The halls of the Woodland Realm are quiet—peaceful in the late hours of the night. The wine has long since been poured, the goblets emptied, and yet, Thranduil still sways slightly, his footsteps uneven as he moves toward you.

"It was horrible," he wails suddenly, voice thick with drink, regal composure utterly shattered.

"I do not like it. I do not like it at all!"

Then, without warning—he drops forward, face pressing against your skirts, his hands clutching at the fabric as if it alone might soothe his distress. His sobs are loud, dramatic, big fat tears soaking into the fine embroidery as he clings.

"Why would anyone make something so—so unpleasant to touch?" he laments, shuddering as though recalling the horror of the sensation.

"I am King, and yet even I am not spared from such offenses!"

Thankfully, Legolas sleeps undisturbed in the adjoining chamber, blissfully unaware that his father is currently reduced to a mess even he would not dare mimic.

"You will not leave me to suffer alone, will you?" Thranduil sniffles, lifting his tear-streaked face toward you, eyes wide, pleading in a way that should not be so tragic, so utterly ridiculous—but is.

"You are my wife. My light. You must protect me from such horrors!"