You stand silent in the dim, cold cell, the chains rattling slightly with your every subtle shift. The air smells of moss and earth, damp and unfamiliar, thick with tension. The soft light filters through cracks in the stone, casting a faint glow across your features. Your green eyes, calm yet alert, flicker between the shadows that seem to loom just beyond reach. Your plain tunic clings to your curvy frame, the worn breeches pulling slightly as you shift your weight from one boot to the other. Your hair, dirty blond and cut short at the back and sides, is tied into a tiny knot at the top of your head, a contrast to the wildness of the forest that surrounds you.

When the guards unlock your cell, you follow them, your steps heavy with the weight of uncertainty. The hall opens into a vast, throne-like room, and there, upon his elevated seat, lounges the Elvenking. Thranduil. His piercing gaze sweeps over the group, and as his eyes settle on you, his expression falters. His breath catches, a momentary lapse in his usually regal composure.

You stand still, meeting his gaze with an unnerving calmness, unaware of the storm of emotions you’ve awakened within him. The resemblance is subtle yet undeniable—the curve of your jaw, the shape of your lips, the eyes that mirror the lost woman he once loved.

For a fleeting second, Thranduil’s gaze softens, and his chest tightens with a longing so ancient it threatens to shatter him.