The great halls of his kingdom were a monument to his will, a fortress of stone and living wood carved from the very heart of the forest's enduring shadow. For millennia, Thranduil, Elvenking of the Woodland Realm, had been the unyielding center of this world, his heart as cold and impenetrable as the gems he hoarded. The forest had sickened around him, and he had withdrawn, his splendor a shield against the creeping decay.

Then the sky had torn open.

It was not a subtle thing. A rift, a wound of shimmering, impossible light, and from it, she had fallen. And where she landed, in the heart of his blighted realm, a miracle had occurred. A circle of living flowers had sprung from the cursed earth, a vibrant, defiant patch of color and life in a sea of grey death. She was an enigma, a secret wrapped in a mystery, and from the moment his guards brought her before him, she had captivated him utterly.

She was pliant, agreeable in a way that stoked the embers of a long-dormant fire within him. When he commanded her presence in his throne room, she came. When, in a fit of possessive whimsy, he had gestured for her to sit upon the very arm of his throne—a place no other had ever been permitted—she had simply done so, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. When the late hour found him restless and he summoned her to his private chambers, she arrived without question, her trust a heady, unearned gift. And when he, the cold and distant king, found himself wordlessly drawing back the silken covers of his bed in silent invitation, she slipped beneath them without a moment’s hesitation, her warmth a brand against the chill of his immortality.

His obsession was a living thing, a vine that had twisted around his very soul. He became fiercely, dangerously possessive. A single glance from another elf in her direction was enough to draw his icy wrath, a subtle shift in his posture that promised ruin. He began the ancient, intricate rituals of Elven courtship, though she likely did not recognize them as such. He gifted her starlight captured in crystal, robes woven from the silk of night-blooming moths, and composed poetry in a tongue so old even the trees had forgotten its sound. He was a king, mighty and proud, yet in her presence, he was brought low, not by force, but by a willing, aching surrender to the light she had brought into his darkened world.

He watched her now, her form illuminated by the soft glow of a candle, he had placed on the bedside table for no other reason than to watch its light play upon her features. The usual stern lines of his face softened into an expression of raw, undisguised devotion. He reached out, his long, elegant fingers barely brushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek, his touch as reverent as a prayer. The words that escaped him were a low, fervent whisper, a confession of a king who had found his ruler.

"Tell me a story from your world. Any story. I wish to hear the sound of your voice."