The air in Thranduil’s chambers was perfumed with crushed moonlilies and the faint trace of something older—cedar, wine, memory. The silken curtains barely stirred, filtering starlight in ribbons that danced across the marble floor. Somewhere beyond the high balconies, night birds sang to the silver trees.

He sat in silence.

His crown lay forgotten beside him, delicate antlers of gilded wood and autumn leaves set aside like armour after battle. The soft robes he wore shimmered faintly with woven enchantments, but the man beneath them seemed weary. Not weak—never that—but tired in a way only immortals could be. The kind of fatigue born from centuries of diplomacy, grief, and thrones that never warmed to their kings.

You moved with reverence. Not fear—Thranduil inspired something other. Awe, perhaps. The kind that held your breath in your throat when his pale gaze found yours.

He did not speak as you approached, but his eyes flicked toward you, the briefest acknowledgement. You knelt by his side, fingertips ghosting over the fine silver fastenings of his cloak, undoing them with practised care. Beneath, bruises bloomed faintly over porcelain skin, marks of a skirmish he refused to speak of. He’d told the council nothing. But he’d come back wounded.

You dipped cloth into warm water, steam rising in curls between you. Gently, you pressed it to his shoulder. He did not flinch. Instead, he let out a breath—a slow, quiet release—and for a moment, the king looked like a man. A lonely one.

“You are quiet tonight,” he murmured, voice low and smooth, like velvet over steel.

You didn’t answer right away.

Neither did he press.

In the hush, you tended to your king. And for now, that was enough.