He was a sharp-tongued king with a crown too heavy and walls too high. She was the half-Maia healer who had no interest in royal airs or the rules of court. This is their story.
Elenariel’s Character Profile — Details about her life, who she is and spoilers.
ABOUT ME:
I've been writing on and off since I was 12 - that’s 12 years now! So I can safely say I know what I’m doing 🤓
My stories are x-posted on AO3.
Tolkien fandom writing @lullaby-lilies
Sideblog solely focusing on my OC @elenariel
"You can’t use up creativity. The more you use, the more you have."
- Margaret Atwood
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— “He asked if her time with him was pleasant, and the air tightened because they both knew he wasn’t speaking of the cider.”
They are alone in the small antechamber off Thranduil’s private hall — a place where warmth has been coaxed into the stone by a low fire, the air scented with crushed apple skins and clove. The Elves call this brew a winter cordial, but Elenariel knows what the Men of the world call it.
Cider.
Thranduil stands by the table, pouring it with the same unhurried precision he grants to diplomacy. His sleeves fall back just enough to show the elegant movement of his hands, and the faint steam curls around his fingers as though it belongs there.
“You invited me here for a drink?” she asks, arching a brow. “Or is this another test of my patience?”
He gives her one glance — cool, silver, devastating — before returning to the decanter.
“If I wished to test your patience,” he murmurs, “I would have asked you to sit in council.”
She snorts softly. He allows the sound; the corner of his mouth even lifts, almost-smile or shadow of one, she cannot tell.
He hands her the cup. Their fingers almost touch. He is precise enough to avoid it — which is precisely why she feels the near-contact all the more.
She takes a sip. The warmth sinks into her chest, amber-sweet and spiced.
“You made this yourself,” she says, surprised.
Thranduil lifts his chin, feigning offense.
“Do you imagine I spend every waking hour on the throne?”
“You do give that impression.”
His eyes sharpen — not angry, but interested. She has struck at the mask, and he lets her see the amusement beneath it.
“Careful,” he says, stepping closer just enough that she feels the shift of his presence, that elegant, dangerous gravity. “One might think you enjoy provoking your king.”
“I don’t provoke you,” she replies, meeting his gaze steadily. “I simply speak plainly.”
“Mm.” The sound is low, pleased in a way he would never name. “Then be plain now. Do you find it… pleasant?”
She blinks. “The cider?”
He holds her stare, entirely unblinking.
“Your time with me.”
The silence that follows is not empty — it presses lightly, insistently, waiting for something to give. She feels the warmth of the cider competing with the sharper warmth of him standing too close, his expression unreadable, his breath just brushing the air between them.
Her throat works.
“It is… not unpleasant.”
His laugh is soft, carved gold. “A glowing endorsement.”
“Do not push your luck.”
“And yet,” he says, turning away only after letting her feel the weight of his attention, “you continue to stand here.”
She hates that he is right.
He knows she hates that he is right.
He pours her another cup anyway — as if this shared quiet, this shared warmth, is something he intends to make a habit of.
“Stay a moment longer,” he says without looking at her.
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So I was inspired by these questions that talked about your OCs and you know what? They look fun! So why not do them for Elenariel - drabbles of sorts to give you a better understanding of her.
So, here’s to the first question:
note: some of these are going to be spoiler-ish.
1. Do they grow old or die young?
Elenariel does not live to old age. Though her half-Maia blood slows her aging, her life is cut short in her later years, appearing no older than her early thirties by mortal measure. To Thranduil and her people, her death feels premature — as if time had stolen something luminous before its due.
2. How do they go?
She dies after commissioning the White Gems of Lasgalen, never living to see them completed. The attack comes on her journey home— a cruel twist of fate that leaves her dream unfinished.
She had hoped to surprise Thranduil — to gift him beauty born of love rather than loss. But her convoy is ambushed by orcs still roaming the wilds after Sauron’s fall.
When Thranduil later goes to retrieve the jewels she commissioned, King Thror refuses to part with them, claiming they belong to him. The madness that follows — his wrath, the rift between Elf and Dwarf — begins there, born not from greed, but grief.
3. Do they have time to prepare or is it sudden?
It is sudden. There’s no farewell, no warning. Yet some part of her — the Maia in her — may have sensed it. In the days before her journey, she had written a letter for Thranduil, sealed and left behind in their chambers. It speaks not of fear, but of gratitude and peace. He will find it days later, and it will break him.
4. Who is most affected by their loss?
Thranduil and Legolas.
Thranduil, who had already lost too much to war, loses the one person who saw him as more than a king. He becomes colder, untouchable, his heart retreating behind marble and crown.
Legolas, still a child, grows up with fragmented memories — her voice like birdsong, her scent like autumn leaves. It is her gentleness he remembers most, and it shapes the compassion he carries into the Third Age.
5. Is anyone glad they’re gone?
No one is glad, but there are whispers — that her presence had softened Thranduil too much, that her mortal warmth had made him vulnerable. Some among the Sindar think her death a return to order. Thranduil silences such talk with a single look.
6. Do they believe in an afterlife?
Yes. Elenariel believes in the Halls of Mandos and in Eru’s design. She never fears death, only the pain it brings others. She has faith that her spirit will find rest, even if she never sees those she loves again.
7. Do they believe in reincarnation?
She doesn’t believe it possible for her — not until it happens.
8. What sort of legacy will they leave behind?
Her legacy is twofold:
To her people, she becomes a legend — the Queen of Greenwood who carried the light of the Silmaril and died bringing beauty to her realm.
To Thranduil, she remains the measure of all things lost. Every jewel he wears after bears some echo of her gift.
To Legolas, she becomes his compass, the unseen hand guiding him toward kindness in a world hardened by war.
....this is how Elenariel came to existence. She was meant to be a random for another story. But once I started slowly fleshing her out, not only did I create her backstory but I even fleshed out her mother’s origin. At this point, I sorta abandoned that other story for Elenariel’s 😆
I been holding back from actually writing Elenariel and Thranduil’s story — how they met, how they come to be and their eventual separation.
This blog originally started as a writing challenge featuring slice of life moments between these two — stories that don’t add any “true” value to an actual story. Just a bunch of extras scenes if you will.
Well, I finally decided to start telling their story — I’m in the process of finishing up the prologue actually!
Will I continue sharing these slice of life moments between them? I’m undecided at this time but I’ll let you know if I’ll stop with them.
The library had settled into the kind of hush that makes even parchment feel loud. Dust hung in the lamplight like stranded stars. Outside, the wind combed the beeches; branches tapped the high window as if asking to be let in.
Elenariel did not look up from her folio when she spoke. “You’re staring again.”
Across the room, the faintest pause. Cloth ceasing to whisper, breath reined in. Then, smooth as a blade sheathed without hurry: “You mistake vigilance for staring.”
She turned a page with deliberate care. “In Elrond’s library?”
“Danger is democratic,” Thranduil replied, drifting into view at the edge of her lamplight. “It attends even the letters you hoard past midnight.”
He came to a stop with his back to the window, dusk silvering the pale fall of his hair. The light made a burnished thing of him: all cool lines and winter grace, the kind of beauty one does not touch for fear of cracking it. Elenariel refused to be impressed – she was, she refused it anyway.
“My letters are harmless,” she said. “Yours are the ones that bite.”
“Only when provoked.”
“Which is often,” she murmured, eyes sliding to his reflection in the window. It looked like a ghost had paused to listen.
He considered her, head tilted in that infuriating way that suggested he had already won an argument she hadn’t realized they were having. “You are squinting.”
“I am reading,” she corrected.
“You are squinting while reading.” He moved, and the light shifted with him; suddenly his shadow softened the glare on the page. He did not comment on the way her breath caught. Perhaps he heard it, perhaps he chose to ignore it with the same ruthless courtesy with which he ignored his own tremors. “You will give yourself a headache.”
“I am a healer,” she reminded him, unable to keep the smile from her voice. “It would be a professional hazard I could remedy.”
“And yet,” he said, reaching past her to nudge the lamp to a kinder angle, “I prefer to prevent it.”
She did not thank him; he did not ask for thanks. That was the way of them. What was done was done and would be pretended otherwise.
Elenariel lifted her gaze at last. Up close, his composure was a thing stitched tight, perfect to the point of cruelty. There were small betrayals if one knew where to look: the fine tension at the corner of his mouth, the stillness that spoke of motion denied. She wondered, not for the first time, what it would take to unravel him.
She knew better than to try. She still wondered.
“You’re still staring,” she said softly.
He did not flinch. “I am waiting.”
“For?”
He inclined his head toward the shelves rising behind her. “For the moment you admit you cannot reach the atlas you’ve been pretending not to need.”
Her mouth betrayed her with a laugh. He had the gall to look faintly pleased with himself. She rose, smoothing her skirts with the kind of composure she wore like armor, and stood before the towering case as if it belonged to her. The atlas in question waited three shelves above her head, heavy as a dare.
“I will manage,” she said, already stepping onto her toes, reaching. The sandalwood scent of him arrived before he did – pine and resin and a thread of something colder – then his presence settled behind her like a wall of winter.
From the corner of her eye she saw a long-fingered hand slide easily past her reach. “Allow me.”
“I do not require—”
“So you have said,” he murmured, lowering the atlas with careless grace. He did not hand it to her. He laid it on the table as if setting down a question. “Yet you permit it.”
“Permit?” She arched a brow at him. “Your Majesty, you do what you wish and call it courtesy.”
“If I did what I wished,” he said, voice barely above the hush, “this library would be emptied of you at once.”
The words landed between them, sharp enough to draw breath but not blood. She studied his face for the space of a heartbeat too long. “And yet I remain.”
“Regrettable,” he said without heat.
“Liar,” she said without malice.
Silence. The kind that pressed the air thin and drew the edges of the room closer. He rested one hand on the atlas, the lamplight turning the veins at his wrist into a pale map. She had the absurd urge to trace them. Instead she flipped the heavy cover open and pretended interest in coastlines. He did not move. It was like being watched by snow.
“You should sleep,” he said at last.
“So should you.”
“I am not the one whose hands shake after six hours without food.”
Her head snapped down to her fingers, which were steady enough until he pointed them out. She curled them into the edges of the page, annoyed. “You notice too much.”
“It is my duty.” A fractional pause. “And habit.”
“Bad ones,” she said, but too gently to make it sting.
Something eased in his posture, almost a sigh. “Most habits are, when they concern you.”
She ought to have let that pass. Instead she looked up and found him looking back – really looking, as if she were not a puzzle to be solved but the answer he disliked. There was a recklessness to the way their eyes held. It did not belong in Elrond’s library. It did not belong anywhere safe.
“Thranduil,” she warned, because someone had to name the edge they were walking.
He stepped back before she could. “Lady Elenariel.”
Formality like a shield; she raised her own. “Thank you for the atlas.”
“It would grieve me to witness you attempt to scale a bookcase,” he said, recovering his poise with the grace of a cat landing on its feet. “The carpentry would not survive.”
“Oh? And my skull would?”
“Regrettably, yes.” The corner of his mouth conceded the smallest curve. “It is harder than most pine.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Keep speaking and you’ll discover how hard.”
“Promises,” he said, and the word made her temperature do something unreasonable. He glanced at the window, gathering enough distance to breathe. “The hour is unkind. Will you be escorted to your quarters, or will you insist on a solitary prowl?”
“I do not need—”
“—escorting,” he completed, tired of the dance and unwilling to stop dancing. “And yet.”
“And yet,” she echoed, because he had moved first and she could pretend it was for propriety, not for want. She closed the atlas, slid it nearer the edge. “If you insist.”
“I do nothing so vulgar as insist,” he said, offering an arm.
She took it. He did not look down to watch her hand slide into the crook of his elbow, though she knew he felt it; she felt the almost imperceptible intake of breath, the iron discipline that followed. Height made a study of them as they crossed the room: he the tall winter tree, she the stubborn flame that refused to bow.
At the threshold, the wind nosed in again, curious. Thranduil paused and reached for the clasp of her cloak, fastening it with a deftness that suggested long practice and no thought at all. His knuckles skimmed the hollow at her throat by accident, or intention made small. Heat flashed outward like embarrassment and something not unlike it.
“You are warm,” he observed.
“You are not,” she returned.
For the span of a heartbeat he looked as if he would say something that mattered. Then his gaze shuttered; the moment retreated into the neat drawer where he kept all his nearly-confessions.
“Good,” he said. “It keeps the lamp lit.”
They walked the corridor in silence, his stride shortened a fraction for hers, her pulse unreasonably aware of their shared pace. At her door he released her arm as if the touch had never been necessary.
“Sleep,” he said.
“Vigilance,” she replied.
The ghost of that almost-smile again. He bowed, too shallow for a king, too careful for a friend, and turned away.
“Thranduil,” she called softly.
He looked back. The corridor lanterns made a crown of light on his hair.
“You’re staring again,” she said, and let the door close on the sound of his quiet, disbelieving huff, as close to laughter as he would allow.
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Thranduil x OC
・❥・”... at least he is honest about it.”
note: yes, it’s been a while but here’s a continuation from the last story 🐐
At first, it was amusing.
Then, it was... something else entirely.
No matter where Thranduil went – be it the council chamber, the training grounds, or the royal stables – Majesty followed. Hooves clip-clopping dutifully behind him like the world’s most inconvenient shadow.
Guards began referring to the goat as His Horned Highness behind closed doors.
Thranduil pretended not to hear.
“Does he... sleep outside your chambers now?” Elenariel asked one afternoon, barely concealing her grin as she joined him in the palace corridor.
“He stands guard,” Thranduil said dryly.
“Admirable. Does he take shifts with your guards?”
“He has no need. He is powered by spite and fermented berries.”
Elenariel snorted.
Today, Majesty had a garland of ivy on his horns – courtesy of a mischievous steward and was proudly stomping after the king as if he too were on some royal inspection.
“Your council must be thrilled,” she murmured as the goat trotted at his side like a shaggy squire.
“I caught Lord Ruvandil feeding him dried apricots beneath the table,” Thranduil muttered. “He denies it. He lies.”
Elenariel gasped in mock horror. “Your goat is corrupting the court?”
“He is winning it.”
She laughed then, bright and warm, and Thranduil, despite himself, allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch upward.
When they reached the throne room, Majesty scrambled up the steps after him, settling like a disgruntled rug beside the throne.
One of the scribes dropped his quill from sheer shock.
Elenariel, watching from the side, called softly, “He likes you.”
“He would not be the first,” Thranduil replied, seating himself with practiced ease. “But at least he is honest about it.”
Thranduil x OC
・❥・“Well, not just a goat,” she corrected. “A very special goat. His name is Majesty.”
The goat stared at him.
He stared back.
It was a small thing. Brown and white with crooked ears and the unfortunate habit of chewing its own beard. Its tail twitched. It bleated once, loud and deeply personal.
Elenariel was trying very hard not to laugh.
“This,” Thranduil said slowly, “is a jest.”
“No,” she managed, voice quivering with restrained mirth, “it’s a gift.”
He turned toward her, stiff as ever, his voice like silk over a blade. “From whom, exactly?”
“The villagers,” she replied, clearing her throat. “It’s a gesture of goodwill.”
“They sent me a goat.”
“Well, not just a goat,” she corrected. “A very special goat. His name is Majesty.”
Thranduil blinked. Slowly.
The goat sneezed.
Elenariel pressed a hand over her mouth.
“They said he’s won prizes,” she continued, not helping her case. “He’s very clever. Opens doors. Climbs ladders. And once… chased off a warg.”
“A warg.” His tone could have curdled milk.
“They say he’s quite territorial. Much like you.”
The goat tried to nibble his robe.
Thranduil stepped back as if avoiding plague. “This is an insult.”
Elenariel tilted her head. “Is it? You are quite fond of things that look unimpressed with the world.”
“I do not require livestock to mirror me.”
“Then consider it a challenge,” she said sweetly. “Majesty has an excellent memory. He’ll remember who was kind to him.”
The goat sneezed again. On Thranduil’s boots.
A long silence.
Then, regally, icily, “You will find a suitable… enclosure.”
“Oh, he’s already made himself comfortable,” she said brightly. “In your private gardens.”
Thranduil closed his eyes. “Of course he has.”
---
Later, Elenariel passed by the gardens and spotted the king himself standing very still as the goat lounged beside his throne-shaped bench like a furry little monarch.
She didn’t say a word.
But when she passed him, she whispered just loud enough, “He suits you.”
Thranduil didn’t look at her.
But the next morning, Majesty had a combed mane and a ribbon tied around one horn.
The kind of late that made even forest fall silent, the trees tall and still beneath the stars. Lantern light flickered faintly through the open terrace of the palace, where Elenariel stood barefoot, elbows on the stone railing, her gaze fixed on nothing in particular.
She didn’t hear him approach.
Thranduil never announced himself—he simply existed, drifting in like moonlight or judgment. And tonight, he brought no crown, no guards, no wine, only quiet.
“You’ll catch a chill,” he said mildly.
“I’ll survive.”
“You’re far too stubborn for your own good.”
“You say that like it’s a flaw.”
He said nothing.
She didn’t look at him. Not yet.
They stood like that for a while – her quiet, him quieter. And in the hush that fell between them, she let her thoughts wander aloud:
“Sometimes I wonder,” she said softly, “if you even hear me. Not my words. Me.”
He didn’t answer.
So she chuckled, low and wry. “Of course you don’t. Why would the great King of Mirkwood lower himself to listen to someone who—”
“Can you hear me?” he interrupted.
It wasn’t cold. But she froze.
Slowly, she turned. He was standing beside her now, close enough for the lantern light to catch the pale glint of his hair, the distant storm in his eyes. For once, he wasn’t armored in sarcasm. His voice was quiet – measured – but beneath it, something frayed.
“Every word,” he said. “Every sigh. Every time you think no one’s listening.”
Her throat tightened.
“You think I don’t hear you because I don’t say what you want to hear.” He tilted his head. “But perhaps it’s you who hasn’t been listening.”
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Thranduil x OC
・❥・“You brought a stick to a swordfight?”
note: This was inspired by Ava Max’s “Kings and Queens”
The sparring grounds were empty save for the two of them. Mist still clung to the trees, the kind that lingered low and ghostlike, brushing over Elenariel’s boots as she stood at the edge of the training circle, arms crossed, lips quirked.
Across from her, Thranduil rolled his wrist with fluid ease, the gleam of his sword catching what little sunlight broke through the trees. He had, of course, shown up already warmed, already dressed in his absurdly elegant training garb, because even in practice, the Elvenking refused to look anything but untouchable.
“I’ll go easy on you,” he said, twirling the blade once before settling into position.
“How generous,” Elenariel replied, voice laced with dry amusement. “But I’m not fighting you.”
That earned a pause. His brow lifted, faintly amused. “No? Then why are you here, dressed like that?”
She looked down at herself — trousers, loose tunic, hair braided back. Comfortable, practical, unremarkable. “What? Were you expecting embroidery and court shoes?”
“I was expecting you to stay behind your herbs and wounded goats,” he said smoothly, stepping closer. “Not wander onto my sparring grounds unarmed.”
A beat.
Then she smiled — slow, dangerous, playful.
“And you might think I’m weak without a sword,” she said, stepping into the circle, eyes locked on his, “but if I had one—” her gaze flicked down, then up, lingering just long enough to be deliberate, “—it’d be bigger than yours.”
For a moment, silence.
Then a sound escaped him — sharp, almost a scoff, almost a laugh — but it caught in his throat as she lifted a wooden staff from behind her back, spinning it in one hand with surprising ease.
Thranduil blinked once.
“You brought a stick to a swordfight?” he said, tone half-mocking, half-curious.
“I brought strategy to a peacocking contest,” she replied sweetly. “Now, are you going to pout, or are you going to try me?”
He lunged.
She was faster than he expected. He’d never seen her move like this, weaving around his blade like water slipping past stone. Her staff snapped against his blade with a satisfying crack, pushing him back a step. She didn’t press, not yet — just watched him with maddening confidence.
“Don’t hold back on my account,” she said innocently.
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
The spar ignited. Steel against wood, precision against unpredictability. And though he was stronger, older, more experienced — she was clever. She moved like someone who understood anatomy better than war, but used that knowledge ruthlessly targeting his wrists, his knees, the muscles just beneath his ribs.
By the time she disarmed him — staff sweeping his legs out from beneath him in a flourish he definitely hadn’t seen coming — Thranduil landed flat on his back, hair splayed like a silken crown around him.
And Elenariel?
She stood over him, breath steady, expression positively glowing with mischief.
“Bigger,” she said, tapping the staff once against his chest. “And better.”
He stared up at her, chest rising, pride wounded in all the most inconvenient places. And then he laughed — sharp and breathless.
“I should have known you’d cheat.”
“I didn’t cheat,” she said, smiling. “I just came prepared.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You’re a sore loser.”
They stayed like that a moment longer, her staff resting against his heart, his hands splayed against the earth, and something unspoken threading between them—heat, recognition, restraint.
Then she stepped back, offering him a hand.
He took it.
And neither of them said what they were really thinking.
Elenariel barely concealed her smirk as she watched Thranduil glare at the document spread out across the council table.
“You’re scowling,” she noted, chin propped on her palm. “Again.”
“I am reading,” he replied coldly, not glancing up. “Your voice is disrupting that process.”
She leaned forward, casually plucking a grape from the silver dish meant for more important guests. “You could just admit you don’t understand Lord Erestor’s handwriting.”
“I understand it perfectly,” he replied, voice cool as winter air. “Unlike you, I choose to process before speaking.”
Elenariel popped the grape into her mouth and said sweetly, “So you do admit that I’m quicker.”
He paused. Just long enough.
Then, without lifting his gaze:
“Would you be a dear… and be quiet?”
The corners of her mouth curled upward like mischief about to unfold.
“You know, that almost sounded like begging. Polite begging, but still.”
He finally looked up then, slow and sharp like a blade unsheathed.
“You mistake my patience for civility,” Thranduil said. “Neither is infinite.”
“And you mistake my silence for obedience,” she countered. “Which is adorable, really.”
Their gazes held. The other council members had long since found excuses to leave — diplomatic errands, sudden coughs, urgent scrolls. Only the fire crackled in the corner, whispering the tension neither of them dared name.
Thranduil rose, every inch the imperious king as he stalked toward her side of the table. He stopped just close enough for her to tilt her head back and meet his gaze — he always had the upper ground, thanks to height and that maddening presence of his.
His voice was velvet laced with threat:
“You forget who you’re speaking to.”
Her voice, warm and unbothered, replied:
“Do I?”
A beat.
Then, to her utter delight, he exhaled. Not a sigh. Not quite.
Resignation.
“I liked you better when you were tending to your herbs and not interrupting state affairs.”
She grinned, leaning back with the grace of a woman who knew she’d won.
“And I liked you better when you wore that ridiculous silver circlet. It made your head look enormous.”
Thranduil closed his eyes for a long, suffering moment.
When he opened them, he looked like a man deciding whether to commit treason against his own heart.
Instead, he turned, murmuring as he walked away:
“If you speak again, I will personally assign you to mediate the next trade dispute between the wine guild and the mushroom farmers.”
“You say that like it’s a punishment,” she called after him. “Have you met the mushroom farmers? Delightful folk!”
He didn’t respond.
But she saw it — that tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. A silent, reluctant smile.
