[1] It was cool in the halls of the Elvenking, even through what heat of the summer managed to seep through the trees. The stone into which they had been delved would radiate this coolness, even if outside temperatures soared. It was one of the benefits of living underground, and one that was welcome enough if need forced him and his people away from the trees and the stars whenever they retreated into their home - no cavern, however well constructed, however airy and beautiful it had been made, and however great the need that had driven them to take up residence in it, could replace the forest. None of this changed that above ground, under the shadows of the trees, it could become hot, and Thranduil had expected nothing less here. He had been somewhat pleasantly surprised, and slightly bewildered (though of course he would never admit to such), to find that he was wrong. The air remained cool as the spring rain. It made staying indoors attractive enough to be tempting.
The library housed in building two was small. Thranduil had never been a great scholar, one who researched ancient tomes and loved facts not for their use but for the sheer having of them, but neither was he against the pursuit of knowledge, and this place had as good a cause - many - to seek it out.
It was still strange, to find himself in a place which over six thousand years of experience had nonetheless left him so unprepared for.
[2] The river that ran through the city made Thranduil homesick for his home, and for the music of creation which ran with the water. It was an odd melancholy - the river was the same, and yet was not the same, for unless he was greatly mistaken, Valinor did not lie beyond the sea in this place.
Thranduil had not the wish that some of his kindred had or gained, to see the blessed lands beyond the sea, but to be so separated was slightly depressing. Valinor had previously been a promise, one which may not be fulfilled until the ending of all the earth, but a promise nonetheless. Here it was... nothing. It was barely even a hope.
[3] Science - the mixing of powders and liquids, of long calculations and metals packed in oil - was strange to the elf king, both in execution and in concept. The world was, and such excessive tinkering with the mechanics, such attempts to change the state of things, seemed both unwise and dangerous. Some of the things in these laboratories looked more like devices of the enemy than those of free peoples. It was unnatural. It was unnerving. He couldn't quite decide whether or not he should be fascinated.
Change in the world - the ordering and perfecting of the world - was as natural for an elf as speech, and similar in function. The wine here was pitiful, and he bent his power to enriching it. It was a similar concept, but a different execution. Nonetheless, he considered as he watched with a goblet in hand, it was still very strange.
[4] Elves didn't get sick. This stubborn belief, and Thranduil's own reticence and stubborn pride, had resulted in the impossible happening. No, apparently not impossible. His head swam when he moved. He'd eaten nothing in two days, simply because he was not sure he was capable of keeping it down, and was similarly not sure he could accept that ignominy. Not yet. He was hungry, but that was the least of his concerns.
Thranduil cared about people, most specifically his people, but thousands of years of being constantly on his guard against all comers had left him far less generous with most strangers. Even among those he loved he generally remained aloof; he was a king, and needed to maintain the degree of separation and of dignity that this situation demanded. A king was not allowed to show weakness. A king must be untouchable, lighthearted, stern, all things needed to all those who needed him. He could not falter. He could not show weakness. He had to remain separated, elevated, a figurehead. The wood-elves were at war still, and even if he was no longer there, the habit of so long was a difficult one to break.
It had, however, reached such a point that he could no longer even pretend. Thranduil was seated - he was trying his best not to slump, though he supposed vaguely that it might resemble that to another - against a wall, and was focusing on his breathing. He had faced the Dark Lord himself and all his troops in Mordor, with the blood of his father and his people running through the black earth. He could master this. In, perhaps, just a moment.
[5] [LOOK YOU GUYS CHOOSE OKAY
IF YOU DON'T LIKE ANY OF THE ABOVE THEN CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE]
Thranduil (the Elvenking) | The Hobbit
It was cool in the halls of the Elvenking, even through what heat of the summer managed to seep through the trees. The stone into which they had been delved would radiate this coolness, even if outside temperatures soared. It was one of the benefits of living underground, and one that was welcome enough if need forced him and his people away from the trees and the stars whenever they retreated into their home - no cavern, however well constructed, however airy and beautiful it had been made, and however great the need that had driven them to take up residence in it, could replace the forest. None of this changed that above ground, under the shadows of the trees, it could become hot, and Thranduil had expected nothing less here. He had been somewhat pleasantly surprised, and slightly bewildered (though of course he would never admit to such), to find that he was wrong. The air remained cool as the spring rain. It made staying indoors attractive enough to be tempting.
The library housed in building two was small. Thranduil had never been a great scholar, one who researched ancient tomes and loved facts not for their use but for the sheer having of them, but neither was he against the pursuit of knowledge, and this place had as good a cause - many - to seek it out.
It was still strange, to find himself in a place which over six thousand years of experience had nonetheless left him so unprepared for.
[2]
The river that ran through the city made Thranduil homesick for his home, and for the music of creation which ran with the water. It was an odd melancholy - the river was the same, and yet was not the same, for unless he was greatly mistaken, Valinor did not lie beyond the sea in this place.
Thranduil had not the wish that some of his kindred had or gained, to see the blessed lands beyond the sea, but to be so separated was slightly depressing. Valinor had previously been a promise, one which may not be fulfilled until the ending of all the earth, but a promise nonetheless. Here it was... nothing. It was barely even a hope.
[3]
Science - the mixing of powders and liquids, of long calculations and metals packed in oil - was strange to the elf king, both in execution and in concept. The world was, and such excessive tinkering with the mechanics, such attempts to change the state of things, seemed both unwise and dangerous. Some of the things in these laboratories looked more like devices of the enemy than those of free peoples. It was unnatural. It was unnerving. He couldn't quite decide whether or not he should be fascinated.
Change in the world - the ordering and perfecting of the world - was as natural for an elf as speech, and similar in function. The wine here was pitiful, and he bent his power to enriching it. It was a similar concept, but a different execution. Nonetheless, he considered as he watched with a goblet in hand, it was still very strange.
[4]
Elves didn't get sick. This stubborn belief, and Thranduil's own reticence and stubborn pride, had resulted in the impossible happening. No, apparently not impossible. His head swam when he moved. He'd eaten nothing in two days, simply because he was not sure he was capable of keeping it down, and was similarly not sure he could accept that ignominy. Not yet. He was hungry, but that was the least of his concerns.
Thranduil cared about people, most specifically his people, but thousands of years of being constantly on his guard against all comers had left him far less generous with most strangers. Even among those he loved he generally remained aloof; he was a king, and needed to maintain the degree of separation and of dignity that this situation demanded. A king was not allowed to show weakness. A king must be untouchable, lighthearted, stern, all things needed to all those who needed him. He could not falter. He could not show weakness. He had to remain separated, elevated, a figurehead. The wood-elves were at war still, and even if he was no longer there, the habit of so long was a difficult one to break.
It had, however, reached such a point that he could no longer even pretend. Thranduil was seated - he was trying his best not to slump, though he supposed vaguely that it might resemble that to another - against a wall, and was focusing on his breathing. He had faced the Dark Lord himself and all his troops in Mordor, with the blood of his father and his people running through the black earth. He could master this. In, perhaps, just a moment.
[5]
[LOOK YOU GUYS CHOOSE OKAY
IF YOU DON'T LIKE ANY OF THE ABOVE THEN CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE]