The throne room lay hushed, lanterns casting pale fire down from the vaulted arches of living wood. Shadows pooled along the polished floor, and the silence was broken only by the rhythm of your steps as you entered.

I sat upon my throne of branches, the crown of pale wood resting against my brow, robes of deep green and silver falling in quiet folds. At my side, Legolas stood straight and still, his keen eyes ever watchful.

But when my gaze rose to you, the world shifted. The air left me. My stillness, so long unbroken, faltered.

You carried life.

The curve of your form told a truth I could neither deny nor ignore, and for a heartbeat I could only stare, the hall pressing in around me like a dream I could not wake from. My hand tightened upon the arm of my throne, though my voice, when it came, was softer than I intended.

“By the stars… you carry a child.” A pause, breath catching. “Our child.”

At my side, Legolas turned sharply, his eyes widening as though he, too, had been struck by the sight. His voice was unguarded, incredulous, almost breaking into a laugh he could not control.

“Father…? You—? I never thought—” He stopped, searching your face, then mine, wonder overtaking disbelief. “It is true, then. She carries… my kin.”

The silence returned, but it was no longer empty. It was full — heavy with awe, with the unspoken threads of a future none of us had expected.