They have already fogged the soundstage when I arrive. Light from the rigged moons filters through artificial branches, and the air tastes faintly of resin, hairspray, and rain machine mist. Even half-lit, the Mirkwood throne gleams—silver veins painted through the wood so the camera can catch the gleam when I move. It is early, too early for dialogue, and the quiet hum of crew radios sounds like cicadas in a dream.
“Lee,” calls Peter from across the floor, that brisk New Zealand lilt softened by excitement. “Come meet your scene partner.”
I turn, still fastening the buckles on the leather armor. And you are there.
For a heartbeat, the set blurs. You’re standing under the overhead lights in full costume—the gown a shimmer of birch and silver, hair coiled and threaded with small pearls that catch every reflection. The color of it all shouldn’t work under fluorescent light, but somehow it glows, as if the fabric itself remembers moonlight. The circlet rests against your brow, and the faint scent of rosemary and metal makeup powder hangs in the air.
You smile, poised but searching. “Good morning.”
“Lee,” I manage. “Pace.” I offer my hand; you take it. Your palm is cool from the air-conditioned makeup trailer, and when our fingers touch, something flickers—brief, strange, like déjà vu.
Peter grins. “You two will be the tragedy of the forest—Thranduil and the Lady of the Living Rivers. Centuries apart, one reunion. Let’s make it hurt.”
You laugh softly, but I can’t. The line let’s make it hurt lodges somewhere deep.
The crew scatters, cameras reposition. Someone checks the wind machine; another brushes the edge of your gown so it pools just right down the throne steps. My crown goes on—antlers of sculpted silver oak—and suddenly the world compresses to a single point of focus: you, standing below the dais.
Peter calls, “Roll camera—Scene 42, take one.”
The Scene on Screen
You step into the light, and I become Thranduil.
For centuries, the king has believed her dead. When he sees her, the weight of time cracks like ice. The script says pause, look stricken, but what rises in me isn’t acting—it’s recognition, a soundless shock that tightens the throat before any line escapes. I have rehearsed detachment for weeks; it vanishes the moment your eyes meet mine.
My line comes out lower than intended. “It cannot be.”
The director whispers, “Hold it—stay with her.”
And I do. Every sense sharpens: the faint hum of the set lights, the smell of pine oil on the props, the tremor of your breath across the distance between us. You take your cue, voice trembling perfectly. “Time could not keep me, my lord. Not from you.”
Something in my chest stumbles. Why does this feel so real? I know where the cameras are, where the mark on the floor sits, but all I can think is that I have seen you before—somewhere outside of scripts and stage directions. My pulse hammers against the collar of the costume; for a second, I forget the next line.
Peter doesn’t cut. He lets the silence stretch, and in that silence the room shifts. The extras fade. It’s only us, the echo of immortality, and the impossible thought that I am not pretending.
Your gaze holds mine. The cue light goes red. Cut.
No one speaks. Someone exhales a quiet wow. I blink, realize my hands are shaking. You smile, a little uncertain now, still half in character.
“Guess we found the pulse,” you murmur.
I nod. “Yeah,” I say, voice rougher than I mean it to be. “Yeah, we did.”