind my ear and turned my chin up to look at him, “An elfling born with the power of the Stars and wind, and it is through that amulet that was brought down by his family line that helps harness your powers.”
“Yet they didn’t appear till after I had lost them. If only I was able to use that power to save them.”
“There is a saying your father used to say, ‘Yesterday is history, tomorrow’s a mystery, but today is a gift. That is why it is called the present’. We cannot choose what happens in that time frame or what events will fall, only after what’s done is done, do we have the strength to follow through to the next event that may fall upon us.” I nodded and leaned my head against the king’s arm.
I felt his arm come around me, pulling me onto his lap as my head rested on his shoulder.
“I promise you (Y/n), you’ll never know fear or loneliness ever again. I swear on your father, I’ll try to give the same amount of love as he and your mother gave you.”
“Thank you my lord.”
“No more formalities. You may call me by my name when it is just us, okay?”
“Okay, Thranduil.” I felt him bring me closer to him in a loving embrace and he lay a kiss upon the top of my head.
For the rest of my life, Thranduil kept his word. I was raised at his side like his own daughter and Legolas came to see me as his own little sister. I was trained not only in weapons by my brother and father, I was also taught how to better control my magic. Though for those lessons, I was sent to Rivendell where I was told by Lord Elrond that he and his wife were good friends of my mother.
Lord Elrond taught me of how to better control my magic and how to use it in combat. Throughout the lands I became known as the Starlight Princess of the Woodland realm. Any orc that I came in contact with was blinded by my powers of Starlight and shuddered in fear whenever the winds would blow, signaling my arrival. And whenever I felt doubt or fear of forgetting what my parents looked like, my adoptive father was willing to show me old pictures of him and my father and tell me more stories of them and their lives together. And I never had to live with fear or doubt ever again, just as my adoptive father had promised.
If your requests are open, and you are comfortable with it, could you maybe please do a King Thranduil x reader one-shot where reader has cancer and it is like angsty?
the toll of sickness | thranduil x reader
a/n: Anon, I am sincerely sorry for the long wait, but I wanted to provide all the angsty venting and comfort I could for you in this! Thank you for your request! I wanted to do this right by you. I hope this helps soothe whatever parts of you need soothing today. I don’t know anon’s/anyone’s specific diagnosis or symptoms, so I’m doing my best to remain respectful and widely general with the topic of cancer. I took inspiration from my own experiences with the mental/emotional toll of long-term chronic illness to supply a plot to resolve, I hope that’s okay (and still relatable). <3
The reader is implied feminine in this as they are referred to as lady/queen, but otherwise, I did my best to keep it gender-neutral with descriptions.
This could also be interpreted as a reader with chronic illness.
DO NOT REPOST MY WORK. GIF EDIT IS MINE.
summary: after a long day of tiresome treatments and the heaviness of your thoughts, you retreat to your chambers to seek the comfort of your husband’s arms.
warnings: mentions of cancer (the reader has cancer), mentions of cancer treatments and symptoms (including needles), medical exhaustion, nonsexual nudity and nonsexual bathing, open discussions of symptoms, fear of death
word count: 6.1k
music: As Long As We Both Shall Live by Bear McCreary
elvish translations: melamin = my love, melda = my dear/beloved
“I think we will conclude here for today, my lady.”
The head healer’s voice drew your wayward attention back to his prim features. His thin lips spread into a smile as he gently unstrapped the tight leather band above your inner elbow, releasing the tension from your skin. The long syringe with its glass barrel was gently pulled from the blue vein that the pressure had highlighted. You rubbed your arm subconsciously as he set aside the supplies for cleaning, hoping the motion would rid your flesh of the awful sensation of being probed.
You blinked away your muddled thoughts. Briefly, you worried that perhaps he had been talking to you long before you’d heard his assessment to end the treatments for the evening. If you had, you were grateful to find no resentment in his gaze for your absentminded silence.
He softly closed his collection of books that had been displayed around a table on the wall adjacent to your cushioned cot in the infirmary. With a bottle of herbal salve, he applied a generous portion to the inner curve of your elbow, satiating any irritation from his needles. The cool gel of the aloe soothed the itchy redness, while the lavender masked the sterile scent of the medications and intensely bitter herbs.
You glanced up from the healer’s gentle efforts, trying on your best smile. “Thank you for your diligence today, Sudryl. It is very much appreciated.”
He bowed his head as he clasped your hand between his palms, “It is always a pleasure to tend to you, my queen. We will resume tomorrow morning if it suits your schedule?”
“My schedule is always free for your remedies. Thranduil has made sure to take over many of my duties so we may focus on my treatment.”
Sudryl smiled once more as he helped you stand from the cot, draping your silken robe over your bare arms as he did so. “The king is very wise, your majesty. I know you detest this period of healing you’re undergoing, but you mustn't mistake rest for idleness. Your people desire greatly for your full recovery, myself included. In order to achieve that, your rest is crucial.”
You didn’t know what to say. Rest was crucial, you knew that. As were the innumerable treatments and remedies being applied and adjusted every day.
But didn’t anyone understand that you were tired of all of this? Exhausted by more than just the cancer and its seemingly endless repercussions that it presented almost daily. Worn down by more than just needles and salves and bitter syrups that lingered in your throat.
You missed feeling well-rested when you woke up in the mornings after a long sleep—you missed having the energy to spend your days fulfilling your duties as a queen, as a servant to her people. You missed the days in which every activity was not dictated or measured by searing pain or groggy fatigue. You were tired of wrestling with your body just to exist comfortably.
But it’s your duty to get better, they keep telling you.
It’s what everyone’s hoping for, your majesty.
Do your best to rest and eat well, my lady.
Don’t give up hope, Queen (Y/n). You are blessed among our kin!
The people have been petitioning their prayers to the Valar fervently, your grace.
They were supposed to be words of encouragement spoken to invigorate your fighting spirit, to ignite that spark of determination that was starting to flicker these last few months. But these endless strains of hope and enlightenment had started to weigh heavily upon your shoulders like a milkmaid’s yoke, and with every well-intentioned word and chorus of song another stone was dropped into the buckets you carried.
The pressure to recover for the sake of others was beginning to feel like too much—the toll of the sickness itself was enough for one to worry about, was it not? Not only did you feel this fearsome desperation to recover for your own sake, for your own life, but also the need of a thousand other voices begging for a show of strength you didn’t feel tangible anymore.
The summoning of one of your servants outside the infirmary doors reminded you that the hour to retire for supper was nearing presently. You felt your posture deflate as it dawned on you that you couldn’t yet retire for the day. Although your extravagant evening meals were one of the few constants that motivated you to follow your days through until nightfall, your hunger had dispersed in the last few days. Being seated at a stiff table dressed with rich delicacies and savory wines sounded nothing short of torture at the moment, even with the promise of dessert.
The servant curtseyed in the broad doorway as Sudryl led you across the room. You couldn’t help but tense as your legs tremored from the sudden activity. A long exhale slipped through your pursed lips.
“My queen,” She rose gracefully, her hands folding together at her waist. “Your supper with the king is nearly prepared. He will be present in the dining hall shortly as soon as his meeting has concluded. I was advised to escort you there safely.”
Clutching onto Sudryl’s forearm, you hesitated to address the messenger. You couldn’t help the expression of distaste that twisted your face. The thought of food was not the only thing that churned your stomach at that moment; the prospect of being walked through your own palace as though you were an invalid, incapable of making it there of your own merit, as though every pair of eyes in this forest need offer you their due pity, bothered you even more than the risk of losing your supper to the toilet.
Knowing you couldn’t send her away under Sudryl’s watchful eye (for surely there would be further inquiries as a result of such an unnecessary dismissal), you managed to nod in thanks to her before turning to him. The head healer’s smile was brimming with empathy. You tried not to feel offended by his pitying compassion. He leaned forward and pecked your cheek reverently, bidding you a respectful farewell until the morning.
You turned from him and followed the servant into the winding halls. Gaze following the eroded pathway of the massive tree roots beneath your sore feet, you bided the seconds until you were both too far to be noticed by any superior voices that might challenge your decision-making. When your footsteps halted, she turned to face you.
Her brows raised, she asked, “My lady? Is something wrong?”
“No, no. I’m alright,” You waved her worries aside with the vague gesture of your hand. “But I can manage the walk to the dining hall from here.”
Her brows drew together in an expression of confusion. You straightened your back—had she seen through your polite fib? Was it that obvious you had no intentions of eating this evening? Or was just she not used to being given conflicting commands between two monarchs?
“—On my own. I can make it there on my own.”
Her lips parted in protest as she recalled what you assumed were very clear orders from your husband only minutes prior. Stretching your hand out to gently touch her shoulder, you reassured her it would be alright. “I will explain to the king myself that I demanded to be left alone. No trouble will come to you, I promise. You will not lose your position.”
“But my lady, I—it is my duty is to ensure your safe arrival. Are you sure you don’t—?”
The irritation that swelled within you wasn’t her fault, you hastily reminded yourself. You bit back the frustrated sigh you wanted to release, tightening your polite smile. Reasoning with another person about what you wanted to do and why you wanted to do it was the last thing you presently wanted to deal with. Desperate to detach yourself from her and anyone else lingering about, you decided to be straightforward. No beating around the bush.
“I value your persistence, young one, but I would very much like to retire early tonight. You may inform my husband that I’ll be taking my meal in our chambers if you must.”
“Understood, your majesty. I shall inform the king. Have a good evening.” She dipped into an impulsive curtsy, quickly trailing back to the chancellery to relay your decision.
You didn’t even wait for her to pass beyond the long hall ahead before you turned in the opposite direction. Your private chambers weren’t too far from the infirmary, thankfully. However, it still took some resolve on your behalf to encourage your depleted energy through corridors and foyers all the way back to your comfortable bed. The silver silk of your robe billowed around your feet with every step, giving your eyes something other than walls of stone and root to follow.
You were sure your husband wouldn’t be taking the present news about your wellbeing all that agreeably. You could see it clearly in your mind—the disheveled, anxious worry in his eyes that he masked behind a wall of solemn regality. But you could always see what he was thinking. He wouldn’t like the fact that your treatments were taking more and more of a toll on your already wearisome state. He would like it even less when he found out you would soon be dismissing supper altogether.
His concern wasn’t for himself, of course. It was for you—it was always for you.
He wanted desperately for you to be able to enjoy your meals in the glittering brilliance of the dining hall, unperturbed by fatigue and nausea. He wanted you to be able to take those strolls through the forest gardens that you adored so much without the sore discomfort in your bones. He wanted you to relish in your life and its unrivaled importance. And most of all, he wanted desperately to take this lingering sickness away; he wished he had been born with a skill for healing like some of his kin.
But all he could give you were the promises of an unsure future and the enlistment of his most skilled associates and all relevant resources that could be found about your condition. And some part of you—some sad, twisted part of you—felt a rush of guilt that so much commotion and worry was being circulated about the kingdom on your behalf. And that guilt only made the whole affair all the more frustrating and maddening. These days, everything inflamed your anger. This whole tumultuous ordeal seemed to be unraveling more than just your physical state.
You knew it was ridiculous to feel responsible in some way for what was happening to you. You hadn’t chosen this, you hadn’t brought it on yourself—you most certainly didn’t deserve it. No one with cancer ever does. But reasoning with your inner turmoil was like wrestling a wild boar in the mud; there was never any true resolve without the cost of more anxieties, more wounds, more gashes in your soul. And the more you tried to gain a grip on yourself, the less grounded you became, the more it all slipped through your fingers.
The click of the door was a chime of resolve as you leaned against the tall wooden frame from within the calm confines of your spacious bedroom. Sliding out of your supple leather flats and letting your robe slump to your elbows, you took the first deep breath you had been able to control since earlier that morning. The king-sized bed frame creaked subtly as you lowered yourself onto the fluffed silken duvet. Ever so gradually, you felt the weight of the vertical world begin to reprieve from your muscles like steam rushing upwards from a boiling pot.
Rest wasn’t a cure for what ailed you, no, but Valar above, sometimes it felt like it.
Since your diagnosis—the terrifying sickness devouring your energy and livelihood from within your own body—nearly every day had been spent in the infirmary or the healer’s sanctuary, remedies administered by the hour, conversations turning tiresome and sour. It had begun to feel like your own home was a prison, the world beyond the palace unreachable, like every action was a strenuous transaction of vitality and exhaustion. Even just walking the gardens that lead into the forest had become inexplicably draining—it left you feeling as though you’d run to Mirkwood’s southern border and back rather than taking a few turns about the courtyard.
But here, on the cloud-like comfort of your private chambers, there was some reprieve from it all. There were no endless strands of questions about your well-being and your comfort and opinions on the tedious details of your health here—only the distant rush of the waterfalls that crashed brazenly into the river moat outside the palace gates. You could hear the chirping of the early summer insects as dusk narrowed on the horizon beyond the open terrace. There was no sterile smell of concentrated alcohol or the pungent gnawing of tart herbs. Instead, there was a faint aroma of lilacs wafting in from the gardens and the scent of your husband’s musk lingering in your bed.
Closing your eyes and rolling onto your lesser-sore side, you sought out the imprint that his body might have left there that morning. But the duvet was creased flat and folded with a chill under your skin. It was curious futility to think his warmth might have lasted after so many long hours away, you knew that; the bed was always plumped and remade in the mornings by your gracious servants. A coldness ran through you, engulfing your skin in little bumps that felt like prickling needles.
Too sore from your aches to unfurl the taut covers from the mattress and too comfortable to retrieve one of your husband’s many fur throws, you recoiled your arm and folded your limbs closer together, curling into a position that would magnify your own body heat. While quietly taking in the environment of your sanctuary, this small peaceful haven that almost made you forget the turmoil your body was enduring, you hardly noticed as you faded into a light slumber. Caught between the ebbing flow of consciousness as it bobbed around the sleepy release of your strained body, wading between thoughts and dreams.
Unaware of the passage of time as you laid there in groggy consciousness, you hardly felt the urge to stir from your position until you felt the back of someone’s hand on your cheek, the brushing aside of your askew (h/c) tendrils. Then you made out the quiet husk of a voice that hovered above you in the dark.
In the dark? Sunset was still a couple of hours away! And after that, dusk would linger still until the light vanished beyond the mountains to the west. Why was it already so dark?
Hadn’t it only been a few fleeting minutes since you’d closed your eyes, listening to the cicadas and savoring the sweetness of the summer flora? Eyebrows pursed, you could hear yourself attempt to answer, but the meticulous reply you’d fabricated in your mind was delivered in heavy vowels that grouped together lazily. Your speech felt like treacle slipping off your tired tongue.
A velvet chuckle reverberated in your perking ears.
“Have I forgotten my native tongue or was that a very poor attempt at Sindarin?”
Thranduil.
Your nose scrunched up as you fought to drain the sleepiness that was working against you so fervently. Before you could stir the tired droopiness from your eyes with eager fists, two gentle hands cupped your cheeks and swept their thumbs over your closed eyes. The motion was akin to a gentle massage, spanning your sore eyelids and dusting across your cheekbones, a cradling of your vulnerable stillness that filled your chest with a fond fervor. The supple tenderness of his lips collided briefly with yours before parting all too quickly.
“Mm?” Your vocabulary hadn’t quite refreshed itself, it seemed. “When d’dju geten?”
Another rumbling chuckle he didn’t bother trying to hide. You pictured his willowy frame standing primly in front of the tall gilded looking glass, unfastening his stuffier robes and tucking his powder–blonde hair behind his pointed ears, or perhaps even tying it back for the night as he often did.
Stars, it felt like there were weights on your shoulders pulling you back against the duvet as you forced yourself to sit up, like the muscles beneath your skin were unraveling at the seams. You rubbed your eyes and shooed your disheveled hair from your peripheral vision, glancing around the dark room for your husband’s silhouette. A flicker of light plumed suddenly in the sconce near the vanity, illuminating his fair features. The match in his hand extinguished with a puff of air from his lips before his pale blue eyes found yours.
“I only just came in,” he reassured you, “I’m afraid I underestimated how much wind some of our advisors have in their lungs, especially when provoked.”
Another votive flickered to life on the other side of the room, another match snuffed out under his breath. The sunlight outside had all but gone in the murky hours you had been asleep. Now that you could take in the mellow darkness of the evening without confusion, some part of you felt distressed about the sudden absence of natural light. The daylight, warm and golden, always brought you a sense of comfort. But now it was dark and grey and the light of the moon was cold, distant, and you hadn't had a chance to prepare yourself for it. Another chill ran across your skin as a more frigid breeze swept in from the open terrace.
“Did Sudryl have a chance to share the news with you before retiring this evening?” He asked, glancing over his shoulder at you. His lips pursed when he saw your unmoving figure still sitting on the edge of the bed, your back draped in silks, facing away from him. Your slumped posture told him all he needed to know about how you were feeling after your treatments—the exhaustion was palpable in how slow your palm rose to cradle your own forehead, in how shaky you were as you forced yourself up from the bed and took hold of the bedpost.
He was near you in an instant, his strong hands taking gentle hold of your bowed shoulders. There he was, combing the stray hairs on your head down with doting affection, all while the same frustrations were building up inside of you as your sleepiness dissipated.
“You needn’t rise for me, melamin, I am no guest.” He chided gently.
“I know, I just need a bath before we settle in for the night.”
“You’re in no state to manage that tonight, (Y/n)—”
“Thranduil, I haven’t rinsed off the ointments. I smell like the forest—and not in a good way.”
“You smell like an herb garden, fresh and natural, as all things should be.”
“Pungent is more like it,” You quipped, catching the accent of bitter walnuts exuding from your thin robes. It was that old, damp, dingy sort of bitterness that made you want to expel the air from your lungs with a snort when you caught a whiff of it—not the pleasant sort of musk from the gardens.
He laughed again, this time with more relief behind his eyes. Even though he knew you were spent from the day’s strenuous activities, the presence of your humor provided him with some semblance of comfort. And as for your own weary senses, his smooth strain of laughter was more than a consolation for the muted anxiousness that the infirmary always inflicted.
“Then let me help you.”
“Thranduil, I can do it mys—”
“I insist,” He offered decidedly, and you knew well enough from past experience that arguing with him on the matter would prove ineffective.
He gently looped your arm through the curve of his elbow, placing a sweet kiss to your messy hair before turning along with you toward the adjoined bathing chamber. You leaned into him for support and begrudgingly admitted to yourself that he was right—there was no way you could withstand the exertion on your own, at least not tonight. Not while you felt this lethargic, not while your stress levels were causing such tension throughout your body, making everything denser, slower, sluggish.
Once he led you into the warmly lit haven of the spacious chamber, the steam of the hot spring pool seemed to draw you in on its own accord. The walls and their rugged shapes made the flickering yellowness of the torchlight spread longer shadows among its natural angles and divots. The far right wall was connected to the run-off of one of the many springs that stretched like veins throughout the mountain palace—and it was little cavern rooms like this one that reminded you that you were living in the majesty of a low-peaking mountain, not just nestled in the forested density of the Greenwood.
You knelt at the rim of the bathing pool on the soft stone edge, dragging your hand through the clear blue water. The natural warmth of the hot spring invigorated you with a sense of eagerness as you remembered just how soothing these glowing pools always were. A gentle touch to your shoulder lured your attention back to your husband, who with a fond smile, was waiting to help you unravel your robes and underthings. Taking his hand, you were pulled to stand in front of him with the gentlest limits of his strength.
You hardly felt the pressure or the tugging of his lithe fingers as he helped you undress, his touch but a breeze across your sore skin. When you were naked and chilled from the exposure, he guided you into the blue waters and leaned over the pool’s edge to make sure you were steady on the outcropped seat of eroded stonework submerged in the water. As the bubbling warmth enveloped your flesh, your eyes fluttered shut with an involuntary sigh of relief.
There were very rarely things that proved effective for your ceaseless pains—medicines and supplements only lasted so long or relieved so little, and sleep was growing more difficult to manage. But this—the heat bubbling up from the earth, sorted through sediment and mineral—was the most relief you found these days.
When submerged in the hot spring bath, your entire body numbed to its own plague as your bones and muscles absorbed whatever benefits came from the terrain around you. You briefly wondered how you ever managed to get out the last time you soaked like this, with every inch of your flesh basking in the warmth that enveloped you.
You relaxed against the glossy stones, trying to quiet your mind of all the infernal anxieties pressing a weight against your chest. The noise of your thoughts made it difficult to focus fully on the soothing effects of the natural hot spring, tensing and loosening your muscles and posture between every harsh doubt.
With a fresh cloth he brandished from a side table, Thranduil dipped it into the warm bath and began gently scrubbing away the ground athelas mixture. He’d seated himself comfortably on the edge of the bath, submerging his calves into the pool to cradle you between them. The cloth strummed along your chest and stomach as he reached over and behind, where the herbs from Sudryl’s remedies had been infiltrating the cancerous sickness plaguing your organs. You hadn’t meant to show him how weak you felt, how tired you were, how desperately you needed this—but your head fell back to rest against his stomach despite this as the steam curled around you both, dampening your hair and foreheads.
After your rinsing from the spout of a silver pitcher, he coaxed oils and lathered soaps across your flesh, your own fingers clasping onto the pale skin of his forearm or around his leg, refusing to cease contact with him. And although he generously and willingly offered his aide while the healing minerals of that glowing pool of steam soothed you, some venomous voice in the back of your mind tried to feed you strings of doubt and loathing.
He shouldn’t have to do this. He shouldn’t have had to become my caretaker.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I wasn’t supposed to get sick—neither of us was.
He deserves more than this mess I’ve given him. He deserves better than me.
You cleared your throat, trying to silence the growing guilt and shame before that stinging swell of tears could grow any more than they already were.
“What was it you were going to tell me?” You asked after the first of his own sweet-scented oils was being lathered along your arms, turning you about to face him. “Earlier, you mentioned something about Sudryl?”
“Ah, that,” he nodded in remembrance, “I gather he didn’t mention anything about Lord Elrond to you today?”
“Lord Elrond?” You inquired, lifting your questioning gaze to meet his. “No—no, he didn’t. Has something happened? Something to do with our alliances? Or with that trade treaty we adjusted with Laketown in the spring—”
“No, melamin, nothing of diplomatic proportions—all is still amiable with our kin for the time being,” he reassured. When he glanced up at you, the tranquil hope glittering in his blue eyes soothed the curious worry growing in your mind. He almost seemed excited about something. It tugged the corners of your mouth into a brief smile. “I sent word to him a little more than a month ago now, I suppose, to see what he might be able to do about your condition, to inquire about whether his skill with healing might mend what ails you.”
You swallowed hard over the sudden discomfort of anxiety that rose again like bile in your throat at the mention of more treatment, more guests, more expectations for healing. More, more, more.
“He is to arrive within a week of his latest correspondence, which came this morning. Preparations are being made for his arrival as we speak.”
Unknowingly, your grip had tightened on your husband’s forearm, your nails digging shallow crescents into his skin. The sharp sensation drew his attention downward to your hands, his dark brows furrowing in concern. His fingers winding around yours brought your attention to your vice-like grip, which you promptly loosened.
“What is it, (Y/n)? Does this news not please you?”
The earnestness in his pale eyes pierced your heart, the guilt bubbling up in your mind again. You weren’t sure what worried you most. The prospect of more prodding, more treatments, more attempts that might lead to nowhere; the fuss being made across the realm about your condition, about this peculiar, harsh sickness that was so puzzling to even the brightest minds; or perhaps, most worrisome of all, was the fact that you were no longer able to manage the upkeep of a happy facade. So many people were hoping, praying, supporting, and tending to you.
And somehow, you found that to be the most exhausting part of it all. Not only were you fighting for your own body, for comfort and life, but you were trying to uphold and appease every pair of eyes that was eagerly awaiting your miraculous recovery from something you didn’t even know how to fight. There were so many hopes to meet, so many hearts to comfort on your behalf, and your resolve was quietly crumbling.
Before you could think to soften your words in an attempt to save Thranduil’s optimism, your lips began to move, a sudden impulse of tears gathering in your eyes. “What if there is nothing even Lord Elrond can do to cure this?”
He paused, his eyes searching yours briefly before his damp fingers reached up to caress your cheek. How had he not seen the disparagement growing behind your gaze, darkening the lilt in your voice? Hidden behind humor and mischievous quips, but no less obvious.
“If—if I do not show improvement, our people will lose their resolve. Everyone’s counting on me to get better, to show some store of strength I no longer have and I–I can’t will my body to right itself,” you bore to him, panicked and spent from months of effort, “I cannot give everyone the hope they're seeking from me."
“Oh, melamin,” his chin nestled over your ear as he murmured with such rich affection, pressing your face into the musky homeliness of his neck.
“I know I should be grateful for their support, for their prayers and their offerings, but it’s becoming too much, Thranduil. I don’t have the strength for a kingdom’s worth of miracles.”
“You do not owe anyone but yourself the grace of your strength. Had I known their encouragement had put pressure on you to perform, I would have silenced the lot of them.”
Despite his sincerity, you panicked on. “What if I am never rid of it? What if this is my blight that I must war with for the rest of my life?”
He sombered then, drawing in a deep string of air into his lungs. You could see him wrestling with the reality of your honesty, with the questions you both had been too afraid to speak aloud before now. Gathering himself, he drew you nearer to him, clinging to you with a brief urgency that almost startled you.
“Then we will rise together each day to face it. There will never be a single day that you will have to endure this on your own. Do you hear me? That is my promise to you—that my vow and my diligence will never waver where you are concerned.”
Your tears burned with his words and you worked to force them at bay, his sweetness drawing every sour fear and thought of guilt from your mind and onto your tongue. “I am so sorry for this life I have given you. You didn’t ask for this—you cannot be happy with me—with this-this terrible thing I’ve brought upon us. You deserve so much more, and I can no longer give it to you.”
“You’re apologizing—?” He questioned, his voice quiet in shock.
Your eyes clamped shut, forcing the well of sorrows from your eyes to plummet. Gently, he pulled himself back, repositioning his hands on your upper arms as if to garner your absolute attention.
“(Y/n), this life you have given me has been far more than I have ever deserved and could ever strive to. From the moment we met, you have enriched my life just by your existence alone, much less the many qualities and traits about you I have come to treasure beyond all fortune or success. You have given me everything, a dozen lifetimes over, in the mere centuries we have been together.”
“You cannot have wanted this,” you breathed out, hushed by your own shame.
“No, I did not want you to suffer with something so abysmal, something so beyond my control. Of course I did not want for your pain…but if this is our future, if this is our path together, then I want every minute of it, and I will not settle for a second less. I would upheave the very crest of the world and drown mountains in flame if it meant saving you. And if that makes me selfish or ruthless, then I will be the standard at which devils compare their sins.”
His hands had gradually found their way up to your face, cradling your damp cheeks with a sincerity that made your lip quiver.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
The sight of the tearful waterline reflected in his eyes drew a noise of curt regret from your lungs. Your sob pierced his heart, filling him with a desperation to amend the shame and anxiety plaguing your mind.
“If you truly believe that you are at fault for this sickness, then in turn I must be held responsible for allowing it to happen in the first place. As your husband first, but also as your king.”
“No, no that’s not true! It’s not even reasonable of you to—”
“Then how can it be your fault? How could any of this be on your shoulders? There is no sense in blame, (Y/n). Not here, not with this.”
There was a stillness after his words, a stillness that was meant for rumination, and sealed with his lips against your skin and hair. Your hands rose to rest against his chest, nestling them over the dip of his collarbone as you felt for comfort in the blur of your tears. His silence prompted an answer.
“It’s not my fault,” you replied.
“Say it again.”
“It isn’t my fault,” you echoed, meeting his gaze once more, “just as it isn’t yours.”
And as shocking as it was for you to realize it, you truly believed the words he encouraged from you. This sickness wasn’t your fault. Neither of you could have had any sway with fate or destiny, with whatever had brought this on. And perhaps, it just simply was, with no cause or fault at all. What mattered now was how kind you could be to yourself, how to take one moment of strife and find something in it to hold onto. Moments like this were one of those morsels between the ebbing aches of pain and grief that you could relish and devour again and again.
Thranduil leaned forward, pressing his sweat-laced brow against yours. “Do not ever blame yourself, melamin. Do not let those foul words pass between your lips again.”
You nodded against him, pulling him nearer. “I promise.”
In the long minutes that followed, there was the solace of quiet intimacy as he rinsed through your hair one final time, peppering you with kisses and caresses at every opportunity. He met you with a soft fluffy towel when he led you out of the bath, never allowing a breeze to nip at your damp skin. His touch was featherlight as he patted you dry from head to toe, scrunching your drenched tendrils of (h/c) hair without complaint.
“I’m still so afraid,” you managed the courage to speak aloud, “What if–...what if this sickness claims my life?”
“You will not part this world without me, melda. Not a single breath will leave your lungs without my sharing it, not a single heartbeat will we not share,” he vowed, the absolute belief in his voice making the promise all the richer, “there isn’t a corner in this world or any other that you could wander to that I would not accompany you.”
Your silk nightgown slipped over your outstretched arms swiftly, sliding down your body and into place comfortably. He did up the lace of the collar with efficiency, not missing the chance to playfully tug you closer with the slightest bit of his strength. You planted yourself against his chest, the smile on your lips effortless with his own. The firm warmth of his arms wrapping around you had the same sort of pain-numbing effect as the hot spring, lulling every fretful thought to a close. His somber laugh reverberated again, this time through your bones, bringing an ethereal kind of peace with it.
The pillows of your large four-poster bed were positioned, fluffed, and repositioned. You waited patiently, upon his insistence, as he untucked and pulled the puffy duvet back for you to crawl under. Once comfortably tucked beneath layers of silk and cotton, he assumed his place beside you, careful not to jostle the mattress as he settled, mindful that every movement enticed your discomfort.
His body heat made you sleepy as you sank further into the covers, fogging your thoughts with a drowsy anticipation for the release of slumber. You’d waited for this moment all day—it had been the image that had pushed you through the hours of treatment and questions—the moment you could finally burrow against his warmth and drunken yourself with his scent. There was a slight stirring as he reached off to the side to retrieve something on the bedside table.
The fluttering of pages caught your fading attention, pulling your heavy-eyed gaze toward the book in his grasp. “Would you like to continue where we left off?”
You smiled tiredly against his chest, not recalling the events of the book he’d been reading to you for the last few nights. Oftentimes, the first few pages would strike vividly in your imagination, but as his lustrous tone carried on through paragraphs and chapters, the sleepy security that his presence enticed made it impossible to recall anything beyond the thrilling hum of his voice. In all actuality, you were quite sure he didn’t mind if you knew anything at all about the story he was reading aloud. It was enough to hold you and be held.
