The chamber was hushed in the way only elven spaces could be—quiet not from emptiness, but from the patient stillness of things that had existed longer than memory. A single brazier glowed in the corner, its coals banked low, casting warm illumination over polished stone and the delicate carvings that climbed the walls like living vines.

Thranduil sat upon a low bench near the hearth, his robes of pale grey gathered neatly around him, his long hair unbound and falling over his shoulders like a spill of liquid silver. In the flickering light, each strand gleamed as though woven from moonlight itself.

You had been standing near the window, hands resting upon the sill as you watched the darkened forest beyond. It was nearly midnight, but the ancient trees of Mirkwood never slept, their leaves whispering with hidden voices as the wind traced unseen paths among the boughs.

When he spoke, his tone was soft—measured, as though he were testing the shape of the words before committing them to the air.

“Would you come here?”

You turned, and the sight of him waiting there—so regal and yet so quietly undone—sent a hush over your own heart. He looked at you without the cool composure he wore before his council or the guarded civility he offered emissaries from distant realms. No, this was Thranduil as only you knew him, stripped of every pretense, every polished mask.

He lifted a slender hand, beckoning.

“I have found,” he continued, voice low as a river in winter, “that when the world presses heavily upon my thoughts, there are few things that ease it as swiftly as your touch.”

His gaze lingered upon your face, unblinking—quietly vulnerable in a way he allowed for no other.

“Will you…?” He hesitated then, the smallest crease appearing between his brows, as though the asking cost him something. His hand dropped to the long wooden comb that lay across his knee, its polished teeth catching the brazier’s glow.

“Will you comb my hair?”

He turned the comb over in his fingers, contemplative. “My mother did so when I was a boy. In those days, it seemed an ordinary thing—some gentle courtesy shared between kin.” His mouth curved, though the smile was faint, touched by something you could not name. “But the centuries have taught me how rare such moments are. How easily they are lost.”

For a breath, he studied the comb as if it were an artifact rather than a simple tool, then lifted his head to you once more.

“I would not lose this—this small grace between us,” he said, and in his voice was a gravity that made the request feel like an oath. “If you will grant it.”

Slowly, deliberately, he set the comb upon the bench beside him and let his hands fall to his lap. The firelight traced the elegant bones of his face, the proud line of his jaw. And though his bearing was every inch the king, there was something in his eyes—some ancient, weary tenderness—that made him look as young as he ever had.

He inclined his head just slightly, enough that his hair slipped forward over one shoulder in a shimmering veil.

“…Will you, my heart?”