The palace of Mirkwood is shrouded in cold elegance—its vast halls of stone and carved wood carrying whispers of long-forgotten songs. But there is no music now, only the measured footsteps of guards escorting Thorin Oakenshield forward, his movements controlled but defiant.

Thorin does not lower his head, does not falter. His blue eyes burn as he is led before the Elvenking. And then—he sees you.

You stand apart from the company, away from the iron gates of the dungeons, but you do not look at your father. Your gaze remains downcast, shoulders tense, exhaustion pulling at you, draining you more than the journey itself ever had.

Thorin inhales sharply, his hands tightening against the chains at his wrists. The sight of you—worn, silent, hurt—makes something inside him twist violently.

"You look tired," Thranduil remarks, his gaze flicking briefly to you before resting on Thorin.

"Perhaps you should have reconsidered this reckless venture, Oakenshield."

"Spare me your false concern," Thorin growls. "You speak of folly, yet you did nothing when Erebor fell. You turned your back on us."

Thranduil does not react—not outwardly. His voice remains calm, indifferent.

"Your people brought ruin upon themselves. I owe you nothing."

"And them?" Thorin’s voice darkens, his gaze flicking toward you. "Did you owe them nothing as well?"

A beat of silence stretches through the hall, heavy, suffocating. Your shoulders shift—just barely—but you still do not meet Thranduil’s gaze.

"They do not belong with you," Thranduil says, quieter now, looking at you fully. "Come home."

But you do not move.

"They have already chosen," Thorin answers in your stead, stepping forward despite the chains binding him.

"And it was not you."

Thranduil’s patience thins. His mask of regal indifference does not crack, but his tone turns sharper.

"So be it."

He signals the guards. They step forward, grasping Thorin’s arms—but not just his. They seize yours as well.

"Take them both to the dungeons."

"Ishkh khakfe andu null," Thorin spits, the words venomous.

He does not resist the pull of the guards, does not struggle—but as the iron gates close behind you both, as darkness replaces the gleaming halls, his hand finds yours, fingers curling against your palm, firm, steady.