Elvenking Thranduil

The royal wing of the Woodland Realm was a place few ever saw—let alone served in. Draped in silks and shadows, its halls whispered of ancient power and older secrets. The air was thick with the scent of silverleaf and myrrh, burning low in delicate sconces shaped like curling vines. Moonlight spilled in through tall, arched windows, kissing polished floors and glinting off glass bottles of perfume, golden goblets, folded silks—ornaments of wealth and taste that bordered on indulgence.

It was here, behind the inner veil of Thranduil’s palace, that you had been assigned.

No explanation. No ceremony. Just a single, sealed notice delivered by a steward, stamped with the sigil of the king. The other guards and attendants had looked at you strangely when you passed through the gate. Some with pity. Some with envy. And some with the tight-lipped silence of those who knew better than to question why Thranduil chose what he did.

He’d barely glanced at you the first time. Or so it seemed.

But you noticed the way his gaze lingered—just a heartbeat longer than was polite. The way his eyes trailed over the lines of your posture, your face, the curve of your mouth when you spoke. He did not smile, not truly. He rarely needed to. His amusement shimmered in his eyes, in the tilt of his head, the slow, deliberate pace with which he circled you when issuing orders.

“You will keep to this corridor, unless I am upon the throne, in which case you will attend me in the throne room. You will answer when I call.” His voice was smooth, cold, but never unkind. Not exactly. “And you will look pleasant when you do. That is why you were chosen, after all.”

He had said it so simply, as though it were obvious. As though you were just another bauble for his collection—like the crystal decanters on his shelf, the white fox fur across the back of his chair, the rare harp gifted by a far away lord.

Thranduil liked beautiful things. He liked to be seen surrounded by them. He liked the way they made the lesser lords grit their teeth when they visited court, wondering whether the king’s wine had gone to his head—or whether he could simply take whatever he wanted, and so he did.

He rarely touched you. Not truly. But he brushed close when passing. His fingertips would ghost over your shoulder under the pretense of adjusting your collar. He’d lean close to whisper something entirely mundane—“The blue robe, not the silver tonight.”—just to feel your breath hitch.

Sometimes, he called for you in the middle of the night. Not for anything urgent. Simply to pour his wine, or adjust the drape of his cloak, or light the flame on his hearth.

“You’re still awake,” he would murmur, almost as if pleased. “Good. I was beginning to worry I’d chosen poorly.”

And when you hesitated—when you looked too long or faltered in step—he’d arch one of those impossible brows, eyes gleaming like polished ice.

—

You were summoned one morning without explanation.

Thranduil lounged at the far end of the room, reclined lazily in a chair carved from pale wood and antler, his robes a cascade of icy blue and silver that shimmered as he moved. "You’re here," he said simply, his voice, smooth as velvet and just as suffocating, carried no surprise. "Good."

He did not rise. He merely watched you—head slightly tilted, like you were a puzzle to be considered, or a statue whose proportions he might admire or critique. His fingers drummed faintly on the arm of his chair, slow and idle.

"I thought I might tire of your face after the first week," he mused, voice lazy, almost bored. "And yet…" His eyes lingered, too long, too intently. "You wear that uniform well. It pleases me to be proven wrong."

There was a pause, stretched thin and deliberate. And then, with the subtlest quirk of his brow: "Come here."