CW: reader is an elf, arranged marriage, mentions of death, angst
WC: 3k
A/N: Lee Pace is my hyper fixation atm😭
The first thing you notice about Mirkwood is how old it feels.
Not just old in years, but old in memory. The trees rise like dark pillars, their branches woven together so tightly that the light has to fight to reach the forest floor. Shadows stretch long and deep between roots that look like they have been there since the world was young. The air smells of moss, bark, and something sharper, something like ancient magic and quiet sorrow mixed together.
Your horse moves carefully along the narrow path. Elven guards ride ahead and behind you, silent and alert, their eyes always moving. You sit straight in the saddle, hands folded in your lap, even though your chest feels tight and your stomach twists with nerves.
This is not your home.
This is the place you were sent to for peace.
A marriage written on parchment. A promise sealed with ink, wax, and careful words spoken by people who would never have to live with the weight of it. No one ever talked about love when the agreement was made. Only borders. Only safety. Only survival.
Your land sits in a dangerous place, too close to dark things, too important to be left unguarded. Mirkwood stands in the same shadow. The alliance is meant to protect both realms. A shared border. Shared patrols. A united front.
And you.
You are the symbol of it.
When the gates of the Woodland Realm come into view, carved from stone and roots and skill beyond human hands, your heart starts to beat faster. The great doors open slowly, and your name is announced, your titles echoing through halls that seem carved straight out of the forest itself.
And then you see him.
King Thranduil stands at the top of the steps, tall and still, like he belongs to the stone and the trees and the shadows. His hair is pale gold, falling straight and shining even in the dim light. His crown looks more like silver leaves than a thing meant for war. His face is beautiful in a sharp, distant way, like something carved from ice and sunlight.
His eyes are bright.
And tired.
He looks at you the way someone looks at a duty they have already accepted.
You bow, just as you were taught. He inclines his head in return.
“Welcome to Mirkwood,” he says. His voice is smooth, calm, carefully controlled. “I trust your journey was… safe enough.”
“It was, my lord,” you answer.
For a moment, something sad flickers behind his eyes. It is gone before you can be sure you truly saw it.
“Come,” he says. “We have much to discuss.”
That is how it begins.
Not with warmth. Not with hope. But with maps spread across long tables, with quiet talks about borders and patrol routes and supply lines. You sit across from him in council chambers, surrounded by advisors and captains, speaking when you must and listening when you should.
In public, you stand beside him like a perfect picture of unity.
In private, there is distance.
You are given your own chambers, beautiful and quiet, with windows that look out into the forest. He keeps his own rooms. The court makes no secret of watching you, of judging every step you take, every word you say.
At dinners, Thranduil is always polite. Always respectful. Never unkind.
And never close.
He offers his arm when custom demands it. His hand rests lightly at your back when others are watching. But the touch is careful. Measured. Like he is afraid of something he will not name.
You learn, slowly, through whispers from servants and sad looks from some of the older elves, that he had a wife once.
A queen.
The mother of his son.
She died long ago, but not long enough for the wound to close.
He does not speak of her.
But you feel her absence everywhere. In the way his gaze sometimes drifts to nothing. In the way he never lingers near you when he does not have to. In the way he looks at you like someone standing at the edge of deep water, unsure if he should step in.
You understand, even if it hurts.
You do not push him.
You remind yourself why you are here.
You learn elven customs. You learn which words matter, and which silences matter more. You learn how to walk the halls like you belong, even when you feel like a guest in someone else’s long story.
You sit beside him in court and speak when you must. You listen more than you talk. You do not demand affection. You do not ask for more than he is willing to give.
And when you see that some villages near the borders are poor, frightened, and tired of living under the shadow of raids and dark creatures, you begin to help.
It starts small.
You ask where supplies are kept. You ask which villages need the most help. You go with small groups of guards and bring food, blankets, medicine. You sit with children who have lost parents. You listen to old elves talk about forests that used to be safer, about roads that used to be traveled without fear.
You help clean wounds. You carry water. You kneel in the dirt and do not care that your clothes get stained.
At first, the elves watch you with doubt.
Then, slowly, with something like respect.
One afternoon, you are kneeling beside a small home near the forest’s edge, helping an elderly elf wrap a bandage around his arm, when you feel eyes on you.
You look up.
Thranduil stands a short distance away, his dark cloak blending with the shadows of the trees. His expression is unreadable.
He does not interrupt. He does not speak. He simply watches as you work with careful, gentle hands, as you speak softly, as you treat these people like they matter.
Later, as you ride back toward the halls, he finally says, “You did not have to do that.”
“I wanted to,” you reply simply.
He studies you for a long moment. “Many would not.”
Something changes after that.
Not suddenly. Not in a way you can point to and name. But he begins to ask your thoughts in council meetings. He begins to listen when you speak. When you walk together, his pace matches yours without thinking.
You learn that he works late into the night, often alone, surrounded by maps, reports, and worries he does not share easily.
One night, unable to sleep, you find yourself walking the quiet halls. Light spills from beneath the door to his study.
You hesitate.
Then you knock.
“Enter,” his voice calls.
He looks up when you step inside, surprise flickering across his face before he hides it.
“Y/N,” he says. “Is something wrong?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” you admit. “And I saw the light.”
He gestures to a chair. “Sit, if you wish.”
You do.
Maps cover his desk. Borders marked. Villages circled. Lines drawn and redrawn.
“You carry all of this alone,” you say quietly.
He stiffens. “It is my duty.”
“It doesn’t have to be only yours.”
He looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a moment the mask slips. You see the tired king. The grieving husband. The man who has been holding himself together for far too long.
He says nothing.
But he does not tell you to leave.
The weeks pass.
You begin riding out with patrols. You visit villages together. You speak to allies. You argue, quietly, about how much risk each realm should take for the other.
“You are too cautious,” you tell him one evening, standing over a map.
“And you are too willing to place yourself in danger,” he replies.
“Someone has to show them we care.”
He looks at you for a long moment. “That is what frightens me.”
One night, during a formal dinner, a visiting elf lord takes the seat beside you. He is charming, too charming. He laughs easily. Compliments you too freely. Leans a little too close.
You remain polite. Nothing more.
But you notice Thranduil watching from across the table.
His jaw tightens. His gaze follows every word, every small smile. When the elf takes your hand and kisses your knuckles, Thranduil’s glass cracks in his grip.
Later, in a quiet hall, he stops you.
“Did you enjoy his attention?” he asks, his voice carefully calm.
You blink, surprised. “It was just talk.”
“Was it?” he says too quickly.
You study him. “Why does it matter?”
He looks away. “It shouldn’t.”
But it does.
And you both know it.
The borders grow dangerous again.
Reports come in of dark creatures moving in secret. Villages are attacked. Patrols return wounded.
One day, during a ride near the eastern edge, everything goes wrong.
An ambush.
Shouts. Steel. Shadows moving too fast between the trees.
You see Thranduil fighting, surrounded, his movements sharp and precise but the enemy pressing in too close.
You don’t think.
You run.
You shout a warning. You grab his arm and pull him back just as a blade flashes where he had been standing.
And something hits you hard in the side.
Pain explodes through your body. The world tilts. The forest spins.
You fall.
The next thing you know, light is too bright. Your body feels heavy and sore. The air smells of herbs and clean cloth.
You try to move and regret it immediately.
And then you see him.
Thranduil is sitting beside your bed. He looks pale. His hands are shaking where they rest on the edge of the mattress. His eyes are fixed on you like he is afraid you might disappear if he blinks.
“You could have died,” he says quietly.
“But I didn’t,” you whisper.
His voice breaks. “I would not have survived it. Not again.”
That is when he understands.
Not duty.
Not respect.
Not habit.
Love.
He stays by your side. He helps you drink. He helps you sit up. He argues with healers when they tell him to rest and refuses to leave.
One evening, when the room is quiet and the light is soft, he finally speaks.
“I have been afraid,” he admits. “Afraid to care. Afraid to dishonor her memory. Afraid to lose someone like that again.”
You reach for his hand. “Loving again does not erase what you lost.”
He looks at you like he is standing at the edge of something terrifying and beautiful.
Then without thinking he leans in.
Your first kiss is not gentle.
It is years of fear breaking open. It is need and relief and longing all at once. His hands hold your face like he is afraid you might vanish. Your fingers curl into his robes, pulling him closer.
The world disappears.
When you pull apart, you are both breathing hard, foreheads resting together.
“I love you,” he says, like the words are both a promise and a risk.
“I know,” you whisper. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
The alliance holds. The borders grow quieter. The court whispers, but now they whisper with hope.
One night, in his chambers, he kisses you again. Slower. Deeper. His hands are warm, steady, sure, like he is no longer afraid of what he wants.
The door closes behind you.
And this time, the night is not about duty.
It is about choosing each other.
About finally letting go of fear.
When morning comes, you wake in his arms, the forest quiet outside, and you know this marriage is no longer a contract.
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