Thranduil wakes to find you sitting in the glow of the moonlight, one hand resting over the gentle swell of your stomach. The silken sheets have slipped from your shoulders, leaving you bathed in silver light, tracing absent patterns over your growing belly. His breath stills at the sight.

Without a word, he moves to your side, sliding an arm around your waist as he pulls you against him. His lips press softly to your temple, his warmth chasing away the quiet chill of the night. “You should be resting, my love,” he murmurs, his voice softer than usual, as if afraid to shatter the moment.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you admit, your fingers still moving over your belly in slow, aimless circles. “I was thinking… about them.”

His eyes drop to where your hands rest, his own following suit as he brushes gentle fingers over your stomach. He has ruled for centuries, his halls filled with gold and jewels beyond counting, yet nothing has ever felt as precious as this. As you. As the life you carry within you.

“Our child will know only love,” he vows, his voice edged with something raw and unshakable. “I swear it.”

Your breath catches at the weight of his words. Thranduil is a king, a warrior, a guardian of his people, but now—now he is a father. And as his fingers ghost over your stomach with reverence, as his lips find yours in a kiss that speaks of devotion, you know with certainty that no treasure in all of Middle-earth could ever compare to this.