The Witch's Destiny || Thranduil

Chapter XXIV

Immortality is the illusion and crutch of all elves, and nobody knew it better than Thranduil. He wore it like a suit of armor, telling himself that he had all the time in the world. Legolas didn't need his immortal life tainted so early, he would tell himself, He's so young.

And then he met Violet, and suddenly, time did matter because she would never have much of it. One hundred years was a mere blink in the life of an elf, and with his own poor decision making, their early months were tainted with his past actions. Single-handedly, he had ruined his relationship with his son, and he had, quite possibly, ruined the greatest thing that had ever happened to him in one-thousand years.

Thranduil looked around the table in his sitting room; he was eating breakfast. The other chairs were empty, and the room was quiet -- too quiet. Perhaps if he listened hard enough, he could hear his family's voices laughing, while Violet sat in her pajamas, quiet as always in the mornings.

He grumbled, standing up from his chair and pushing his plate away so harshly that it almost fell off the other side of the table. His hands itched to hold a glass of wine in his hands and drink his pain away, and if it weren't mid-morning, he probably would have. Alas, he still had some self-control -- he hated that -- and a kingdom to run -- he loved that -- so he decided that it may not be the best choice.

Look at me, he thought sardonically, I'm already making better decisions.

With a bitter laugh, he walked into his chambers, putting on a simple long-sleeved tunic, leggings, and riding boots. After attaching his sword to his hip, he put on leather gloves. He quickly put-up half of his hair and was out of his doors, making his way to the stables. As he passed Galion on the way, he ordered apples to be brought to him. When he arrived, the sight of his beloved elk brought a little extra lightness into his heart.

"Hello," he said in his native tongue with a tired smile. He brushed his hand over Bathor's nose, the creature huffing as he did. "Let's go into the forest."

As he was dressing the elk, Galion arrived with the apples, handing them silently to the king, and leaving with a bow of his head. Thranduil grabbed one, feeding it to his beloved steed, before moving to a separate stall. There sat a tall black stallion that always went by the name of Belegmorroch. Handing him an apple, Thranduil noticed the horse's coat looked freshly brushed and looked around with wide eyes, like Violet could pop out at any moment. A part of him wished she would.

He huffed. The Great Elven-king, scared to confront his lover. How ridiculous it sounded to his own ears. He walked back over to Bathor, leading him out of the covering of the stables, and off they were.

They ventured deep into the forest, staying near the areas orcs wouldn't dare enter. He allowed Bathor complete freedom, craving the rush of adrenaline it would bring to see the trees fly past his face, hair whipping in the wind. He saw the deer hop over fallen trees, running away from him and his steed as they startled them.

Slowly, they came to a stop with no one around. The forest was quiet, teetering on the edge of too far away from the castle and just close enough. Thranduil dismounted Bathor, running his hand along the edge of the elk's fur as he looked around.

He shook his head, as if he could shake off the past weeks of nothing but pain and suffering. His chest felt permanently heavy, his fae slowly decaying. He had gathered enough strength to not break under the eyes of his people, but here alone, he let go. His shoulders sagged and he couldn't even be bothered to keep up a glamour for the scar.

Here he was, the great Elven-king, Thranduil, in all his glory. What a sight he was. Truly one for the history books. He could see it now, what they would highlight about his reign, and how it had come to an end.