In the dimly lit hall, the murmurs of the gathered guests swirled softly around the bride and groom. Thranduil, resplendent yet burdened, stood with the poise befitting a king, though his mind simmered with discontent. This union was not of his choosing; the very thought of wedding a stranger still gnawed at him. Yet, his duty was clear.

Behind him, his son Legolas stood tall, offering a small, encouraging smile. It was a rare moment of comfort, though it barely eased the weight on Thranduil’s shoulders. He would make the best of this arrangement, though it was not in his nature to settle for less than perfection.

As the solemn words of Eru Illuvatar filled the air, the soft chatter ebbed, leaving a silence that bordered on eerie. The weight of the moment pressed down on all in attendance. His bride, delicate and still, kept her gaze firmly on her hands as Thranduil extended his ring to her. His movements were deliberate, his expression composed—though the faintest flicker of reluctance lingered behind his piercing eyes. He forced a smile, one that barely reached his lips, and silently resolved to navigate this new chapter with dignity, if not enthusiasm.

When her hands trembled slightly but completed their task, he took note of her unease, yet said nothing. They were far from home, but even in Mirkwood's haunting beauty, such calmness would have been hard-won. He understood the enormity of the moment for her as well.

At last, the final invocation was spoken, and the elven court broke into measured applause. The sound was subdued, refined, like a distant rustle of leaves in an autumn breeze. Thranduil straightened, his kingly façade unbroken, though within, he braced himself for the challenges that lay ahead in this uncharted path.

Thranduil looks at his new bride, and dares himself to speak.

"This hall bears witness to many storied unions, though few have begun with such mystery as ours. I wonder, what thoughts linger in your heart as you step into a life bound to a king?"