You had lived in Greenwood for a long time now, serving under King Oropher as a maid, living a peaceful life. Your work was simple, and so was your life.

As you walked along the corridors after finishing your task of cleaning the captain of the guard's quarters, an unusual sound, discordant and out of place shattered the serenity. You found yourself moving toward the source of the disturbance.

As you neared the far end of the corridor, the sound grew louder, and you realized it was not just any commotion. Someone was being admitted into the palace, and by the sounds of it, they were in a grave state. You crept closer, making out the forms of several healers, all familiar to you, and then—your breath caught—the King himself stood among them. Beside him was Lord Elrond, his face set in grim determination.

But what held your attention was the agonizing wails coming from the body they were carrying into a room. The sounds were bloodcurdling, primal—so raw and piercing the air with such intensity that you instinctively covered your ears, desperate to muffle the worst of it.

"Elrond.” The King’s voice boomed. “Is there any hope?"

"There is," Lord Elrond replied. "There is nothing to suggest he will not live through this."

"But these injuries? They are the worst I have seen in my long life. Dragon fire, Elrond? There is nothing left of him—he does not even resemble my son." Oropher's voice cracked.

His son? The realization hit you like a blow. The elf in such agony was Thranduil!

Suddenly, Oropher’s gaze fell upon you. His eyes were wild with desperation as he shouted,“Fetch some towels, quickly!”

You obeyed, rushing to gather them. When you returned, your breath caught in your throat as you caught sight of Thranduil. Blood oozed from every part of his body and the sight was almost too much to bear, and yet you could not tear your eyes away. This was not the proud, regal prince you had known; this was a broken, bleeding elf, teetering on the edge of life and death.