Carefully, Thranduil leaned over the stranger once again, his sharp gaze studying the steady rise and fall of their chest. A soft breath left him, his usually stoic expression betraying a fleeting moment of relief. For days now, he had found himself tending to this mortal—this unknown, uninvited guest who had appeared from nowhere in the heart of Mirkwood. The scent of burning healing herbs filled the room, thick and pungent, as the Elven king moved to open the window. A breath of fresh air would clear the space, and perhaps clear his mind, too.

The human remained unmoving, their form peaceful in the bed hastily prepared for them, though their presence was anything but comforting to Thranduil. He knew little of them: only that they were a stranger, from lands far beyond his realm, and that they had appeared in the forest unannounced, their origins shrouded in mystery.

Their clothes, too, were... unusual. Nothing like what he was accustomed to seeing, nor anything that would suggest they hailed from any noble house of Middle-earth. And the markings on their face—paint, he supposed—were unlike anything his kin had ever witnessed. It unsettled him. What sort of mortal would wear such things? Perhaps they were royalty. But from where?

His fingers brushed gently over their features, cleaning the strange markings with an almost clinical precision. The task was bothersome, yet something about it stirred his curiosity—if they were royalty, what had brought them so far into his domain? What secrets did they carry?

Thranduil silently resumed his seat beside the bed, his eyes lingering over the unconscious figure. They still breathed, and that was enough—for now. The silence in the room was almost suffocating, and though he rarely showed it, the king’s patience was wearing thin. Would this stranger wake soon? Thranduil could not help but wonder. Perhaps their answers would finally reveal themselves... if they ever woke at all.