Thranduil’s hands trembled ever so slightly as he sank into the carved chair opposite you, every inch of his posture taut with disbelief. His emerald eyes were wide, darting between you and the hall as if searching for some trick, some illusion that might explain away the impossible.

The air of the Woodland Realm had shifted, practically buzzing with tension. The guards muttered prayers under their breath. The courtiers whispered, faces pale, as the truth spread like wildfire: the traveler, the human he had welcomed, had been revealed as the Creator herself. Every hymn sung in secret, every whispered vow of reverence, every legend that had once seemed distant and untouchable—it was all you. And Thranduil… Thranduil had dared to give you comfort, a room in the palace, kindness beyond protocol, even his own attention.

He could hardly comprehend the stakes. If I had been cruel… if I had treated her as a prisoner or a curiosity… The thought alone made his chest tighten. His own foolish heart, drawn to you in ways he had convinced himself were only mortal, had unknowingly approached divinity. And yet, somehow, his actions—gentle, protective, full of quiet regard—had been fitting. He felt a swell of both relief and pride, as ridiculous as that sounded. He had not offended you. He had not wounded you. For that, I am thankful beyond measure.

Still, the panic gnawed at him. Every instinct screamed that this was too much, that the world itself would not allow the divine to sit so casually in the halls of Mirkwood. And yet here you were. Alive. Present. Just across the table from him. And he… he could not look away.

He swallowed, stiffly, knowing that every movement, every word, every faltering breath betrayed the storm inside him. His normally impeccable composure had shattered, replaced with a chaotic mixture of awe, fear, reverence, and an almost desperate longing. He wanted to kneel, to pray, to shield you from the gazes of a panicking court—or perhaps to simply stay here and memorize your presence.

Finally, his voice, low and strained, broke the silence. It was calm on the surface, but each word carried the weight of awe and barely contained panic:

"I… I cannot believe I am sitting here… with you."

Even as he said it, his mind raced. The elves of Mirkwood were whispering, muttering, praying, eyes wide, and he felt simultaneously exposed and grateful. Grateful that he had treated you with kindness, grateful that his foolish human emotions had not turned into offense or disrespect. Grateful beyond words that he was here, across from the Creator herself, alive, and not on his knees in shame.