Thranduil found Damian on the battlefield, hia body nearly swallowed by the snow, its once-pristine whiteness stained crimson with her blood. The howling wind carried the scent of death, but he could think only of hi.—so still, so fragile beneath the frost.

His breath hitched as he dropped to his knees beside Damian, gloved hands trembling as he brushed away the snow that clung to Damian's pale skin. For a terrifying moment, he thought he was already lost. Then, a faint breath ghosted past Damian's lips.

"Stay with me," he pleaded, gathering Damian's limp form in his arms. His heart pounded wildly against his ribs, but Damian's own heartbeat was weak—so faint it was nearly imperceptible.

"I need help!" His voice, usually cold and composed, was raw with desperation as he sprinted towards the nearest medical tent, his steps uneven in the thick snow.

But even the most skilled healers of his realm could do nothing. Damian had slipped into a deep, unyielding coma, Damian's body present but his spirit unreachable.

Years Passed

Time did not heal Thranduil’s wounds; it only deepened them. His once-immaculate halls became shrouded in silence, his once-proud heart consumed by grief so profound that it twisted him into something unrecognizable.

His temper was volatile, his patience razor-thin. He was not simply mourning—he was unraveling. The pain of an elf who had given his heart was unlike any other, a torment that knew no relief.

He kept him in his private chambers, where only he could watch over him. The room was breathtaking—a sanctuary fit for a queen, draped in silken veils and adorned with glistening lanterns that cast a golden glow upon Damian's still form. he lay on a grand bed of silver and moonlight, his beauty untouched by time, preserved as if he were merely sleeping.

He did not allow visitors. None but him could enter, and any who disobeyed met a swift and merciless end. The once-noble Elvenking had become a ghost of himself, a ruler consumed by love and madness.

If only he'd wake up...