𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬

𝘙𝘰𝘺𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘺

That night, while many souls still celebrated joyfully beneath the starlight, and others rested in their chambers with the fresh memories of the dances lingering in their minds, there was one elf, only one, who did not share their peace.

Oropher had summoned Thranduil to his quarters.
The hall was vast and austere, with walls of smooth grey stone and tapestries depicting ancient deeds.
A wide balcony opened toward the forest below, wrapped in the darkness of night and bathed in starlight that shimmered like diamonds suspended in the sky.
The evening wind swept through the leaves, carrying the cool scent of the woods and a faint, unsettling whisper, as though the night itself were listening to what was about to unfold.
But Oropher, tall, unmoving, and stern as a statue carved from granite, seemed untouched by it, as if every breath of air were meant for others, not for him.

The son entered with a steady, measured step.
He stopped a few paces away, respectful, yet tense, every muscle drawn tight.
The prince's eyes, cold yet bright, rested on his father, and the weight of his thoughts tormented him.
Since his mother's death, Oropher's spirit had withered slowly, like a fruit left to the frost of the harshest winter.
Pain had made him apathetic, distant, and irascible, prone to anger and severity.
It did not make him a lesser king, but as a father...

Thranduil sighed inwardly, for that part of his father seemed long gone, frozen beneath the ice of a hardened heart.
The only bond that still tied them together was blood.

"What was that I saw tonight?" Oropher's voice cut through the silence, sharp with irritation, a tone that tore the air with a thread of disdain.

Thranduil clenched his jaw, holding back the sharp retort that burned on his tongue.

"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice controlled, though he already knew all too well what his father referred to.

Oropher's grip tightened on the staff he always kept by his side when not in public: a long scepter of dark, polished wood, cool to the touch.

He turned to face his son fully.

Thranduil stood tall, proud, his bearing a reflection of his father's own.
If there was one thing that betrayed their kinship beyond the silver hair and the icy eyes, it was pride, unyielding and gleaming like tempered steel.

"You even dare to pretend before my eyes? How dare you mock me?"
Oropher's voice was harsh and raw, steeped in authority and the long-brewing anger of years past.

"Speak plainly, Father" Thranduil replied, his tone cold but steady, like thin ice about to crack. "And I will be just as plain."

This time, Oropher turned completely toward him, fury blazing visibly in his eyes and trembling in his clenched fists.
He advanced slowly, each step deliberate, until he stood before his son.

"I have tolerated her presence" he said, voice deep with restrained rage.
"I am striving to reunite our people with the Noldor, though I doubt they truly deserve it.
I did not oppose Gil-galad's decision to send his envoys here, nor will he contest mine, when the time comes.
But you... you mock me before my own subjects?"
Every word dripped with venom, with the poison of old wounds that refused to heal.

"That Feanorian wretch with the red hair was she your choice, of all the Noldorin maidens at your disposal?"

Thranduil's heart trembled, not from fear, but from the rage that burned beneath his skin like molten fire under ash.

In that moment, his vision blurred.
To bear his father's bitter words was one thing, but to hear them turned against someone he loved, someone whose very presence set his heart alight, was something else entirely.