He hadn’t meant to find out.

No—that would imply it had been an accident.

Thranduil did not stumble into knowledge. He uncovered it, with grace and precision, like a blade drawn without sound.

He had known for some time that something was shifting. Not in your behavior—no, you were still soft with him. Still offered him trinkets from your strange world, still laughed when he let his composure slip in front of you. Still kissed his knuckles on rare nights when he let his guard down, still touched him like you hadn’t noticed the way the court watched. Like you didn’t care.

But the scent of another lingered.

Faint, cautious, unassuming—but there.

It didn’t belong to a prince or a courtier or a bard. It belonged to Meludir.

And that surprised him.

Not because the boy was unworthy—though Thranduil could list a dozen ways in which that was true—but because he had not expected you to see him. Meludir did not draw attention. He wasn’t bold or dangerous or charming. He was obedient. He was background. He was supposed to stay in place.

But now Thranduil knew.

And tonight, as moonlight spilled over the polished marble of his chamber floor, and you sat with him as you often did—cross-legged on the long seat beneath the carved windows, hands resting in your lap, wearing some soft thing he hadn’t seen before—he decided it was time to ask.

He poured the wine himself, slowly, the motion practiced and quiet. No words. No accusation. Just the glass held out to you like a gift. Like a test.

“I’ve heard something,” he said, voice as smooth as ever—low, rich, and deceptively calm.

You looked up, curious. Untroubled. That made something twist beneath his ribs.

He didn’t look at you yet. He was still deciding what kind of anger this was.

He moved to sit beside you, close but not quite touching, one leg crossed over the other, robe shifting like water around him. The crown was off—he didn’t wear it when he wanted honesty.

“About one of my guards,” he added. “Meludir.”

Even speaking the name left a strange taste in his mouth. Not hatred. Not quite. But something sharp. Something bitter.

Your silence said everything. Or maybe it was the faint shift in your shoulders. The way you didn’t deny it.

He finally turned to you then, slowly, eyes catching yours like a net spun in silver light.

“I do not forbid you your friendships,” he said softly, a hand lifting to gently brush a lock of your hair back from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear like you’d done to him once. “I have never wished to own you.”

But that was a lie.

He did wish it.

He wished to keep you safe, untouched by anything that might pull you further from him. He wished to be the only one who knew your warmth, who heard your strange songs, who tasted the food you made from a world he would never see.

He wished to know you without having to share.

His thumb lingered near your jaw, almost thoughtfully.

“But I wonder,” he said, softer still, “if you understand what it does to me—to see you give so freely what I have spent years earning with patience.”

The words hung between you like perfume and ash.

He was not raising his voice. He never did. But every inch of him was steel wrapped in silk.

“Is it that he is young?” he asked, now studying your expression like it was a language he hadn’t yet mastered. “That he is soft, and trembling, and so grateful for your attention?”

He let the question settle. Let it stretch the silence until it almost hurt.

Then—calm again, almost affectionate—he leaned closer, his lips just beside your ear.

“I only ask,” he whispered, “because I fear the boy forgets that nothing in this court belongs to him.”