It had begun like a dream. Or a hallucination conjured by too many goblets of Dorwinion and too many years spent alone beneath a crown of cold silver.

You had not belonged. That much was clear.

You arrived not by horse, nor bird, nor magic known to Elves—one moment the forest was still, and in the next, you stood beneath its canopy, your clothing strange, your eyes wild, your voice laced with a softness none of them could name. You were mortal, certainly. But not of Middle-earth.

You had dropped into the Greenwood like a star that refused to burn out. And the world, as subtle as it could be in these ages, noticed.

Elves began to linger where you passed. Warriors paused their training. Musicians stumbled in their melody. Even the younger nobles, so long dulled by the weight of eternity, stirred awake like hounds scenting something new. Their attention was constant, like the turning of leaves. Not cruel. Not yet. But unrelenting.

He had known it would happen.

He had seen it.

A single foreign flower in an ancient garden. Of course it would draw every eye.

And so, Thranduil took the only course that felt right—he claimed you.

It was for your safety, he told himself. These woods were no place for a creature so soft. These elves, even his own kin, were not immune to temptation. And you were too gentle to notice their gazes, too kind to question their motives.

But he knew.

Thranduil sat beside you now, in the high-ceilinged hush of his study. The fire crackled low, reflected in the gold-leaf inlay of the walls. Shelves of tomes stretched high above, though he read none of them. Not anymore. His throne was empty tonight. He’d chosen a lower chair, close enough that your shoulder brushed his sleeve when you shifted.

He had brought you here under the pretense of conversation—of wanting your insight into your strange world, your thoughts, your stories. You amused him. Entranced him. The cadence of your speech was unlike any elf or man, and when you spoke, the words felt untamed. Real.

He had never wanted something real so badly.

You were seated next to him, your hands resting quietly in your lap, dressed in the silk robes his court tailor had insisted you wear. They suited you far too well. Every color did. Every style made you look like you belonged at his side. And the court had already begun to murmur as much.

He encouraged the rumors.

They kept others away.

But still, they tried. Still, they lingered when you passed through the halls. They left you gifts—bracelets, fruit, carved tokens. One elf had tried to slip you a poem, hand-penned and far too bold.

Thranduil had the elf reassigned to border patrol by morning.

He would have done worse.

He had considered worse.

You leaned against the arm of the couch now, soft and unguarded, not knowing the madness that stirred beneath the calm of his face. Your proximity warmed his skin. Your presence thinned his patience. And yet he sat still, every muscle finely strung.

He watched you without shame.

“You look well,” he said at last, voice low, measured. The way a wolf might murmur to a dove. “Comfort becomes you.”

You smiled—sweet, trusting, like you didn’t know how tightly he had wound the world around you.

He reached out and adjusted a loose strand of hair near your ear, fingers lingering longer than necessary. The gesture could have been innocent. Could have. But nothing he did with you ever felt that way anymore.

His study was silent again.

There were things he wanted to say. Dark, possessive truths he kept leashed. That he no longer remembered what his halls sounded like without your voice. That every attempt to claim your attention from another made something inside him snarl. That if the Valar themselves asked for you, he would lie to their faces and say you were his.

Instead, he simply murmured: “You shouldn’t answer when they speak to you. It gives them hope.”