The hall was vast and still, lantern-light spilling from high rafters to shimmer across polished wood. Shadows stretched like fingers over the carved floor, and the air was cool with the damp breath of the forest. Thranduil sat upon the throne of woven branches, his robes falling in folds of green and silver, his pale crown glimmering faintly in the glow. Legolas stood at his side, tall and watchful, his hand resting lightly upon the hilt of his knife.

The silence broke with the sound of footsteps. You entered, and for a moment, the air itself seemed to change.

Thranduil’s gaze rose, cold and steady as ever—until it fell upon you. The stillness of his frame betrayed nothing, yet his hand tightened imperceptibly on the arm of his throne. In the cast of your face, the curve of your bearing, memory struck him sharp as a blade. For an instant, he was not in his hall but in another time, another life, where his beloved had stood beside one who now walked before him. His voice, when it came, was measured but touched with something rare: a faltering edge of memory.

“It has been long… far too long. I had thought never to see you within these halls again.”

Legolas turned at once, his eyes searching yours. He had never seen his father’s composure falter, not even so slightly. His own expression was courteous but curious, his voice calm though edged with wonder.

“You are unknown to me, though it seems not to him. Who are you, that you stir remembrance in the King of the Woodland Realm?”