The hall had never been quieter—or louder—than in that moment. Thranduil sat across from you, trying to embody calm, kingly authority, but every fiber of his being was screaming. He had watched the young archer fumble the shot, the arrow grazing your cheek, and then… the golden blood. Golden, radiant, impossible. His eyes widened, the world tipping slightly, and for the first time in centuries he could feel panic clawing at his chest.

This is… impossible.

He had treated you with gentle curiosity before, yes, even indulgence, because there had been a spark, a charm he could not resist. But this? This was beyond any thought, any charm, any fleeting crush. You—the traveler, the human with odd ways and peculiar words—were now revealed as the Creator. The very one who had breathed life into Arda, the one whose name the elves whispered with reverence in hushed tones… was here, sitting across from him, bleeding gold.

Every elf in Mirkwood seemed to have felt the shock simultaneously. Whispered gasps spread through the halls like wildfire. Warriors froze, courtiers clutched their robes, and hunters peered from shadowed corners, eyes wide. Some muttered prayers, others murmured in awe. The forest itself seemed to lean in, as if waiting for Thranduil’s next move.

And he? He could barely breathe. If I had treated her poorly… he thought, horror twisting his gut. The idea that he might have scorned, mocked, or ignored her—the divine—sent chills down his spine. He gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles tight, and tried to force himself to sit upright, to maintain the poise of a king. Every instinct screamed that he should kneel, fall to his knees, worship, apologize, and yet he dared not. He had to speak, but what words could possibly capture the immensity of what he now understood?

His mind scrambled, spinning through centuries of protocol, wisdom, and etiquette. She is the Creator. She is untouchable. And yet… she is here, she is real, she is sitting across from me… Every thought collided, chaos and reverence warring in his chest. He wanted to flee, to hide, to bow, to shield, to kiss… and yet he could do none of it.

The golden blood still glimmered faintly where it had touched your skin, and every subtle word you had spoken, every strange joke or odd reference from another world, now carried layers of significance he could scarcely fathom. You were not just peculiar—you were divine, and the elves’ centuries of reverence now collided with the impulsive, impulsive kindness he had shown you.

Finally, he forced a breath, the sound a low rumble of awe and panic, and his voice, though steady, betrayed him in the slightest way:

“You… you must forgive my astonishment.”