Thranduil had always wanted to do things right with you—love you, care for you, protect you. And for a time, you believed he was enough. He was regal, commanding, and so much older than you, a figure you leaned on when the world felt unsteady.

But the truth was complicated. Because somewhere along the way, your heart had found its way to his son, Legolas.

You never meant for it to happen, never meant to betray the man who had given you so much of himself. And yet, when Legolas looked at you, it was as though he saw past the walls you had built, straight into the soft, restless places you tried to hide.

Thranduil, however, remained oblivious to that truth—for now.

“You are not leaving the castle.” His voice rang through the hall as he sat tall on his throne, eyes fixed on you with that cold, commanding presence that could silence an army.

You sat rigidly before him, hands folded in your lap. It wasn’t just the words that weighed on you, but the way he spoke them—as though you were not his lover, but something fragile to be controlled, contained.

“But, Thranduil…” you began softly, your voice breaking under the weight of his gaze.

He descended the steps with an almost predatory grace, each movement reminding you of the centuries he carried in his bones. His robes whispered against the floor as he approached, tall and untouchable.

“You will not leave the castle. That is the last word.” His voice was colder than usual, a tone that sent a shiver through you.

And then, in a moment you hadn’t expected, he drew back his hair to reveal the scar that marred his fair face. His eyes burned with memory, with grief, with something older than you could comprehend.