𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬

𝘍𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘌𝘳𝘺𝘯 𝘎𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘯

After the encounter with Lasgalen, Thranduil had received a stern, icy reprimand from his father. It had not been a simple paternal scolding, but a speech laden with shattered expectations and silences sharper than words.
Oropher, although aware that it had not been his son who had deliberately led the young elf into the depths of the forest, could not accept that he had lied to protect her. The gesture, though seemingly noble, sounded to the king like an affront to the flawless image he had always tried to build around his only son: that of an irreproachable, proud prince, a living example of what the heir to the Woodland Realm should be.

"And of all of them, her?" he had snapped disapprovingly. He was not opposed to Thranduil forming bonds with highborn elven women, quite the contrary. In his heart, he had long hoped such a thing would happen. But until then, it had always been his son who showed disinterest, aloofness, a near-impermeability to emotion. The arrival of Lasgalen had therefore taken him by surprise, and not in a pleasant way.

Lasgalen, though captivating and cloaked in mystery, carried a troubled past, marked by invisible scars known only to a few. Thranduil was not among them.
Oropher, on the other hand, was, and for that reason, he had said little, speaking vaguely and evasively, deeming it unnecessary, or perhaps harmful, to reveal too much.
The young elf had grown up in the woods, far from the strictness of the courts, and during her time in captivity had lost what little courtly grace she might have acquired. Her education had been fragmented, her demeanor rough, lacking the innate elegance expected of a lady close to the royal court.

All of this sparked, unexpectedly, a subtle yet persistent anger within Thranduil.
An anger that, paradoxically, turned against Lasgalen as well.
He had always been a reserved soul, graceful and measured only when forced to attend official ceremonies. The red-haired elf had been a jarring note in his otherwise orderly harmony, a spark that had managed to ignite his curiosity. But now that this curiosity had cost him his father's favor, he began to wonder whether it had ever been worth it. This was what came of indulging in impulse, of letting feelings override duty.

Thranduil had always followed his father's commands with scrupulous obedience, striving to embody the ideal his father so rigidly demanded. Yet every slightest deviation from that path was punished harshly, as if each mistake were an unforgivable betrayal, a disgrace threatening to tarnish their entire lineage. The small flame that had been lit in the elf's heart was swiftly extinguished, snuffed out by his father's cold and authoritarian breath, one that left no room for imperfection.

"Let her inexperience teach her, and do not sully the rank of our family"
Oropher had said gravely, with that proud and distant look that brooked no argument. It was a heavy sentence, rich with unspoken meaning.

What truly defined Oropher's line, more than anything else, was pride. An ancient, immovable pride, passed down like a sacred relic. And it was precisely that same pride that kept father and son apart, like an invisible wall built of expectations and silence.

On the other hand, there was Lasgalen, still quietly elated from the unexpected acquaintance she had made. The encounter with Thranduil had left behind a lingering tremor in her spirit, something subtle yet persistent, like the resonance of a note still vibrating long after the instrument had fallen silent.

Thranduil was unlike any elf she had met before. There was a natural elegance to him, yes, but it wasn't adorned with pomp or practiced charm. He moved and spoke with the confidence of one who had nothing to prove, yet every gesture, every measured word, every pause in his gaze, carried the weight of thoughtfulness.
He struck her as someone who lived by his own quiet code, not caring for approval, yet effortlessly commanding it from those around him. And perhaps that was part of what unsettled her, even as it drew her in: the sense that Thranduil walked through the world on a path carved entirely by his own will.