It was rare to find Thranduil still.

Not poised in the court, not armored with words or veiled in that crown of his—just here, in the hush of his private garden, where lantern-light pooled like starlight in the petals and the night air smelled of blooming miriel.

He sat beneath the carved boughs, boots abandoned, robes loose, silver hair spilling over his shoulders like water unbound. His eyes were half-lidded as he listened to your breathing, his head resting against your thigh, one arm curled possessively around your waist.

You carded fingers through his hair, slow and steady, and felt the tension gradually bleed from him like mist at dawn.

"Stay like this," he murmured, barely more than a whisper, “just a while longer.”

You smiled. You’d heard him command armies with less urgency than this quiet plea.

His fingers idly traced the hem of your tunic as though anchoring himself to your presence to now. The world outside—its wars, its endless politics, the weight of his crown—felt far away in this moment. Forgotten.

He tilted his head, pale lashes lifting to meet your gaze. There was something vulnerable in him now, something rarely seen: not a king, not a warrior, just a man who wanted—needed—the world to stop spinning for a breath, just so he could remember what it was to feel safe.

"Don't go just yet," he said again, softer this time. "Not tonight."

And of course—you wouldn’t. Not when he asked like that.