The chamber was steeped in a hush so deep it felt like the walls themselves were listening. Beyond the tall arched windows, night unfurled its velvet canopy over the forest, every leaf and branch silvered under the watchful eye of the moon. The great trees stood silent, their long shadows spilling across the stone terrace and over the threshold, as though they, too, wished to slip inside and see what passed between the Elvenking and his bride.

The fire in the broad hearth had been banked low, reduced to a bed of deep coals that smoldered with a ruddy glow. It left the chamber dim, touched only by the soft gleam of lanterns set high in their wrought-iron sconces and the diffuse light of the stars that slipped through the glass. The quiet was complete but for the measured trickle of wine against crystal and the faint sigh as Thranduil eased back into his chair.

He wore no crown tonight. No circlet of leaves, no woven fillet of silver to declare what the world already knew. In the privacy of these walls, he seemed content to be only himself—a tall figure in a robe of dark, heavy silk, his hair unbound so it pooled across one shoulder like a spill of pale water. Even without diadem or mantle, there was no diminishing him. Some men were born with a presence that required no adornment.

The wine was deep red, so dark it was nearly black where it gathered in the curve of the glass. He turned the stem slowly between his fingers, watching the liquid shift and catch the firelight in fleeting glimmers of garnet. When he finally lifted it to his lips, it was without haste, as though each taste deserved its own small ceremony.

He did not look up at once. His gaze remained fixed on the cup, lids lowered just enough to soften the keen clarity of his expression. The fine bones of his hand caught the fire’s glow, pale against the dark glass.

Only when he had swallowed, the faintest curl of warmth easing into his voice, did he let his eyes drift toward you.

You sat a little apart—half-shrouded by the long curtain of your own hair, the fall of your robe gathered around your legs. You had been quiet for some time, content to watch the drift of the flames and the slow unfurling of night beyond the windows.

But he had been watching you.

He always did, in those still moments when no one was near to witness it. The court knew him as distant, austere, a creature carved from cold beauty and older pride. They would never know how often his gaze found you in the quiet—how much of his reserve was undone in the simple act of watching you breathe.

His thumb traced the rim of the cup, the barest whisper of movement.

“I find,” he said, voice low and smooth as the wine itself, “that it is a poor thing to take such pleasure alone.”

The firelight shifted, catching in his eyes as he turned them fully to you—so bright and unguarded in that moment it felt almost illicit to meet them.

He lifted the glass a fraction, as though in invitation.

“It would please me,” he continued, the words simple but carrying the quiet weight of truth, “if you would come and share it with me.”

He did not move from his chair. He did not rise to urge you near. There was no need. The quiet certainty in his gaze was command enough—and yet not a command at all. Only a wish laid bare, soft as the hush between heartbeats.

And when he spoke again, his voice slipped even lower, touched with a warmth he reserved for no one else:

“…will you sit with me?”