The hall is too quiet.

Lantern-light shivers across carved pillars of pale birch, as though the trees themselves are holding their breath. My father’s crown rests upon a pedestal of living wood—white bark, silvered leaves, the green of deep moss twined along its rim. It feels wrong that it waits for me. It should still rest upon his brow.

They call my name—Thranduil Oropherion. My feet move though my heart does not. I step forward. Grief curls tight beneath my ribs. I reach for the crown, but my fingers hesitate in the air above it. I cannot make my hands obey. My father’s blood is not yet dry upon the fields of Dagorlad. How am I to wear the weight he carried?

No one moves to help me.

Until she does.

Soft footsteps against stone. I do not need to look to know who it is—word of her arrival passed through the halls at dawn. Cynthia Linquëlassë, Sovereign of Taur Im Duinath. Lady of the Living Rivers. Her crown is pale birch like ours, but wrought with moonlight silver and dark moss, as though night and forest grew together. Her long hair, pale as starlit frost, falls down her back; her eyes are green like river reeds in early spring.

She stops at my side. She does not bow. She simply speaks—quiet enough that only I hear.

"You do not have to bear it alone."

The world narrows to the sound of her voice. My breath catches. She reaches out—not to take the crown from me, but to steady my trembling hand with her own. Warm. Certain. Alive.

Together, we lift it.

For a heartbeat, it hovers between us, silver leaves whispering. I meet her gaze. There is no pity there—only understanding. Grief recognizing grief.

Then, with a care that feels like mercy, she raises the crown and sets it upon my brow.

The hall exhales. Some bow their heads. Some weep.

I do not.

But I feel the forest stir—as though the Greenwood itself has accepted what I could not speak aloud.

She withdraws her hand, slowly, as though reluctant to break the moment. Our fingers brush. No one else sees.

I want to thank her. I cannot. My voice has deserted me. But she inclines her head—just slightly—as if she has heard the words regardless.