Legolas/Thranduil Imagines

Imagine 9 : Imagine Being A Romanticist In Middle Earth (Part 1)

Alt.

[ Imagine being a novelist of the fantasy/romance genre in Mirkwood. Legolas being such a huge admirer of your works and The Elvenking joining in the bandwagon with him. ]

Work Text :

"

Unattainable was he as the moon that glowed in its fullness as if a halo over his head. Unseeing was his hues of dazzling blue. Looking but not quite seeing- a mere arrow that passes right through her- always had and always will be.
Forever unaware of the eyes that carried the weight of a bleeding heart as it maps the paths he took long after he was gone.

"

Thranduil quotes the passage from over his son's shoulder, a most curious fascination coating the usually detached quality of his modulated voice. It was inevitable that Legolas would flinch at the unexpected disturbance, immersed as he was with the text he had been reading- it is also to be noted that the slide of long blond locks akin to his own was much unwelcome for Mirkwood's prince as it completely blocked the words that serenaded him like clouds to a sunlit sky.

The Elvenking's impressive brows of ebony and snow furrowed in contemplation. In his mind he swears he had seen those elegant swirls before and as his son voices out a rather puzzled, 'Ada?' as he rests the bundle of parchments on his lap, the answer dawns upon him-

Such handwriting had overtaken the palace's most recent collection of tomes. He was caught unawares by this, the onslaught of fictitious tales that found their home in the midst of Mirkwood's historical and judicial records. At first Thranduil had not paid it any heed, as the occasional recreational pieces may prove to be what the kingdom's vast library needs in order to inspire potential practitioners of the creative arts. However, one fateful day he had come across a rather interesting manuscript slyly tucked in between obsolete documentations of long forgotten flora or fauna, it read-

"
It

was an arduous task not to find oneself in such an incriminating state as listlessly admiring a beauty that laid so close before one's eyes. Not even the stars set on the crown of midnight can rival the face bathed in the ethereal glow of the elvenmade lanterns strung about them.
Poor renditions as they may be of the ancient lights, it did not dissuade her fate to be caught in his charm. To his name was her mind a willing prisoner, once a great bearer of knowledge rendered into a useless library of prose upon prose dedicated to his radiance.
"

It did not take the Elvenking the entire narration to tell that it was a story of romance. The turn of a number of pages and he knew it to be of yearning and clandestine adoration. The feel of dried papyrus on his thumb and index fingers was a serendipitous affair, his gaze flitting upon rows and rows of words strewn together into prose and poetry befitting of handwritten notes tied to bouquets of flowers, of stories told under the light of the moon and letters hidden beneath silken sheets, through hushed voices that revered, adored, and strung wishes upon the stars.

When he looked up from where 'Medui' (end) was scrawled across the last page of the opus, the thin lines of that graceful stroke had grown acquainted to him- like a tiny seedling in his realm of towering ancient trees, a treasure often overlooked as it flourished underneath the grandeur of its predecessors. The sun had long set then, his back ached, and there was a noticeable strain about his neck brought by his submission to the sirens call of the book before him and yet it was only then that his disillusionment with life had failed him entirely, as if in humoring maple sugar sweet words from a faceless scribe he was allowed the luxury to see the world in color once more.