Thranduil'sTiger

All things Thranduil :)

[trishfullertonwriting75]

Heart Of Darkness snippet...

She hoisted her backpack higher and ascended the wide steps. The door opened before she had the chance to ring the doorbell, and she jumped a little. Her lips parted. Standing before her was the most stunningly gorgeous man she’d ever had the pleasure of setting eyes on. He had to be at least six feet four, maybe five, with broad shoulders and legs that went on forever. His hair was white-blond and swept down over his chest to reach his waist. Dressed in black denims and a black cotton shirt that was open at the neckline, he appeared rather intimidating, which she put down to his towering height. But it was his face that captured her attention. Thick dark eyebrows that seemed very uncharacteristic for his hair colour frowned downwards over eyes which could only be described as pure ice blue. Those eyes gave the distinct impression that they’d seen a thousand truths, ten thousand lies and a hundred thousand memories. And remembered each and every single one. They narrowed almost suspiciously in his assessment of her, standing before him and stunned into silence. “Well?” His deep voice drawled out the word, making her blink and hurtle back to reality with force. “Uh…Mr Jax..?” she queried. “I…uh…I’m here for my appointment..?” “Are you asking me, or telling me?” She swallowed. “Telling you,” she said firmly. One side of the giant’s mouth curled upwards. “Good. Then please come in.”

*******************************************

Heart Of Darkness eBook : Fullerton, Trish: Amazon.co.uk: Kindle Store

[trishfullertonwriting75]

A good book if you like an unexpected twist thrown in with hot sex, angst and heartbreak, and a gorgeous six feet five blond with ice blue eyes

[mist-rose]

[nocturnalnella]

“The King’s Secret”

Pairing : Thranduil x Female Reader.

Warnings : smut 🔞

Note : This is a one-shot - Popular demand as requested on my TikTok : richardsrealm

The corridors of the Woodland Realm were as silent as they were endless, gilded in the soft, cold light of the moon that poured through the lattice of crystal windows. Somewhere deep beneath the ancient stone, laughter rang out in the great halls—wine being spilled, songs being sung—but up here, above it all, in the hidden, gilded corridors reserved for the King alone, the world was a different thing entirely.

You pressed your back to the smooth stone, heart hammering against your ribs as you listened. Footsteps—light, measured—approached, steady as the tide. You knew that gait too well by now. Knew the way his heavy robes brushed against the floor, the faint chime of the rings on his fingers as they moved, restless and impatient.

The first time you had heard them, you had hidden. Now—you waited. A shadow fell across the wall ahead of you, tall and sharp-edged as a blade. You didn’t breathe. You didn’t dare.

And then…

A hand appeared, pale as moonlight, long fingers curling around the corner of the stone where you hid. You lifted your chin, defiant even now, even though you knew what he would find when he turned.

The figure stepped into view, and you felt your chest tighten, your blood spark beneath your skin.

Thranduil. King of the Woodland Realm. The Elvenking. And the man who had—against every law, every oath he had sworn to his people—claimed you in secret.

His silver hair spilled over his shoulders like a river of starlight, his crown abandoned for tonight. His eyes—that terrible, beautiful ice-blue—found you at once, drinking you in as if he had been starved for the sight of you. And for a long, shattering moment, he said nothing. He only looked.

Then he spoke—low and cold, the voice of a king addressing his captive—though you knew better.

“You should not be here,” Thranduil said.

And yet he reached for you, hand sliding to the back of your neck, claiming you in a way no one else ever would. “You told me that last time,” you whispered, breathless.

He smiled then—if it could be called a smile. It was a dangerous thing, a tilting of that perfect mouth that promised ruin and devotion in equal measure.

“You listen poorly,” he murmured, voice a velvet threat against your skin.

And before you could say anything else, he pulled you into him, mouth crashing against yours with the kind of desperate, punishing kiss that only a man burdened with a crown—and a forbidden love—could give.

Your fingers tangled in the rich velvet of his robe, clinging as he backed you into the stone wall with the full weight of his body. The cold of the stone seeped into your back. The heat of him blazed against your front.

Thranduil kissed like he ruled—commandingly, without mercy, without hesitation. But tonight there was something more desperate in him. Something more unguarded. His hands framed your face, almost trembling. His mouth bruised yours, then gentled, then demanded again, as if he could not decide if he wanted to savor or devour you. When he pulled back at last, you were both breathing hard.

“You cannot come to me like this,” Thranduil growled, voice rough with barely restrained fury. “Not when they could see. Not when I—”

He swallowed whatever reckless thing had nearly escaped him. But his fingers curved around your waist, tightening. He would never let you go. Not truly. You knew it. He knew it. The very stones of the Woodland Realm knew it.

Without another word, he caught your wrist in his hand—gentle but unrelenting—and pulled you after him, deeper into the secret corridors. His long strides forced you to keep up, skirts brushing against the stone, heart hammering.

You had been here before, more times than you could count.

Always in secret.

Always at night.

Always at the mercy of a king who could not—would not—love you in the light of day.

He led you to a door hidden behind an embroidered tapestry, the kind no one but he dared move. Thranduil pressed his palm to the wood, and with a sigh of ancient magic, the door yielded. A room meant for no one but him. And now—no one but you.

The door shut behind you with a soft, terrible sound like the closing of a cage. Only then did he turn on you. Only then did the restraint splinter.

Thranduil’s hands slammed against the door on either side of your head, trapping you. His body caged yours, not touching yet—but close. Too close. You could feel the tremble of barely leashed control in him, vibrating through the inches between you.

“You test me,” he hissed, breath hot against your cheek. “Again and again.”

You lifted your chin, defiant even as you shivered. “Then stop me.”

He stared at you as if you had drawn a blade across his skin. And then…

He was on you.

Mouth crushing against yours, savage and devastating, stealing your breath and giving you his in return. His hands tangled in your hair, tilting your head back so he could kiss you deeper, harder, until you whimpered against his mouth and he growled low in satisfaction.

He kissed you like he was trying to brand you—claim you—make you his in a way that no crown, no throne, no oaths could ever erase.And gods you let him. You wanted him to.

Your hands fumbled at the heavy folds of his robe, desperate for the feel of him, of skin and muscle and sinew under your fingers. Thranduil caught your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head against the door.

“Patience,” he whispered darkly. “You will have what you seek.” You struggled against his grip, but it was useless. He held you with effortless strength, body pressing against yours now, the hard line of him unmistakable even through layers of velvet and silk.

“Thranduil—” you gasped. He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear, sending a violent shiver through you.

“You belong to me,” he said, voice low and guttural. “Do you understand that?”

You nodded, a broken sound escaping you.

“Say it,” he commanded, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes—those cold, blazing eyes that only ever softened for you.

“I—I belong to you,” you whispered.

A slow, wicked smile curved his mouth.

“Good,” Thranduil purred. “Then remember it.”

He released your wrists slowly, as though reluctant to give you even that much freedom. His fingers lingered, tracing the delicate skin of your inner wrists, feeling your pulse race for him.

Then, without another word, he gathered you into his arms, sweeping you off your feet as if you weighed nothing. You gasped, clutching the fine fabric at his shoulders. “Thranduil—!”

He silenced you with a look, the barest tilt of his brows, the simmering promise in his gaze.

You will be quiet. You will let me.

He carried you deeper into the room—past the cold stone and the glinting crystal decanters—to the vast bed carved from living wood, the silken sheets shimmering darkly in the faint starlight.

When he laid you down, it was with a reverence that belied the raw hunger in him. He hovered above you for a heartbeat—watching. Always watching. You had the maddening sense that he could drink in the sight of you forever and never be sated.

“You undo me,” he said lowly. A confession dragged from the mouth of a king. Before you could answer—before you could even breathe—his mouth was on you again. This kiss was different. Slower. More dangerous.

It was the kiss of a man who intended to take his time. A king who had made a decision. A lover who knew exactly how to unravel you. His hands moved over you with the same care he might use to handle a rare, dangerous blade. Testing. Teasing. Worshipping. He traced the lines of your body through your clothes, fingertips barely brushing your curves, setting fires along your skin. Every touch was a promise. Every stroke a threat. When his fingers found the fastenings of your gown, he paused.

“Do you yield?” he asked softly, the slightest tilt of mockery in his voice—because he already knew the answer.

You arched beneath him, desperate, aching. “Yes. Yes.” A wicked smirk ghosted his mouth.

“Good.” He undid you slowly, almost lazily, as if daring you to beg.

Layer by layer, he stripped you of every barrier until you lay bare before him, trembling under the heat of his gaze.

And when he finally looked—truly looked—you saw something break in him. Thranduil was a king, yes. A warrior. A force of nature. But in that moment, he was something else too. Yours.

He slid down your body with lethal grace, hands and mouth following, worshipping every inch of exposed skin with slow, devastating kisses. Down your throat. Over your collarbones. Across your ribs. Lower still.

“You are…” he murmured against your belly, voice breaking on the words, “…perfection made flesh.”

You whimpered, reaching for him, but he caught your wrists again, pinning them lightly above your head. “Patience,” he breathed again, so soft, so cruel.

You bit your lip, trying to obey, but every nerve in your body screamed for him. Only him. Thranduil kissed lower still—reverent, punishing. You gasped, back arching off the bed, utterly undone. Only when you were trembling, whimpering, desperate for his touch, did he finally relent.

He shed his own heavy robes with a flick of his hands, and for a moment, you could only stare. He was beautiful. More beautiful than anything mortal hands or minds could have crafted.

The body of a warrior, all lean muscle and ancient scars and impossible grace, crowned by that silver hair that shimmered like captured moonlight. His eyes burned into you—blue fire—and he climbed over you again, caging you with his body. “This,” he rasped, voice almost broken, “is mine.”

He claimed your mouth again, kissing you until you forgot your own name, until you forgot anything but the feel of him—his weight, his heat, his taste. And when he finally entered you—slow, deep, claiming—you cried out, tears springing to your eyes from the sheer overwhelming fullness of him. Thranduil caught your face between his hands, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“Look at me,” he ordered, voice ragged. You did. And what you saw there—raw, endless devotion shattered you. He moved inside you slowly at first, with maddening control, dragging pleasure from your body with every thrust. You writhed beneath him, desperate for more, for everything, but he held you pinned, forcing you to feel every unbearable moment.

When he finally let himself go—when the king yielded—it was devastating. He drove into you harder, faster, his mouth never leaving yours, his hands never stopping their worship of your body. You shattered first—whimpering his name against his lips, clinging to him as pleasure tore through you. He followed with a broken sound, burying himself deep, claiming you utterly, body and soul.

For a long time, there was only the sound of breathing—the king and his forbidden lover tangled in the dark, bound together by need, by love unspoken but undeniable. At last, he collapsed beside you, gathering you into his arms. And for once—for once—Thranduil let himself show the truth.

He clung to you as a drowning man clings to driftwood, burying his face in your hair, breathing you in as if you were the only thing anchoring him to this world.

“You are my ruin,” he whispered against your temple. “And my salvation.”

You turned in his arms, cupping his cheek, feeling the tremor in him. “And you are mine,” you said fiercely. He smiled then—a true smile, rare and blinding.

And in the hidden chambers of the Woodland Realm, where no one could see, the king and his secret lover lay entwined—bound by a love more dangerous, more beautiful, than anything the world could ever understand.

—

You woke to the sensation of silk and skin and the low, steady rhythm of a heartbeat beneath your ear. For a moment, you thought it was a dream. That you had imagined it all—the secret meeting, the desperate claiming, the whispered confessions in the dark.

But then Thranduil shifted against you, a long, slow roll of muscle and heat. His arm tightened around your waist, holding you closer. You felt the rise and fall of his chest, the way his breath stirred your hair.

Real. So terribly, beautifully real. You blinked up at him through the early morning gloom.

The Elvenking was already awake, watching you.

His silver hair spilled over his bare shoulders, tangling with the sheets. His eyes—those impossible, piercing eyes—were softer now, the sharp edges dulled by sleep and something deeper. Something more dangerous.

He said nothing. Only looked. As if memorizing you. As if daring the world to take you from him.

You shifted slightly, body aching in the most delicious ways. The soreness between your thighs was a reminder of what had passed between you, the claiming, the devotion. And then—you felt it. Hard and hot against your belly.

Thranduil was already aroused. Already needing you again. Heat flushed through you, but before you could move, his hand slid down your back, over the curve of your hip, pulling you closer, grinding his hardness against you with slow, devastating precision. A low sound rumbled from his chest—half growl, half sigh.

“You tempt me beyond reason,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep and desire. You tilted your face up to him, heart pounding. “Then lose your reason.”

For a heartbeat, he only stared—something savage and broken flickering across his perfect face. And then—he gave in. This time, there was no rush. No desperation. Only hunger—slow, consuming, worshipful.

Thranduil rolled you onto your back with aching tenderness, bracing himself above you on one elbow. His free hand wandered down your body, fingertips brushing lightly over every inch of bare skin, relearning you.

He kissed you slowly—languid, deep kisses that left you gasping.

When his mouth trailed down your throat, over the swell of your breasts, you arched into him helplessly. His tongue flicked against one peaked nipple, and he growled in approval when you whimpered, the sound vibrating straight through your core. “Mine,” he breathed against your skin.

He lavished attention on you, mouth worshiping your breasts, your belly, your hips. He nipped and kissed the inside of your thighs until you were trembling, gasping his name.And then he slid lower.

You cried out, hips bucking, as his mouth found you—soft, insistent, relentless. His tongue worked you open, teasing and tasting until you were a writhing mess beneath him.

Thranduil held your hips still, forcing you to take every stroke, every devastating flicker of pleasure. His silver hair spilled over your thighs like a silken curtain, his hands possessive on your hips. You shattered against his mouth, crying out his name, and he only growled in satisfaction, drinking in every tremor of your release.

When you were limp and trembling, he rose over you again, eyes burning. “You are undone,” he murmured, a rare softness in his voice. And then he entered you again.

Slowly. Deeply. As if savoring every inch. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, overwhelmed by the fullness of him, the intimacy of it. Thranduil moved within you with exquisite control, hips rolling in a slow, devastating rhythm. Not rushing. Not punishing.

Simply claiming—again and again and again.

His mouth found yours, and he kissed you between every thrust—whispering words in Elvish you couldn’t understand, but that you felt in your bones. The pleasure built slowly, unbearably, until you were trembling, sobbing into his mouth, begging without words.

And when you shattered again, he followed, burying himself deep, his body tensing above you, a harsh cry ripping from his throat. For a long moment, you lay tangled together, bodies slick with sweat, hearts pounding in unison.

Thranduil shifted, gathering you into his arms as if he would never let you go. He pressed soft, reverent kisses to your forehead, your temple, your hair. His hand stroked your back slowly, soothing, grounding.

“You have ruined me,” he whispered, voice breaking. You nuzzled into his chest, tears pricking your eyes at the raw tenderness in him.

“And yet,” you murmured against his skin, “you are still here.”

He laughed—a broken, beautiful sound and tightened his hold on you. “I would burn my kingdom to ash before I let you go,” Thranduil said fiercely. “I would tear the stars from the sky.”

You lifted your head, meeting his gaze. “Then keep me,” you said simply. Something ancient and terrible flickered in his eyes. “I will,” he vowed. And in the hidden chambers of the Woodland Realm, as the first light of morning spilled through the crystal windows, the Elvenking held his secret lover close—and for the first time in an age, he allowed himself to hope.

—

[mist-rose]

My King... I want to introduce you to someone...

My Dad...

[fel-09]

Hello! I have a request! Reader found abandoned wargs puppies (However many you want) and because they are a soft heart took them in and raised them. The wargs grew up to be very strong and loyal. Now Reader does not go anywhere without them, but does put gear (blankets and saddles) to make them look like horses from afar. How do you think Thranduil would react to seeing a *insert race* being protected by large wargs in battle.

The battlefield smelled of blood and iron. Elves moved like silver ghosts, cutting through orcs with the elegance only their kind possessed. Amid the chaos, Thranduil’s gaze flickered over the clashing forces, his mind sharp, calculating.

Then, he saw you.

At first, it seemed as if you rode a great horse, your form moving swiftly through the fray. But something was… wrong. The creature beneath you did not gallop with the elegant gait of a steed. It moved with a predator’s grace, muscles coiled, powerful limbs tearing into the earth.

Then, another followed. And another.

Not horses.

Wargs.

A dozen of them, their dark forms cutting through the battlefield like shadows, moving in perfect sync with your every command. Their massive frames, once hidden beneath simple gear and cloaks, now bared sharp fangs as they tore into orcs with ruthless efficiency.

Wargs, fighting for you.

Thranduil felt a rare flicker of something he could not name. Disbelief? Curiosity? Even admiration, perhaps. Wargs were foul creatures, bred for darkness, yet here they were—shielding you with unwavering loyalty, as if you were their pack leader.

A snarl tore through the air as one of your wargs lunged at an orc, tearing it down before it could strike you. Without hesitation, you leaned down, brushing your fingers against the beast’s head before urging it forward again.

It was a sight both unnatural and mesmerizing.

As the battle ended and the field fell into silence, Thranduil approached, his steps deliberate. The wargs growled low, but did not lunge. Their hackles remained raised, but they did not act without your command.

Your hand brushed over the largest one’s fur, a silent reassurance.

— "They will not harm you."

Thranduil met your gaze, unreadable as ever.

— "No," he murmured, eyes lingering on the beasts at your side. "But I wonder, do they protect you… or do you protect them?"

You smiled—a quiet, knowing thing.

— "There is no difference."

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, his gaze swept over the wargs once more, before returning to you.

— "Strange are the bonds that form beyond the will of the world," he finally said. "But I will not stand in the way of what I do not yet understand."

And with that, the King of Mirkwood turned, walking away, while your wargs—your family—stood ever at your side.

Royal Dilemma

The gardens of Mirkwood were a sanctuary of order. Every tree, every bloom stood untouched by chaos, shaped by the patient hand of time and elven care. Here, beneath the dappled sunlight, Thranduil stood in rare solitude, his fingers brushing over the petals of a pale golden blossom.

And then, the peace shattered.

A rustle of paws, a series of quick, excited yelps—before the king could react, he was surrounded.

Small, shaggy bodies weaved around his legs, tails wagging furiously. Warg pups—your warg pups.

Thranduil inhaled slowly, schooling his face into practiced neutrality.

— "No."

One of the pups—larger than the others—tilted its head, tongue lolling. Another nudged his cloak with a wet nose, letting out a sharp, eager bark.

— "I said no."

A third pup, utterly unimpressed with the authority of the Elvenking, promptly flopped onto his boots, rolling onto its back with a dramatic huff.

Thranduil exhaled through his nose.

This was beneath him.

This was absurd.

And yet, when another nipped playfully at the embroidered sleeve of his robe, he found himself sighing in something that was neither frustration nor true reluctance. Slowly—regretfully—he crouched.

The pups swarmed him immediately.

A brush of fur against his palms, warmth pressing into his legs—one even attempted to clamber into his lap before he swiftly, and with dignity, set it back down. They were unbearably persistent, these creatures, their enthusiasm relentless.

With a resigned grace, Thranduil ran his fingers through the thick fur of the nearest one, trying—and failing—to smooth its wild coat. The pup huffed contentedly, leaning into the touch. Another nosed his wrist, demanding the same attention.

A mess.

A disaster.

He was the ruler of Mirkwood, the guardian of an ancient kingdom. And here he was, in the heart of his gardens, utterly surrounded by warg pups.

And yet… when he glanced up and saw you standing at the edge of the grove, watching with barely concealed amusement, he did not immediately rise.

Instead, he met your gaze with something unreadable—something that, perhaps, was not entirely displeased.

— "You will take them back now."

You smiled.

— "Eventually."

Thranduil narrowed his eyes. The pups wriggled closer.

The king of Mirkwood sighed.

It was going to be a long afternoon.

The rest of the day was a relentless assault—not from orcs, not from darkness, but from you and your endless amusement.

Every time Thranduil attempted to restore his dignity, you were there, leaning against a tree, arms crossed, a smirk playing on your lips.

— "You know, I never thought I’d live to see the great Elvenking reduced to a royal warg-sitter."

Thranduil straightened his robes, as if that alone could undo the chaos that had unfolded in his once-pristine gardens. The pups, wholly undeterred by his rank, continued their mischief—chewing at the hem of his cloak, pawing at his boots, one even making a determined attempt to climb onto a stone bench as if it were a throne.

He cast you a glare—one that might have struck fear into the hearts of his warriors.

You did not so much as flinch.

— "They are insufferable," he declared, brushing stray fur from his sleeves.

You tilted your head, feigning deep thought.

— "They seem quite taken with you."

A low, impatient sigh.

— "They do not understand the concept of rank."

— "No," you agreed, stepping closer, your grin widening. "They just understand who is kind to them."

He stilled, the words settling in the air between you.

The pups, oblivious to the gravity of the moment, continued their invasion. One flopped dramatically against Thranduil’s leg. Another yawned and sprawled over his foot, utterly at peace.

And you—oh, you were enjoying every second of it.

As the sun dipped behind the treetops, casting long shadows through the garden, you leaned in just enough for your voice to drop into something almost conspiratorial.

— "You know," you mused, barely containing laughter, "if you ever decide to step down as king, I think you’d make an excellent warg herder."

Thranduil closed his eyes for a long, measured moment.

Then, with the patience of a ruler who had weathered wars, betrayals, and now—this—he exhaled.

— "I will remember this insolence," he murmured, but there was no true menace in his voice.

And when you threw your head back in laughter, bright and careless, he found that—for today—he would allow it.

[trishfullertonwriting75]

Hahahahaaaa I love this. So much cuteness at the end. Thranduil desperately trying to retain his dignity and regal air, while the pups are running around mental 😂😂

[edwardcreel]

reblog if you believe fanfics are as valid as books that were published and sold by authors who write as their main careers. I'm trying to prove a point

[trishfullertonwriting75]

Hell yes!!! Couldn't agree more. Some of the fanfics are way better than work from professional writers, a thousand times over

[trishfullertonwriting75]

ONE NIGHT STAND

A chance encounter.

A dose of chemistry.

Lives changed forever.

This is Tora's story.

One Night Stand eBook : Fullerton, Trish: Amazon.co.uk: Kindle Store

[trishfullertonwriting75]

"REPENT"

Happy Saturday, everyone! Just posting a link for my novel "Repent", which is a blend of love, crime and mystery for those who enjoy reading that genre.

Alisha and Lee's story twists and turns in many directions, taking the reader along paths they didn't know existed. This was originally a Thranduil fanfiction, edited for publication purposes, and is available in ebook, paperback and hardback formats.

Please consider reblogging, and help me reach as many readers as I can 🥰

___________________________________________________

Alisha has nursed her elderly patient for years. As the old man's life draws to a close, in bursts an angry blond who hates everything on sight. Including her. The two resent one another from the offset, and sparks fly between them.

Lee carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, and eventually turns to her for help in fighting the battle of his life. But his seemingly outlandish offer kick-starts something that could have both of them fighting for their very lives.

Hatred. Lies. Deceit. Hidden secrets. Enemies to friends to lovers. Hot, undeniable chemistry. An over-bearing attorney and the cutest presence ever all twist together in Alisha and Lee's tale of Repent.

Repent eBook : Fullerton, Trish: Amazon.co.uk: Kindle Store

[mist-rose]

O melhor brinde veio...

[trishfullertonwriting75]

LMFAOOOOOOO 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

[trishfullertonwriting75]

On holiday from my normal job, so working from home today. Coffee, candles, cats, and the soft swish of rain outside.

Just perfect 💚

[anyatolin]

[trishfullertonwriting75]

Stunning

[mist-rose]

As poses do rei maravilhoso ❤❤❤🧝‍♂️🗡

[trishfullertonwriting75]

Inspiration for my new book...

[eldritchscribblings]

Ever At Odds

Thranduil X Reader

Part 2

Reader is an artist who has taken up a temporary residence in Mirkwood, but keeps bumping into an irritatingly handsome elf king. What happens when a late night encounter forces them together?

Word Count: 2876

Warnings:

swearing

part two will have smut

Notes: I'm sorryyyyyy I didn't want there to be a part two but it took me so long to write this part and I wanted to get it out asap for y'all <3 Pt 2 will be out soon, I'm moving across the country, so writing is slow rn.

A cold autumn wind blew through the halls of Mirkwood, biting into the very bones of those who dared set foot in the ancient woodland realm. In the ages past that bitter wind would have only howled, but its teeth had grown sharper in recent times. Not only did the wind sink its teeth into those unprepared for the woods, but it had turned its teeth upon its own people; the elves, as well. The time of elves on Middle Earth was drawing to an end.

You, of course, were well aware of that from your perch in Imladris, watching as elves dwindled and men rose to power. You were a long way off from leaving for the Undying Lands yourself, but you had already begun to feel that tug in your soul to move from your idle nest and wander towards the sea. And so you’d decided to bide your time by traveling middle earth and sketching all that was old and new among the elves; making a record of what you’d leave behind. It had been a comforting work to put your brush and pencils to paper and convey the millennia of love and sorrow that each individual stone and sapling possessed, and it had satiated you to know that once your work was completed you could leave Middle Earth with a contented heart. But as every tree must survive a storm at some point, your storm came in the form of an elven man with thick furrowed brows and a disposition that would make soot taste sweet; King Thranduil Oropherion of the Woodland Realm.

You’d arrived in Mirkwood nearly two years prior after being rescued from a giant spider by the guards and losing your favorite quill (poor Flutterflick) among the leaf strewn ground. After a quick interrogation, you were released into Mirkwood to do your duty, and yet everywhere you went for peace and tranquility you seemed to run into the Elven King. The first time it happened you hadn’t realized who he was until he threatened to have you locked in the dungeon for disagreeing with him on the best elven wine and whether charcoal was best used compressed or as a powder. You’d tried to avoid him after that, and yet this maze of a realm kept twisting you back towards him whenever you tried to get away. Which was how you found yourself sitting in an archway sketching your view of the vaulted ceiling within this particular area of the hall in the middle of the night, using a candlestick as a light.

It was the wee hours of the morning; a time you were certain the tall blond of your nightmares would be having one of his own, far away from where you’d secluded yourself. The only noises were the hush of a breeze blowing through an open window and the soft scratching of your pencil against the parchment you’d clipped to the thin drawing board in your lap. Your eyes darted seamlessly from the page to the section of empty hall you were drawing, your steady hand moving quickly to gesture in the wider picture so that detail could blossom with ease when you pulled out your softer charcoal. With the silent night enveloping you, it had been easy to fall into a trance of placing your pencil to paper and letting the world fall away into lines and values. You should’ve known the peace wouldn’t last.

“It’s a bit late for sketching fine architecture.” Thranduil’s voice echoed from behind you, and you sighed and pressed your lips together in irritation.

“My aim was to be uninterrupted, My King,” you spoke slowly and surely, presenting each word as nothing more than it claimed to be in hopes he would leave you alone. “It’s a bit late for anyone to roam the halls alone, don’t you think?”

“I am not alone, and neither are you now.” Realizing you had no intent to face him, he walked around and knelt in front of you with a disappointedly curious expression. “How fortunate it is that we can keep each other company on such lonesome nights.”

“Oh, please.” You met his steely blue gaze with a challenging one of your own, attempting to prove yourself unafraid and ward him off. “You and I both know that the two of us together always leads to disaster.”

“Only because you bring disaster with you everywhere.” Thranduil laughed softly and licked the pad of his forefinger before pinching out the flame of your candle between his forefinger and thumb. You were grateful for the darkness to hide a traitorous blush growing on your cheeks, undercutting your disturbed expression. “Finish your sketch in the daylight. You’ll make fewer proportional errors.”

“Is poisoning your kindness with insults meant to be amusing or alluring? Because it is neither.” The only reason you were so confident with your words was because the worst Thranduil could do is send you where you already planned to go ahead of schedule. Of course that was only in theory. In truth, a part of you enjoyed the little games you played together; the spiteful spitting of venom brought energy to your day, negative or positive. You couldn’t deny he was a handsome King, but you could deny giving him the satisfaction of knowing you held him in any regard.

“Have I misled myself on the quality of your mettle? Forgive me if I have caused any true harm.” The first sentence was a sharp retort, the same wit you had begun to expect from him. The second was genuine in a way that surprised you.

“Don’t delude yourself. The only way you could bring any harm to me is with a blade. And I doubt you’d want to stain this lovely hallway.” You responded with a similar genuineness that you hid within your humor, although by the look of his expression he seemed relieved enough to surmise he’d picked up your intent.

What the fuck was your intent? Half flirting with a widowed king? He was an elf who could toss you out a window or carry you down to the dungeons as easily as he’d carry a sack of grain. You inhaled and sharply shoved your charcoal pencil back into your pouch, looking away from Thranduil to shove the image of him carrying sacks of wheat like a handsome miller’s son out of your mind. Truth is you’d daydreamed about kissing Thranduil to shut him up as much as you’d daydreamed about killing him for the same outcome. It was strange to think of how a two letter difference changed the entire context of your fantasies.

“I am no mortal man so easily prone to violence. I take offense that you would think I am capable of such a thing.” Thranduil’s voice changed tone, causing you to look at him again. He was dead serious with a furrowed brow as he knelt before you, reaching forward to take your hand in his. “My guards brought you here and promised you safety. I will not make liars of them.”

“A noble, if impersonal, thought.” You responded with an equal amount of seriousness, gathering your supplies in one hand and placing the other in his as he helped you to a standing position. His intent mystified you, making you unsure of if you’d been wrong about him or if this was a lure to finally catch you when you least expected it. Either way, as you began to walk down the hall back to your rooms he walked beside you with the smallest hint of a smile on his otherwise serious face.

“Do you really think of me as cruel and unkind?” Thranduil asked softly after you had traversed a fair amount of the hall.

“Yes and no.” You replied after taking a moment to chew through your words. It was strange of him to ask the question, stranger still for you to answer honestly. You were friends, but it was a friendship that danced a fine line between confidants and the king and his favorite jester. “I think you capable of cruelty. I think your role requires unkindness. Your presentation fits the role you fulfill. I would no more expect a thatched roof on a palace than a wisened king to be tender hearted.”

“I don’t like the word wisened; it makes me feel old.” Thranduil interjected despite you being done speaking. “But I understand. And I appreciate your point of view. You’re insightful. It’s fitting for your role as an observer. I am curious, I always see you drawing and sketching instead of talking to your fellows. I’m curious as to what you draw when you’re not intending on showing it off to people.”

“Truth be told, it’s mostly animals and people. I carry around smaller sketchbooks for those and it’s idle work to do while I watch and listen to those around me.” You felt the words leave your mouth before you could stop them. Not even death would stop you from blabbing about your art when prodded. “Of course, for those sketches I prefer drawing with metals. You can use a stylus made of silver to make marks upon parchment as well as any charcoal. It’s quite beautiful in the light.”

“Then I must see them.” Thranduil stopped abruptly, causing you to have to turn around after several paces and realize he was at the door to your chambers. If you’d known you were close to your rooms you would’ve just stayed quiet. Having the Elven King in your bedroom, looking at your art, was a bad idea.

Art was your escape, your passion, your diary. There were notes about your feelings and poems about your life scrawled among the pages among grocery lists and drawings of cats napping in sunlight. There were also -you realized with sinking dread- one or two drawings of the King that you did not want him to see. You had to get out of this.

“Sire, it’s very late-“

“Nonsense, you’re up later than this quite frequently, as am I.” He stood by your door, waiting for you to open it for him. His excitement faltered for a moment as he seemed to consider the situation, and he then added; “If you truly do not desire it, I will not impose myself.”

“No, I simply hesitate because I am afraid you will not find my art as impressive as you hope.” Your eyes were firmly on the handle of your door as you opened it and allowed yourself and Thranduil into your rooms. He was very close to you as he entered behind you, and you caught a hint of his scent of petrichor and spices in a way that sent your head spinning. 

Your rooms were simple. Far from grand with books and papers strewn about haphazardly. As you entered you felt a wave of embarrassment wash over you at the state of your things, but you would not let it show. Your bed was in one corner, luckily you had remembered to make it up before leaving, but the bedside tables were covered in strewn papers and pencils. In the opposing corner there was a desk with your notebooks and sketches, and that was where Thranduil made his way to as soon as he entered.

“You live your life messily.” He stated, looking around the room before passively picking up one of your loose sketches from your desk. It was a picture of a young couple walking the halls together arm in arm, oblivious to any observer. Oblivious to you. “I do not question it. You prefer to be hidden away whenever you leave your chambers, so it must be comforting to have such things to hide yourself behind in your own dwelling.” He chuckled, glancing at you as he perused through your art, leafing through the piles of sketches on your desk. It wasn’t as if you could tell him not to, and although you were surprised at his understanding of you, you’d never admit to yourself or him whether he was right or not. 

“Or perhaps you simply collect too much and want it all near you, like a raven building its nest.” Thranduil continued despite your silence, unphased by it. He reached for a drawing closer to you, his eyes meeting yours for the briefest moment that sent a shameful shiver down your spine. It was only when his gaze left you that you realized he had grabbed one of the drawings of him, but before you could protest, he had turned it over to look at it. It was one of the less embarrassing ones; he was sitting with his chin resting on his fist, staring off into some uncaptured distance. His face was peaceful and yet melancholy. It had been at one of the star celebrations that you had forgotten the name of last year; you had been sat at the sidelines happily drawing those partaking in the merriment when you had seen him. His sadness as he sat on his perch above his kin had captured your attention, and you hastened to put his likeness on your paper lest the spell of the moment be broken. He was beautiful to you in that moment, beautiful and wounded. The moment had ended with your eyes meeting and him sending a prideful smirk your way that left your stomach churning, but you would always remember how striking it was to see past his hardened exterior for one brief moment.

As you watched him then, taking in that art piece that had truly cemented your growing fascination with the widowed king, you could not decipher the emotions on his face. His brow furrowed as he traced the lines of his face as they were portrayed on paper, and he hunched over the drawing to better see its details. You almost made a joke, just to break the hideous silence, and yet something stopped you. Your words were stoppered in your throat with tenuous curiosity and something inside you told you to bite your tongue.

“I remember this night,” Thranduil whispered, tracing the roughly sketched embroidery on his portrait. “I was lost in thought, not one of them was pleasant, but my mind was determined to see the end of the chain. I could sense eyes on me, but there is always one person or another watching my every move.” He looked up at you, and the depth of his gaze was hauntingly sirenic, like a calm sea below a dark gray sky. “You were different. I saw your brow furrowed as you looked at me, always fiery and determined to find a flaw where no one else will.” A ghost of a smile crossed his face, no more than a twitch of his eyes, and yet it comforted you. 

“A gap in your personified stoicism is more so due to a lack of divinity than any flaw.” The words flowed easily from your lips, and you stepped closer to him so you could look at your art. “Truthfully, when I found you ‘lacking’, I found you more fascinating than I did when I believed you perfect. Like how a fly, when caught in amber, reveals the quality of the jewel.”

“Am I to be the fly in this metaphor?” He teased, lowering the drawing and stepping closer to you.

“You are aware of what I intended, my lord.” The tone of the conversation had turned lighter, but the air remained tense. It was taking all your might to will yourself not to look at his lips, or his chest, or anywhere but his eyes or your feet. You were afraid any slight unexpected movement would be perceived the wrong way and break the wavering thread of connection between you. 

“What if I were not? What if we were to spend another year misinterpreting each other? Dragging out your stay here in Mirkwood for no perceivable reason?” He seemed as hesitant to move as you were, waiting for some unknown signal to allow him to act.

“Then I suppose, should I be prevented from completing my work, I would need to stay here longer.” You were beginning to catch on. Perhaps there was more to this banter and teasing than you had originally thought. Perhaps the guilt-ridden attraction that had festered deep within your gut was mirrored in his own tumultuous emotions. You leaned slightly closer, taking your drawing from his hands and setting aside. 

“To properly record Mirkwood in such sketches as yours would take decades…” Thranduil drew out the idea, but did not finish it. Instead, he stepped forward and tenderly placed his hand upon your cheek, caressing you gently. “May I kiss you?”

The thought struck you like a blind man meeting a drunken bird, and you inhaled sharply as reality dug its cruel claws into your skin. He was the king. He had asked you to kiss him. But more than the king, he was Thranduil. Your playful nemesis who was the bane of all your existence and yet whose presence you yearned for in the darkest parts of night. Was this change in your relationship worth it? Was this a risk worth taking?

“Yes.”

[trishfullertonwriting75]

Hi there, fellow Thranduil fanatics, middle-earth inhabitants, writers and so forth.

I'm working on publicising my writing profile as much as possible, which is turning out to be more time consuming than I ever thought..! But it's maybe having a teeny weeny effect, as it's only the 4th today and I already have one book sale for this month - yeeha!!!

So apologies if every time you log in, you end up seeing some post from me banging on about one of my published works. I'm just trying to get out there and have a little success as a writer. Everything I publish is Thranduil-based, and was originally written as Thranduil fanfic.

Any comments, questions or thoughts..? Drop me a line, I don't bite 😊

[trishfullertonwriting75]

METAMORPHOSIS - a Thranduil fanfic

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Jessa,” she replied. “It’s short for Jessamine. A variation of Jasmine, like the flower.”

“A beautiful flower,” he replied, his voice reminding her of velvet for some strange reason. “A soft white, with a yellow centre.”

She smiled. “The Egyptian ones, yes. I am dreading asking this…”

“My name is Tharden,” he said, before she even got the question out.

“Somehow I already knew it would be something like that,” she sighed, turning her eyes to the waitress who appeared at her side. “Two coffees, please,” she told her.

The waitress disappeared, and she turned back to him.

“You knew of my name?” he questioned, with a slight frown. “How can this be?”

She stared at him as the seconds ticked past. “I’m not as stupid as I might seem,” she said eventually. “Don’t make the mistake of assuming that I am.” Her cool demeanour was back, and he sat back slightly. “How can I know your name? I just knew that it’d be something...mystical, ethereal. And totally made up.”

“I have not indicated that I assume you to be stupid,” he said, and she could hear how insulted he was in his tone. “I have indicated nothing.”

“I’m tired, and I don’t want to play games,” she said decidedly. “So where do you live, and how do you intend to get home?”

Something in his eyes changed. “I am not from here,” he said.

“I gathered that much,” she muttered. “So where are you from? Our meeting twice isn’t a coincidence, and anyway, I don’t believe in those. How did you get here? Bus? Car?”

Confusion clouded his eyes, which she noticed were a perfect shade of ice blue. “I do not know what these things are that you speak of,” he said. “And I do not know how I came to be here.”

The waitress reappeared and placed two mugs of coffee on the table, retreating with a smile.

“I think you probably do have amnesia,” she replied as she tore open two sachets of sugar and stirred them into her coffee.

He frowned. “You seem to be convinced I have a problem with my memory,” he said. “I do not.”

“Then how come you don’t know how you came to be here?” she asked. “Pieces of your life don’t just disappear. You must have some idea. Don’t tell me that you wear clothes like that for fun.” A finger gestured towards his seemingly odd attire.

His gaze roamed up and around, and she found herself in awe of his perfect bone structure.

“Something terrible has happened,” he murmured. His eyes dropped back to hers. “I do not belong here; I should not be here. I do not know how to fix this.”

“I’ve read about this kind of crap,” she grunted, blowing across the surface of her mug and taking an experimental sip. “I just never thought I’d ever come face-to-face with one of the idiots caught up in it all.”

He fixed her with a death stare.

“Oh come on,” she reasoned, setting her mug back onto the table. “You appear out of nowhere, dressed up like you’ve just stepped right out of another time, have zero knowledge of where you are or how you came to be here, and you expect me to believe it? Ha – not in this lifetime, mister, or the next one either, come to think of it.”

“You know of my time?” Excitement flared to life in his eyes as he leaned forwards.

“Oh for fuck…stop this!” she hissed in anger. “I can’t help you if you keep this crap going. Just tell me where you’re from; it’s not that difficult a question.”

He leaned back again. “Perhaps the answer is,” he said quietly, looking out of the window at his side.

She gave a soft snort. “So you’re going to tell me that you’re really some sort of majestic elf, probably a King or something, and have a huge palace and-“

“How do you know all of this?” he demanded in a low whisper, leaning towards her again. His angry eyes searched hers.

“You’re good, I’ll give you that,” she retorted. “Unfortunately, some of us have an education and common sense, and don’t buy into complete nonsense.”

“I do not speak nonsense!” he hissed. “I do not tell untruths!”

“Maybe not in your own mind,” she retorted. “Drink your coffee. If I can’t figure out where you’re from, I can’t help you. I have a home to go to.”

A sudden sadness filled his eyes, taking her breath away.

“What?” she asked. Her eyebrows came down in a concerned frown. “What is it?”

He shook his head, rising to his feet. “I will take my leave.”

“Sit the hell down,” she said in exasperation, grabbing his wrist.

He looked at her hand then at her, and she could clearly see the restrained anger in his eyes. Pursing his mouth, he slowly lowered himself back down.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, both acutely aware of the other’s irritation and frustration.

“Ok,” she said finally, breaking the silence. “You believe you’re some sort of hierarchy of elves or something. What year is it?”

He frowned. “I do not understand the question,” he said.

One eyebrow lifted. “It’s a state of time,” she snapped. “Like as in how old someone or something is, when something was made, or created, or whatever the hell…I don’t know.”

“It is the Coltan Age,” he said, tucking some of his luxuriously long blonde hair behind his ear.

Jessa gasped. “Oh my…fuck…they look real,” she gasped, ending on a short laugh.

“What does?”

“Your ears,” she said, indicating with her mug. “Not bad at all.”

“Of course they are real!” he said indignantly. “You humans may have small, ugly ears, but we do not.”

Her laughter bubbled over, and she set her cup back down before she spilled it.

The blonde seated across from her slowly folded his arms over his chest. “Something amuses you?”

She bit her lip in an attempt to hold back her amusement. “I think exhaustion must be seriously fucking with my head,” she decided. “So…your ears are real.”

“Everything about me is real,” he retorted. His gaze darted over her. “Unlike some.” His attention span had already catalogued that her hair was a lighter colour at the roots. She had dark lines painted on her upper eyelids, and a blue colour on her fingernails that sparkled as her hands moved.

She chuckled, lifting her cup again. He watched how she held it, how she blew on the hot liquid before sipping it. Deciding that whatever the odd-smelling drink was, it wasn’t poisonous, he copied her. She sighed, running her hands through her long black hair, and his eyes narrowed.

“What is this scar?” he asked, reaching over and gripping her arm, tugging it towards him.

“Childhood accident,” she replied. The touch of his fingers on her limb made her flesh sizzle and tingle. “I fell out of a tree.”

One eyebrow arched upwards as he glanced from her arm to her eyes. Lowering his eyes again, he gently rubbed his thumb over the scar, murmuring something in a soft whisper that she couldn’t make out. Releasing her arm, he sat back, watching her.

Shocked eyes met his across the table. “I’ve had that scar for over twenty years,” she gasped as she looked from her arm to him.

The scar had completely vanished, leaving unblemished skin in its place.

“In my world, we do not fall out of trees,” he informed her. “And we certainly do not have scars which say otherwise. Our scars are from winning wars, being victorious over our enemies.”

**********

She broke off with a gasp of pain as the sharp glass slipped from her hold, slicing her four fingers open. Blood instantly poured out of the wounds, splattering over the glass and the table. “Shit! Shit, shit, shit!” she wailed, hurriedly setting the weight of the mirror down. “Shit! How could I be so stupid?!”

She held her hand up, turning as she looked for something to wrap around her fingers.

A strong, warm hand gripped her wrist and pulled her forwards. Tharden prised her fingers open, allowing the blood to flow faster.

“What-“ she started.

“Sssh,” he whispered softly, pressing his fingertips against the bloodied cuts. Low murmured words in a tongue she didn’t understand reached her ears through the sounds of her panicked gasping as she stared at him in horror. A faint tingling feeling coursed through her hand.

He slowly released her, stepping back from her.

Her gaze lowered to her fingers, her heart thumping erratically in her chest. Turning with a frown, she walked over to a small sink and turned on the flow of cold water, washing blood away. “My God…” she whispered, inspecting her hand.

Her skin was flawless, with no cuts or marks.

“What did you do?” she gasped.

He said nothing, but gently pushed her to one side so he could wash his hand. Using the hand towel to dry, he held her gaze as he handed it to her.

“This isn’t real,” she said, shaking her head. “This can’t be. It’s impossible. What the fuck’s happened here..?”

“I healed you,” he replied.

Her gaze darted up to meet his. “I see that,” she retorted. “But how? What did you do?”

“You do not know of elven powers?” he asked with an element of surprise.

“Apparently not,” she retorted. “Look…you need to start being honest with me. What the hell are you? Who are you?”

“I am Tharden, King of the Whitewood realm,” he answered. “I carry the healing power, as do select numbers of my people.”

She backed away from him, fear in her eyes.

“You need not fear me,” he said. “I mean you no harm. Surely you know that?”

“I don’t know what I know,” she whispered. “This can’t be real, this can’t be happening.”

“I am as confused as you are,” he said. “I am here in this strange world, I have no idea where this is, or how to get back to my own land. You are the only being I have come into contact with, other than the scoundrel who accosted you earlier this night. I too am confused.”

She could feel the vibration of her heartbeat pounding hard against her ribs. “I’m dreaming,” she said finally, shaking her head as she looked away. “I’m dreaming.”

“This is no dream, Jessa,” he told her. “If it was, I would gladly wake up in my own bed, back in my own kingdom. But I fear that is not going to happen. I am here, for whatever reason the Gods see fit to have sent me here, and I do not know how long they intend to keep me here.”

Deep blue eyes watched him suspiciously, and he sighed.

“What else can I do to prove that what I speak is the truth?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t think I even know my own name anymore.” She had kept backing away, and stumbled into a sitting position on a small table near the door as she bumped into it. Staring down at her hand, she flexed her fingers.

He took a deep breath. “There is one other way which may persuade you to believe that I speak the truth,” he said, picking his words carefully.

She looked up at him. “And send me even further off my head?”

He leaned his hip against the table where the half-finished mirror lay, and folded his arms. “It is neither my wish, nor my intention to traumatise you in any way,” he said softly. “You have shown me nothing but kindness since I arrived here. However…the only thing I can think of to prove that what I say is true might not be acceptable.”

She huffed quietly. “I don’t think there is much more you could do to shock me,” she muttered.

He leaned away from the table and began to pace the length of the room. “Over the years, I have seen many battles, many wars,” he said. “Many elves have perished in what seemed like unwinnable wars against the Great Evil that plagues our lands. Families destroyed. Towns and villages desecrated and ruined. Lives changed forever. My life too was altered during these battles.” He stopped and faced her. “I have survived against the odds.”

She gazed up at him. “What happened?”

“There were times when I have been careless, too motivated by my anger and my desperation for victory,” he replied. “It blinded me to the dangers around me, and during one of these battles, I fell victim to my own limited vision.”

She frowned slightly.

He took a deep, slow breath, closing his eyes, and push up one of his sleeves.

Her mouth opened as she stared at him, a horrific scar materialising on the otherwise flawless skin. It covered his entire limb, stretching from his wrist up past his elbow. Slowly rising to her feet, she hesitantly stepped towards him, stopping just a foot or so away.

Layers of exposed muscle were visible, dark reddish-brown in colour. He opened his eyes, not looking at her, but rather focusing on something on the wall behind her. Deep concentration showed on his face.

“My God,” she whispered, stunned.

She took a step back as he shifted his gaze to her, the scar disappearing before her eyes.

“That is not something I show on a whim,” he said, his voice low. “Very few people have seen it. And you are the first of your kind.” He pushed the fabric of his tunic back down to his wrist.

If she thought her heart was beating hard before, it was trying to force its way out through her chest wall after seeing this. “I don’t know what to say,” she said. “I just…” She trailed off, shaking her head for the umpteenth time. “I think somebody drugged my coffee or something.”

“I apologise,” he said. “I know that what you saw is not a pleasant sight to cast your eyes upon.”

“Is it painful?” she asked suddenly.

“Occasionally,” he replied. “But I have had it for centuries. I am used to it.”

“You healed me, why couldn’t you heal that?”

“Some injuries are too deep, too severe to heal,” he said. “The burn was very deep, and destroyed the flesh. Even elven powers cannot rebuild what is no longer there.” He could read the confusion, the questions, and the reluctance to believe his words in the depths of her

eyes. “We can heal others, but we cannot self-heal…at least not to the depths that I would have required.”

She closed her eyes, turning away from him and taking several deep breaths. “I can’t process this,” she murmured. “This just goes against everything that I’ve ever learned, been taught. None of this makes any sense.” She glanced back at him. “So you’re telling me that you’re not a human being?”

He nodded slowly. “Yes.”

“So you’re what…an alien?”

He frowned in confusion. “A what?”

“Never mind,” she sighed. “Why the hell did I stop the damned car..?”

He stepped closer, placing his hand on her arm in a gentle touch. “Because you are clearly a caring person,” he said. “In my experience of humans, that is a seldom shown trait, something I have not witnessed often.”

**********

The rain had eased off to a slight drizzle by late afternoon, and the gale-force winds had died down. The sun shone intermittently, reflecting a blinding sheen off the wet road surface.

“I think this is probably close to where I pulled in last night,” Jessa said, leaning over the steering wheel of the car as she peered through the glass in front of her. “Yes…look. There’s my tyre treads.”

He leaned forward too, narrowing his eyes as he stared at the trees. “It looks so different during daylight,” he murmured.

“Everything does,” she quipped, turning the engine off and unbuckling her seatbelt. “Come on. Let’s see what we can find.” With that, she bounded out of the car and walked over to the woods.

Tharden unfolded himself from the vehicle, glad to be free of the infernal restriction. Long strides carried him over to stand beside her, and he gazed up at the leaves as they fluttered in the breeze. He stepped forwards onto the wet grass, walking towards a particular group of trees.

Jessa watched him in silence as he touched a hand to the bark of one of them, wondering what would happen.

Nothing happened.

He held his position for a few moments, before moving to the one beside it.

Still nothing.

“I cannot sense anything,” he said. “There is no energy here indicating that this is where I should be in order to return to my world.”

“Maybe we need to give it some time,” she suggested. “Maybe once whatever it is knows that you are here, then whatever happened to bring you here will happen again to take you back.”

He moved from one tree to the next, trying to lock in on something only he knew of, and she could almost feel the despair in him. Tree after tree passed under his hand, and still nothing happened.

“Maybe me being here is changing the outcome of things,” she said eventually. “I’ll go and wait over by the car.”

He nodded, saying nothing.

The light rain continued to fall, and before long he was soaked through. She took refuge in the car, idly playing around with her cell phone to waste some time. Occasionally she glanced over towards the trees, and saw that he had almost disappeared in amongst them as he searched for something.

After around an hour had passed, she looked up to see him standing at the edge of the road again, so she opened her door and climbed out. Shoving her hands into her coat pockets, she slowly approached him, wary of his expression.

Ice blue eyes turned in her direction, and she was blown away by the deep sadness that lurked in them.

“It seems that I am unable to return,” he said quietly. “At least, not at this moment in time.”

She touched a hand to his arm in a show of sympathy. “Maybe try again another time?”

He nodded, just a slight movement of his head. “I would like to thank you for your hospitality,” he said.

She frowned. “Why do I sense a but coming next?”

“I shall remain here, in the hope that something happens,” he answered. “I will not encroach on your life any more than I already have, or intrude into your habits.”

“Listen, I know you must be feeling like shit right now, but no way am I going to leave you out here,” she opposed him. “There’s no problem with you staying at mine until you get sorted, honestly. If anything, it’s actually been fun having someone around to talk with.”

His mouth curved up in the briefest hint of a smile as he shook his head. “You have your own life, Jessa, your own way of doing things. You do not need a lost elf wandering in the midst of things.”

“Now you’re talking crap,” she said. “You can’t stay here all alone for God-knows how long. You could be waiting for weeks for all you know. At least at my apartment you have food and shelter, somewhere to sleep.” She watched him, convinced he was arguing with himself inside. “And anyway,” she added. “At least with me, you know I’m not going to attack you or try to do weird experiments or anything on you. You’re safe at my place.”

A slight frown creased his forehead. “I am humbled by your generosity,” he said quietly. “But I do not wish to become a burden or be in the way.”

“You won’t be,” she assured him. “Come on, let’s get out of this rain. Your clothes will need to be dried again. Maybe I’ll wash them first.” She turned and made her way back to the car, stopping when she realised he wasn’t following her. Glancing over her shoulder, she frowned at him. “Do I have to drag you over here?” she demanded.

He smiled at her pretend annoyance, and gave in, following her. “I am not used to not being in control of my life or my own destiny,” he told her, once they were on the move again. “In my world, I am the King – I control everything around me. Nothing happens without my approval.”

“It’s got to be difficult, being stuck in foreign lands,” she admitted. “But to reiterate what I said – you’ll be safer at my place, as opposed to standing around in all weather conditions waiting for some sort of sign that you can get back. We don’t know if, or when that sign will present itself, and realistically, you could be waiting around for quite a long time.”

“Yes,” he agreed in a low voice.

She changed gears as he took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “All I can suggest is that however possible, you try to relax and whatever will happen, will happen,” she advised. “Maybe you came to this world for a reason. And I still can’t believe I’m having a conversation with an elf about another world!” She broke off in a laugh, and he grinned in amusement.

“I dare say it is very strange, for you also,” he acknowledged. “I seem to have been looking at it only from my point of view. I had not really given any consideration to what must be going through your mind.”

“Lots and lots of weird things,” she laughed. “It’ll all come good, Tharden. Just have a little faith.” She flashed a smile at him and he contemplated her words.

**********

“I find it sad that this is where my Whitewood forest should be,” he remarked as they strolled along. “Such a large, dense woodland, yet this is merely a scratch on the surface of the true beauty.”

“In this world, humans are cutting trees down all the time,” she replied, stuffing her hands into her coat pockets. “Houses are being built everywhere, shopping malls, business complexes…it’s no wonder the cities are known as concrete jungles.”

“The beauty of nature is something which should be cherished; protected,” he said.

“I agree, and I hate seeing the forests hacked down,” she told him. “But again, like so many other conversations we’ve had – what can one person do to change an entire planet’s viewpoint?”

He stopped, turning to face her. “I could not live my life in this world,” he said. “Yes, it is beautiful in its own way, but it is cold…remote…mechanical. There is no heart and soul in a lot of what I have seen.”

Knowing he’d spent countless hours on the internet, she knew he’d seen quite a lot.

“Humanity has a lot to answer for,” she said as they started walking again. “It seems to be our nature to destroy ourselves and everything around us, and that makes me sad. I can only imagine that it’ll get worse as time passes. I honestly can’t see things improving.”

“I do not wish to lower your mood Jessa, but I agree with you,” he said. “From what I have learned since I came here, the human race seeks only to profit. Not to learn, or to cultivate and preserve, but to amass as much wealth as possible. I have an immeasurable amount of wealth in my kingdom, but what nature gives us is more important to me.”

“And that’s the way it should be,” she said. “I actually think-“

Her words were drowned out by an enormous clap of thunder, so loud that she took her hands out of her pockets and covered her ears. The sky overhead turned pitch black as thick, heavy clouds rolled across, and a strong wind picked up.

Tharden felt an odd sensation course through his body, followed by an ice cold chill in his heart.

It was time for him to return to his own world.

He turned to Jessa, and the instant her eyes met his, she knew. He could tell by her eyes that she knew what was going to happen, and both of them were powerless to stop it.

He opened his mouth to say something, reaching his hand out for hers, but a brilliant flash of lightning blasted overhead and the ground shook beneath them as another peal of thunder seemed to tear the skies apart.

Jessa instinctively turned away from the flash of lightning, covering her eyes with her arm against the searing brightness. She turned back, to find herself completely alone.

Falling to her knees in a combination of devastation and horror, she stared in stunned silence at the spot where Tharden had been standing. The thunder and lightning had stopped, and the wind had faded to almost nothing. An eerie silence surrounded her, and nothing moved.

*********

Metamorphosis eBook : Fullerton, Trish: Amazon.co.uk: Kindle Store

[trishfullertonwriting75]

Two strangers.

One night of passion.

Lives changed forever.

Hot. Steamy. A must for explicit romance readers.

One Night Stand eBook : Fullerton, Trish: Amazon.co.uk: Kindle Store

[trishfullertonwriting75]

Heart Of Darkness snippet...

She hoisted her backpack higher and ascended the wide steps. The door opened before she had the chance to ring the doorbell, and she jumped a little. Her lips parted. Standing before her was the most stunningly gorgeous man she’d ever had the pleasure of setting eyes on. He had to be at least six feet four, maybe five, with broad shoulders and legs that went on forever. His hair was white-blond and swept down over his chest to reach his waist. Dressed in black denims and a black cotton shirt that was open at the neckline, he appeared rather intimidating, which she put down to his towering height. But it was his face that captured her attention. Thick dark eyebrows that seemed very uncharacteristic for his hair colour frowned downwards over eyes which could only be described as pure ice blue. Those eyes gave the distinct impression that they’d seen a thousand truths, ten thousand lies and a hundred thousand memories. And remembered each and every single one. They narrowed almost suspiciously in his assessment of her, standing before him and stunned into silence. “Well?” His deep voice drawled out the word, making her blink and hurtle back to reality with force. “Uh…Mr Jax..?” she queried. “I…uh…I’m here for my appointment..?” “Are you asking me, or telling me?” She swallowed. “Telling you,” she said firmly. One side of the giant’s mouth curled upwards. “Good. Then please come in.”

*******************************************

Heart Of Darkness eBook : Fullerton, Trish: Amazon.co.uk: Kindle Store