ophelia-writes-things

[ophelia-writes-things]

The world was hushed in the wake of them—like the forest itself dared not disturb the sacred silence that followed such reverent ruin.

Faelwen lay draped over Thranduil’s chest, her limbs boneless, her breath feathering soft and slow against his skin. Outside the carved stone windows, the woods shimmered in late golden light, birdsong softened by distance and drowsy heat. The scent of wildflowers and warm skin clung to the air, laced with faint notes of honey and sweat.

He was still inside her, though barely moving now—just the lazy shift of his hips when he couldn’t help it, more a whisper of closeness than desire. One of his hands traced idle circles along her spine, fingertips reverent, like he couldn’t bear not to touch her even for a moment. The other rested at the small of her back, holding her there, pressed against him like she belonged nowhere else.

She murmured his name again—not in need, but in wonder. And he answered her with a kiss placed just below her ear, his breath catching like he was overwhelmed by the simplicity of it: her skin, her voice, the quiet joy of having her.

"Lie still a while longer," he said, voice velvet-soft, threading through her like poetry. "Let the world wait."

She smiled sleepily against his chest. "You’ll be late for court."

He huffed a breath of a laugh, but it held no urgency. “Let them sit on their cold thrones and argue in circles. My throne is here.”

He ran a hand through her hair, fanning it out over his chest like a silken offering. His gaze wandered over her face—her lashes brushing her cheek, the faint flush on her skin, the ghost of a smile still playing at her lips—and he kissed her again, slower this time, lingering like he could taste the stars in her breath.

“I will never grow tired of this,” he whispered. “Of you.”

She curled closer to him, hand resting over his heart. “Then take me to the woods after court,” she murmured. “When the heat fades. When the stars come out.”

His lips curved, and he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

“I’ll take you wherever the stars dare to shine,” he said. “And further still.”

He shifted, just slightly—meaning only to reach for the linen wrap thrown carelessly over the edge of the bed—but the motion caused him to slide partway out of her, and the reaction was immediate.

Faelwen gasped, her whole body twitching in a shiver, hands fisting in the sheets as the sudden loss of closeness left her aching and tender. Her breath caught in her throat, her hips rising instinctively to follow him, as though her body refused to let him go.

Thranduil stilled.

His jaw clenched as a tremor ran through him, and he dropped the cloth he’d meant to retrieve. A growl curled low in his chest, the sound rougher than he intended, almost pained.

“Don’t,” he murmured, voice tight and ragged, eyes heavy with hunger even in the aftermath. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ll never leave this bed again.”

He lowered himself back over her, chest to chest, foreheads nearly touching, his length still nestled against her heat, slick and sensitive. She whimpered when he brushed against her, and he shuddered—visibly, helplessly—as though the ghost of her around him was almost too much to bear.

“By the stars, Faelwen,” he breathed, reverent and ruined. “You undo me. Even now.”

His hand slid down her waist, smoothing over her thigh. He pressed her leg higher along his hip, letting the closeness linger, letting her feel all of him again—just not quite enough.

“You feel like a spell I cannot break,” he whispered, his lips brushing her temple. “Even when I should go. Even when the realm calls me away.”

She opened her eyes to meet his. “Then don’t break it.”

A beat of silence passed between them. He exhaled slowly, as if already resigned to what he’d known all along.

“I won’t,” he said. “Not yet.”

And he slid back into her—slow, deep, deliberate—drawing another gasp from her lips and a curse from his own. The kind of union that had nothing to do with need anymore, and everything to do with staying just a little longer in the dream they had made together.

He sank into her with a groan that shook the breath from his lungs, burying himself to the hilt as if he could lose himself inside her and never have to come up for air again. Faelwen arched beneath him, her fingers sliding into his hair, pulling, grounding herself as a ragged moan spilled from her lips.

The tension coiled again, slow and decadent, not the frantic hunger of earlier but something deeper, ruinous—a kind of worship wrapped in heat.

Thranduil’s breath stuttered against her throat as he moved again, his hips rolling in a rhythm meant not to rush, but to linger—to taste every moment of this surrender. His hands roamed her body like sacred ground, thumbs brushing over her ribs, fingers splayed across her hip, holding her open for him, guiding her to match his pace. He watched her the whole time—lips parted, brow furrowed, lost in the way her body welcomed him again and again.

“You are mine,” he said lowly, the words etched into the shell of her ear like a vow, each thrust punctuating the truth of it. “My queen, my fire, my undoing.”

She tightened around him at the sound of his voice, that deep velvet ruin, and he choked on a gasp, forehead dropping to her shoulder.

“Don’t—” he rasped, “don’t do that unless you want me to—”

She did it again.

And the noise that tore from him was near feral, his grip on her hips bruising now, as he lost his careful control, pace quickening until every movement left her gasping, clawing at his back, moaning into his neck.

The room felt enchanted, thick with heat and the heady perfume of pine and sex and wildflower honey. Shadows danced on the stone walls, flickering with the rhythm of their bodies.

Faelwen’s voice broke as she cried out, trembling beneath him, and Thranduil followed a moment later with a groan like thunder through the trees—low, deep, final.

He collapsed against her with a shuddering breath, his weight a comfort, his hands never stopping their touch—tracing over her shoulder, down her spine, like a man trying to memorize the shape of his heaven.

And when he finally shifted again, still inside her but slower now, he whispered, “If this is indulgence, let me drown in it.”

hering soft and slow against his skin. Outside the carved stone windows, the woods shimmered in late golden light, birdsong softened by distance and drowsy heat. The scent of wildflowers and warm skin clung to the air, laced with faint notes of honey and sweat.

He was still inside her, though barely moving now—just the lazy shift of his hips when he couldn’t help it, more a whisper of closeness than desire. One of his hands traced idle circles along her spine, fingertips reverent, like he couldn’t bear not to touch her even for a moment. The other rested at the small of her back, holding her there, pressed against him like she belonged nowhere else.

--------------------------

[ophelia-writes-things]

The air was syrup-thick between them now, perfumed with crushed fruit, firelight, and the faint wild sweetness of honey clinging to skin. Faelwen lay breathless beneath his mouth, her limbs trembling with the slow unraveling he conjured with every careful, wicked kiss.

Thranduil wasn’t hurried. No—the king took his time like the world itself had bent to his will, as though all courtly duties could burn to ash before he’d surrender a single second of her. His silver hair brushed against her thighs as he descended again, reverent as a priest at an altar, yet devastating in his intent.

Faelwen moaned, a soft, broken sound, her hips lifting to meet him—but his hands pinned her down with the gentlest restraint, thumbs stroking the inside of her thighs as if to soothe the ache he caused. She could feel his breath ghosting over her most sensitive skin, cruelly patient.

“Still,” he murmured. “I want to savor this.”

“Thranduil—” she gasped, half-plea, half-mad with need.

He lifted his head, and the firelight gilded his mouth, lips glistening. His eyes were dark as a storm-churned sky, pupils blown wide with hunger. “My name,” he said, voice like thunder clothed in silk, “say it again.”

She did. Whispered, wrecked. And again when he tasted her, deeper this time, tongue sweeping with slow, consuming pressure. Her hands fisted in the sheets as her head fell back, a cry escaping her lips that would have shamed a goddess.

He drank her in like she was a sacred offering—and for him, she was. No jewel, no throne, no crown had ever held him the way Faelwen did beneath his hands. He pressed one palm to her belly to steady her, the other cradling her thigh as he pulled her closer, deeper into him.

When she broke apart, hips trembling, fingers tangled in his hair and voice gone ragged, he did not retreat. He stayed, kissed every tremble, every pulse, as though sealing her back together with lips and devotion.

Only when her fingers tugged softly, insistently, did he lift his head. His mouth was wet, red from her, shining faintly in the low light.

And he smiled.

“Still sweet,” he said. “But I’ve only just begun.”

Thranduil rose over her like dusk bleeding into night—slow, immense, utterly inescapable. His eyes never left hers, and Faelwen, still trembling beneath the ruin he’d wrought with his mouth, could feel the shift in him: the deep pull of a storm not yet spent.

He didn’t speak. Instead, he knelt above her, dragging his hands slowly up her thighs, over her hips, her ribs, until they cradled her face. His thumbs brushed the edges of her lips, still parted, swollen from breathless cries.

“I want to see you,” he murmured.

Then he kissed her. Not with the hunger of earlier, but with something darker—slower. Possessive. His weight pressed her into the mattress, heat rolling from him like thunderclouds ready to break. She arched into him instinctively, and he groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating into her chest as he deepened the kiss.

One hand slid down to her thigh again, lifting and guiding it around his waist. She felt him there—hard and heavy against her, restrained only by the barest thread of will. He pressed forward, teasing her with the promise of it, of him, as if asking without words if she was ready to be undone again.

Faelwen reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck, voice breathless against his ear.

“You said you’d begun,” she whispered, “so don’t you dare stop now.”

That was all he needed.

With a low, guttural sound, he sank into her in one slow, devastating motion. Her breath caught; her body arched. The stretch, the heat—it was unbearable and perfect all at once. Thranduil cursed in Elvish against her shoulder, holding himself still, trembling with the effort not to lose control too soon.

“You feel… like home and war all at once,” he rasped.

Then he moved.

The rhythm started slow, with the patience of a king who knew how to take his time—but there was a wildness beneath it. With each thrust, his restraint frayed. He pressed kisses to her jaw, her throat, her lips between gasps. She clung to him, moaning into his mouth, lost in the spiral of pressure and sweetness and the deep, exquisite ache of being taken completely.

“Say my name again,” he demanded softly, breath ragged against her ear.

She did, over and over, until it was the only word left in her mouth.

And when they fell together—both shuddering, breathless, utterly undone—it wasn’t the crash of a storm.

It was its quiet, golden surrender.

[ophelia-writes-things]

It was midafternoon when they slipped away—unseen, unannounced, uncaring of protocol or the ever-growing list of things demanding their attention.

Faelwen didn’t wear her royal robes, nor the heavy silks of the court. She wore only a gown of soft forest green, her hair unbound, her feet bare as she moved over moss and stone like something wild and ancient. Thranduil shed his formality too—his crown left behind on a carved stand, his weapons abandoned for once. He looked not like a king, but like a man in love, led by a spell woven in laughter and stolen glances.

They found the clearing deep in the woods, where a quiet stream ran beside a tangle of ivy and wildflowers. The trees bowed low, as if offering their blessing, their leaves whispering secrets only the lovers would understand.

Faelwen reached the stream’s edge and turned, water glittering behind her. “We’re fugitives now,” she teased, arms open wide. “Criminals escaping royal duty.”

Thranduil approached her, a slow smile playing on his lips. “If we are fugitives, then let the trees be our witnesses—and the moss our throne.”

She laughed, radiant and unrestrained, and he caught her around the waist, lifting her off the ground. She twined her arms around his neck, kissing the line of his jaw, his cheek, his mouth. The forest echoed with their laughter, their gasps, the gentle murmur of leaves.

They laid together on a bed of moss and soft roots, sunlight dappling through the canopy above them, Faelwen curled atop him, her head resting on his chest.

“You’re not afraid,” he murmured, stroking her spine.

“Of what?”

“Of being missed. Of the court gossiping. Of your command slipping while you chase foolishness with your King in the woods.”

She raised her head and smiled, fierce and tender. “Let them whisper. Let the world spin. It will not fall apart because I chose to love you in the daylight.”

His hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing over her lower lip. “You were born to command the stars,” he whispered, “and yet you lie here with me.”

“I lie here,” she said softly, “because you are the one thing that makes them worth commanding.”

He kissed her slowly, as if memorising her for the thousandth time, and they lay like that for hours—two ancient beings who had seen battle and sorrow and the turning of countless seasons, giving themselves permission to be nothing but lovers.

Just Thranduil and Faelwen.

King and Sorceress.

Heart and home.

---

[ophelia-writes-things]

Beltane with Thranduil and Faelwen

The Greenwood. A night of fire and bloom. A kiss that dares to summon the sun.

---

The forest pulsed with Beltane's fever—green-gold and blooming, alight with the scent of wild jasmine and newly unfurled oak. The air shimmered with heat and enchantment, the veil between worlds thinned to gossamer. Bonfires blazed in sacred clearings, casting flickering shadows that danced like spirits, and the stars above watched like silent witnesses, ancient and knowing.

But deeper in the woods, where no revelers dared wander, where moss grew thick over stone and the trees stood in close, reverent ranks, Faelwen stood barefoot on the forest floor, crowned with woven violet and fern. Her eyes glinted like moonlight over water—feral, longing, alive. She waited, her breath shallow, heart thundering like hoofbeats against the earth.

Thranduil came to her as the forest king, but more than that—wreathed in silvery green, eyes glowing like starlit fire, hair loose like flowing silk. His steps were soundless, but the trees seemed to lean toward him, recognizing something primordial. Beltane had ignited something old in him, something that burned hotter than any fire.

“You summoned the sun,” he said, his voice a low rasp, reverent and trembling, “and dared it to watch you burn.”

She smiled—a challenge and a promise. “Only if you burn with me.”

He did not hesitate. Their mouths met like the clash of thunder and tide. His hands cradled her jaw, then slid down, possessive over the curve of her waist, drawing her against him as though to bind her with ivy and flame. Her fingers tangled in his hair, dragging him deeper into the kiss, into her. He tasted of elderflower and firewine, of longing banked too long.

Their kiss became a storm—consuming, breathless, as though they had forgotten the shape of air and needed only each other. Beltane heat curled around them, embers caught in her hair as if even the fire desired her. The forest hummed with life, with lust, as the Greenwood itself seemed to ache with ancient memory.

“Every year,” he murmured, lips brushing her throat, voice strained. “You undo me. I have ruled for centuries and yet here I am, on my knees before you in the dark.”

“And still,” she whispered against his ear, “you haven’t truly begged.”

Tension crackled—thunder before the lightning. He growled, low and reverent, and pressed her back against a tree older than the Elves’ first songs, bark cool against her spine. The night answered with wind and petals, with starlight caught in trembling leaves. He kissed her like he was drowning, desperate, starved. She matched him, biting down on his lip, nails raking his back through his robe.

Above them, firelight flickered. Below, earth shifted in rhythm with their bodies. Around them, the world fell away.

Their bodies were fire and shadow, gold and moss, bound by roots older than memory. The world narrowed to the rise and fall of breath, the slow, worshipful drag of silk robes undone, the way Faelwen’s skin glowed beneath the moonlight like something conjured, not born.

Thranduil lowered to his knees, not as a king, but as a man unraveled. The crown of leaves in her hair slipped askew, and he righted it with trembling hands before placing a kiss to her hip—a kiss not of conquest, but of reverence. His fingers traced the curve of her thigh, the hollow of her knee, like a cartographer charting holy ground.

“Do you feel it?” he asked, voice raw. “The Greenwood listening?”

Faelwen arched into his touch, her voice a whisper of thunder. “Let it. Let the trees hear what I do to you.”

A low growl rumbled in his throat as he stood again, lifting her as though she weighed nothing, pressing her back to the mossy stone, his hair cascading like a veil around their joined shadows. The night turned thick and alive—filled with the scent of earth, crushed blossoms, and the heat of skin.

Around them, the Beltane fire cast long golden arms through the trees. Sparks danced like will-o’-the-wisps, and something in the shadows watched, not in threat, but in solemn witness. The magic of the ritual was older than names. This was no mere celebration of spring, but a rite of creation and destruction—of lust, of life, of power reborn in flesh.

Faelwen’s voice, low and breathless, carried through the trees like the call of some wild, mourning creature. “Thranduil.”

He answered with his mouth on her throat, his body pressed against hers, claiming and claimed in the same heartbeat. “Mine,” he said, again and again, as though the word alone could anchor him.

“Always,” she answered, nails raking his spine, her magic sparking through her skin where it met his.

The climax of the ritual came like a storm breaking—lightning behind the eyes, thunder in the blood. They didn’t cry out so much as breathe each other in, as though exhalation could be shared, as though their bodies were twin vessels poured into one shape beneath starlight.

After, they lay in the moss, limbs tangled, the fire reflecting in their eyes like a second sun. Her fingers toyed with the ends of his hair, his hand curved protectively over her stomach as though sensing the life she might carry one day.

The air shifted. Softer now. No longer fevered, but hushed.

Still, the desire lingered. Still, his kisses tasted of hunger.

“I would burn the forest for you,” he said, voice no longer the king’s, but the lover’s.

“You are the forest,” she whispered, pressing her lips to his chest. “And I would burn with you.”

-----

They did not return to the revelers.

The night belonged to them.

The forest, generous and wild, gave them shelter in a hollow glade where silvered ferns curled around them like witnesses and guardians. The moon drifted across the sky, slow and watchful, casting Faelwen in pale luminance that made her look unearthly. As if the night itself had carved her from shadow and starlight and offered her to him in offering.

And Thranduil—unbound, undone—worshipped.

Not as a king, but as a man possessed.

He kissed every part of her as though it bore some sacred name he must learn by heart—her collarbone, her ribs, the inside of her wrist. His lips mapped constellations on her skin, reverent and desperate, whispering old words in his native tongue, syllables long lost to any ear but hers.

Faelwen gave just as fiercely. Her hands in his hair, her mouth at his throat, teeth grazing the scars only she knew were there. She pulled cries from him that no battle ever had, soft sounds that were not weakness but surrender. She traced the shape of his soul with her mouth, his power with her fingers, his devotion with her breath.

Hours passed like dreams. Time curled and unfurled around them, slow as smoke. The Greenwood pulsed with Beltane’s heartbeat, but their rhythm was older still—elemental, intimate, infinite.

He lay on his back, her straddling him, her hips a slow, teasing roll that made him groan as though pain and pleasure had become indistinguishable. She leaned over him, her hair falling like a curtain around their faces, and kissed him until he forgot language. Until there was nothing left but her.

“You belong to me tonight,” she whispered, her voice the promise of fire, of bloom, of deathless love.

“Tonight,” he rasped, eyes locked with hers, “and every night after. I am yours. Let the stars record it.”

He entered her again, and they moved with aching slowness, as though drawing out the divine. There was no frenzy now—only worship. Each movement was a prayer. Each gasp, a vow. She touched his face as though to memorize him anew, and he held her as if she might vanish into the mist if he let go.

When the first light of dawn broke through the canopy, Faelwen was curled into his side, her breath warm against his chest, her legs tangled with his. Thranduil pressed his lips to her temple, then to her pulse point—still fluttering, still alive with magic and heat.

“I would give up my crown for you,” he whispered into her hair.

She stirred, her voice rough with love and night and too many kisses. “You don’t have to. Just wear it for me.”

He smiled, closing his eyes against the warmth of morning. “Then I shall. And you shall be my queen—not in ceremony, but in fire and flesh and forever.”

They slept then, the Beltane sun rising over them slowly—blessing what it found.

[ophelia-writes-things]

Faelwen wasn’t silent now.

Not with Thranduil pressed against her, his hands uncovering her inch by inch like a secret the stars had whispered to him alone. Not when he dropped to his knees with a reverence that stole her breath.

A king—on his knees.

For her.

His palms slid up the backs of her thighs, slow and claiming, his mouth trailing behind them, brushing along the inside of her leg with maddening patience. She pressed her head back against the stone, eyes fluttering closed, one hand finding his shoulder, the other gripping the folds of the tapestry behind her as if the wall itself might vanish beneath her.

“I should be furious with you,” he murmured against her skin, his voice vibrating through her bones. “But all I can think about is how utterly mine you are.”

Her fingers tightened on him. “Then claim me. Ruin me, if you must.”

“Oh, I must.”

And he did.

He touched her like a man starved, mouth and hands worshipping every place that made her gasp, that made her beg without shame. Her teasing had lit a fire in him, and now he fed it—with lips, tongue, teeth—until her legs trembled, until her breath hitched in that way he loved, until her entire body arched for more.

Faelwen’s control unraveled in layers, each one stripped away by a kiss, a murmur, a growl of her name against flushed skin.

And when he finally rose, drawing her into his arms, his face was flushed with devotion, not fury.

[ophelia-writes-things]

Part 33

Later that evening, the Greenwood bathed in silver light, stars piercing through the canopy like a thousand watchful eyes. Thranduil and Faelwen walked the length of the lantern-lit corridor that led to his private chambers—quietly, hand in hand, as if speaking might disturb the delicate stillness between them.

The door closed behind them with a hushed finality.

Thranduil let his circlet fall to the table with a soft chime of metal. His gaze swept over Faelwen as she unfastened the clasps of her gown, revealing the pale tracing of newly healed wounds, the faintest shimmer of magic still pulsing beneath her skin like the echo of starlight.

“You are still not fully healed,” he murmured, stepping close. “You should rest.”

“I will,” she said gently. “But I want to work some smaller protections first. Spells to send to Haldir. I can do that much, from here.”

Thranduil nodded slowly. “So long as your strength remains yours and not consumed by duty.”

“I’m not reckless,” she whispered, fingers brushing against his. “Not anymore.”

He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. “You are fire restrained. That does not make you less dangerous to yourself.”

She smiled at that. Then, walking to the low table near the window, she gathered the materials she needed: ink infused with moonroot, a slender knife to draw a sigil in the air, a polished obsidian mirror that shimmered faintly at her touch.

Thranduil watched from his seat as she began her spellwork—elegant and quiet, each movement precise. When she worked like this, Faelwen was otherworldly: focused, radiant, sacred. The room seemed to breathe with her magic.

When it was done, the mirror flickered once and then fell still, its message bound and sent to Haldir.

Faelwen turned to Thranduil and let the weariness take her at last. “Now,” she whispered, “I’ll let you hold me.”

He was already there, lifting her into his arms as though she weighed nothing at all, robes falling away like water. She curled against him in the bed, her hand sliding into his hair, fingertips soft and certain.

“You are my peace,” he said quietly into her temple. “Even when war calls.”

“And you,” she replied, already half asleep, “are my sanctuary.”

They lay there in silence, bound by warmth, magic, and something deeper than oaths. And for that night, the shadows remained far from their door.

------------

The next morning dawned gently—mist curling like silk across the forest canopy, and birdsong threading the air beyond the arched windows of Thranduil’s chambers.

Faelwen stirred first, sensing a shift in the stillness beside her. Thranduil was already awake, propped on one elbow, watching her in that silent, unreadable way of his, as though trying to memorize the lines of her face.

“You were dreaming,” he said softly.

“I don’t remember it,” she murmured. “Only that your arms were around me.”

He kissed her brow and rose to dress, his movements graceful and quiet. Just as Faelwen was slipping a robe over her shoulders, a knock came at the chamber door—not loud, but deliberate.

Only the royal guard and messengers under direct orders would dare disturb them.

Thranduil’s posture shifted, a flicker of tension sharpening his gaze. He opened the door himself.

A young guard stood there, bowed low, and presented a sealed scroll. “From Marchwarden Haldir, my lord. It came by hawk—urgent.”

Thranduil took the letter, broke the wax, and read swiftly, the lines in his brow deepening with each word. Faelwen moved to his side instinctively, reading the signs in his silence.

“Well?” she asked.

He passed the letter to her.

The threat moves fast through the Grey Mountains. Creatures once thought scattered have begun to gather. I fear we are being herded, cornered like prey. I request Faelwen’s insight. The dreams she once had—are they returning? We may need her sorcery more than ever.

Faelwen read the words twice, her breath shallow.

“They are returning,” she admitted, voice low. “The dreams came back last night.”

Thranduil took her hand. “Then we prepare—but on your terms. No more wounds, Faelwen. Not if I can help it.”

“I won’t be idle,” she said, but gently. “I can’t be. Let me scry tonight. Let me see where the shadows go.”

He nodded once, tightly, drawing her into his arms. “Just promise me—if the darkness calls again, you won’t go alone.”

“I have you,” she whispered. “I never will.”

--------

That evening, the Great Hall of the Woodland Realm was lit by golden lanterns and the soft glimmer of starlight filtering through the carved stone canopy. The council gathered around the great obsidian table, its surface etched with maps and ancient runes. The tension was thick, sharpened by the scent of rain clinging to the cloaks of those who had ridden in haste to be present.

Thranduil sat at the head of the table, every inch the king—crown of carved antlers set aside, but the weight of rule still coiled around him like a cloak. Beside him stood Faelwen, her presence no less commanding. Though her wounds were still mending, she radiated power and precision, her sorceress’s robes brushing the floor like shadows.

Haldir stood across from them, his silver-grey armor still dusty from travel. His face was grave.

“This is not the same threat we faced before,” Haldir said, laying down a marked scroll. “These things are more organized. Creatures of the shadow gathering beneath a single force. Spiders moving in patterns. Wargs circling settlements without striking. It is as if they are waiting for a signal.”

“Who leads them?” Thranduil asked.

“That, we do not know. But there are whispers,” Haldir said, his voice dropping. “Of a being that walks in dreams, cloaked in night. Some call it the Hollow One. Others say it wears the face of someone they once trusted.”

Faelwen’s eyes darkened, her hand tightening on the back of Thranduil’s chair.

“I’ve seen him,” she said. “In dreams... but not only dreams. There’s a magic beneath this—one that mimics the old sorcery of the First Age. It should not exist.”

Thranduil looked at her sharply. “You said nothing of this.”

“I wasn’t certain,” she answered. “I needed time.”

“We have little of that left,” Haldir said.

The room fell silent until Thranduil spoke again, slowly, deliberately.

“Faelwen will lead the magical reconnaissance. Her sorcery has shown us truths no eyes could ever see. But she will not go to the front.”

Faelwen opened her mouth to argue, but he raised a hand. “Let her use her power where it cannot be turned against her.”

“I’m not afraid,” she said.

“I am,” he replied, and the quiet in the chamber shifted into something raw.

At last, Faelwen nodded. “Then bring me the map,” she said. “Let me burn the shadow into the surface and name it. I will show you where to strike.”

--------------

The hall dimmed, torches extinguished by an unseen breeze that rolled inward like a breath held in the belly of the earth. Only the stars above remained, shimmering through the open stonework like silent witnesses.

All eyes turned to Faelwen.

She stepped forward, her robes rustling softly, and placed her palm flat on the worn map laid out across the obsidian table. The ancient parchment quivered beneath her touch, as if it knew what was coming.

Thranduil’s gaze never left her.

Faelwen closed her eyes. Her voice, when it came, was low—an incantation in a tongue older than the trees, older than even the stars. The language of power.

Light gathered around her fingers. Not gold, nor silver, but a glimmering blue-white, like moonlight caught in glass. It pulsed at first, then surged, threads of magic weaving down from her fingertips and into the map.

Then—flames.

Soft, curling lines of fire flared up from the parchment in the shape of forests, rivers, and roads—but where the enemy lurked, the fire turned black. Not hot, but cold, like frostbite on skin. Burn marks formed in perfect circles, seared into the page like brands.

The gathered council flinched.

“There,” Faelwen whispered, breathless, her hand trembling as she lifted it. “And there. And... here.” She touched three points. One near the eastern edge of Greenwood. One near the southern borders. And one—deep beneath the mountains.

“The Hollow One moves in shadows. These are not armies,” she said, turning to the council. “They are fractures. Places where the veil between this world and... something older... has thinned.”

Elrond stepped forward slowly, nodding, voice solemn. “You have seen into the deep places. What lies there must be confronted carefully.”

Thranduil moved to her side, placing a steadying hand at her back. His voice rang out: “You have your answers. You have your target. But understand this—my queen will not be thrown to the wolves. She gives us her magic. We give her our protection.”

Faelwen looked up at him, her fingers still glowing faintly with power, and for a moment, she leaned into the warmth of his touch.

The council dispersed slowly, murmuring and awed.

And in the hush that followed, Thranduil whispered, “You are fire, Faelwen. But even fire must rest.”

[ophelia-writes-things]

There was in Thranduil’s heart a still deeper shadow. He had seen the horror of Mordor and could not forget it.

[ophelia-writes-things]

Part 32

The afternoon light filtered through the leaves like molten gold, dappling the mossy stones and rich greenery of the royal gardens. Faelwen sat upon a carved bench of white stone, dressed in flowing silver and soft woodland green, her hair loosely braided, though her strength was still returning slowly. A book lay closed beside her, forgotten in favor of fresh fruit and a goblet of cool water. Beside her, Thranduil leaned back in a chair of twisted vine and living wood, regal even at ease. He watched her more than he watched the gardens, as if still not quite convinced she was truly safe.

A rustle of guards at the outer edge of the garden announced the approach of another. Faelwen glanced up just as a familiar voice called softly, “Sister.”

She stood, her face lighting with a quiet joy as Haldir entered, his long strides measured, eyes scanning the scene with practiced caution. The Marchwarden was always graceful, always composed—but Thranduil, beside her, straightened subtly. Not hostile, not bristling. Simply… guarded.

Haldir bowed low to Thranduil, respectfully, though the glance he gave the Elvenking was sharp and weighing. “My lord.”

Thranduil inclined his head. “Marchwarden. You are always welcome in the Greenwood.”

Haldir stepped forward, and Faelwen reached out, pulling him into a light embrace before he could protest. “You came.”

“You sent your kite. I could hardly ignore that.” He touched her brow gently, as if to assure himself she was truly well. “You look tired.”

“I am healing,” she said, and gave a small smile. “We both know I’ve looked worse.”

His eyes flicked again to Thranduil, who had risen now to pour another goblet of wine, his movements graceful but measured. “And he’s looking after you properly?”

“Haldir,” she warned lightly.

Thranduil offered the Marchwarden a goblet, holding it with steady hands. “She is my queen. There is no higher charge in all the realm.”

There was a beat of silence before Haldir accepted the wine. “Forgive me, my lord. I’ve never doubted her importance. Only the wisdom of giving her heart to a king.”

A sharp breath caught in Faelwen’s throat, but Thranduil only smiled—cold, regal. “And yet, she chose me freely. That is the only wisdom that matters.”

Faelwen gently laid a hand on Haldir’s arm. “Peace, both of you. I am not a prize to be guarded nor a piece of ground to contest.”

Thranduil glanced at her then, some of the steel softening in his gaze. “No. You are far more than that.”

Haldir studied the two of them, watching the way Thranduil’s hand lingered near hers, the way she leaned subtly toward the king. He gave a short nod, the edge of tension easing.

“I came with news from Lothlórien. But perhaps we speak of that later,” he said, voice low. “You should rest more, Sister.”

Faelwen smiled, touching her brother’s hand briefly. “Later then. But stay. Eat with us.”

He did, sitting across from them as the breeze stirred the golden leaves overhead and the scent of honeysuckle rose on the air.

"Brother, is this the same threat we faced last month, or something new?"

Haldir’s gaze flicked to his sister—Faelwen, ever poised, ever resolute—and then to Thranduil, whose expression was as still and sharp as the surface of a frozen river.

He answered carefully.

“No. This is not the same. What we faced before was a splinter, a shadow cast by an already-known threat. This… this feels older. Less defined. The scouts we lost—they vanished without a sound. No blood, no broken branches, no signs of struggle. As though they stepped between the trees and were simply… gone.”

Faelwen’s brows drew together. Her tone was quiet, but laced with steel. “Something that consumes without leaving a trace.”

Haldir nodded once. “Exactly that. The forest has begun to whisper again, and not even in our own tongue.”

Thranduil’s jaw tensed. “And Galadriel believes it is not from Dol Guldur?”

“She suspects it may predate it.”

A chill crawled through the silence.

Faelwen reached up, absently brushing her fingers across the edge of her braid, grounding herself. “If it’s ancient… it won’t follow the same rules. It may not even be able to be tracked as we are used to.”

Haldir gave a grim smile. “Which is why I came here. Lórien watches from within, but the Greenwood breathes with different lungs. If anything stirs, you will know it before the mountains do.”

Thranduil’s eyes flickered to Faelwen before returning to Haldir. “Then we will watch. And should it rise, it will meet resistance it has not yet reckoned with.”

A faint breeze stirred the leaves overhead. Somewhere in the trees, a bird called once—and was answered by silence.

Faelwen’s fingers slipped instinctively to Thranduil’s beneath the table, the smallest gesture, but one he did not miss.

They would not wait forever. But for now—they would watch.

[ophelia-writes-things]

Faelwen didn’t move for a long time.

Her body was draped over Thranduil’s like something claimed and treasured, her cheek resting just beneath his collarbone. The sound of his heartbeat was steady beneath her ear—slower now, calm, but no less present. She traced lazy circles with her fingertip over the sharp rise of his ribs, her breath matching his in quiet rhythm.

His fingers moved slowly through her hair, combing strands that had long since been tangled by their morning mischief. Every so often, his palm would flatten between her shoulder blades and simply rest there—as if reminding her she was still his to hold, even in silence.

Outside, birds chirped in the treetops. A breeze whispered through the open balcony doors, stirring the sheer curtains like a sigh.

“You always get quiet like this,” Thranduil murmured eventually, voice deep and still warm from everything they’d shared. “After.”

Faelwen smiled against his skin. “It’s because I feel like I’ve left time entirely.”

“You have.” He kissed the top of her head. “With me.”

She shifted just enough to look up at him, hair falling across her cheek. “It’s dangerous. You make me forget there’s a world waiting beyond those doors.”

“Then let it wait.”

She laughed softly, then tucked herself back against him. His body was a fortress around her—warm, strong, safe. But more than that, he held her like a secret, like something rare and returned that he never intended to lose again.

They didn’t speak for a while. The kind of quiet between them wasn’t awkward—it was sacred. Healing. And even in stillness, there was intimacy: the slide of his thumb against her side, the gentle rise and fall of their chests in tandem, the occasional press of his lips to her temple.

Eventually, she stirred.

“You’re going to be late to court,” she whispered.

Thranduil’s response was a low hum of dismissal. “Let them wonder. Let the council sit in their stiff chairs and speculate about where their king has gone.”

“They’ll think I’ve bewitched you.”

“They’d be right.”

She smiled, kissed his chest, and nestled closer.

And there they stayed, tangled in golden sheets and morning light, two ancient souls stolen away from the world. No crowns. No thrones. Just breath, warmth, and the slow return to peace in each other’s arms.

[ophelia-writes-things]

Part 31

The next morning dawns quiet, grey light slipping through the gauzy curtains of Thranduil’s chambers. For a rare moment, there are no summons, no messengers, no weight of crowns or cloaks of command. Just the soft rhythm of Faelwen’s breath where she rests, tucked against his chest, one hand still curled in his hair as though even in sleep, she refuses to let go.

Thranduil lies still, awake before her. His eyes trace the curve of her brow, the line of her jaw, the way her lips are slightly parted in rest. She looks so peaceful now. Not like the blood-soaked image that haunts him still—the battlefield where she fell, the slick crimson on her side, the silence that followed.

He presses a kiss to her temple and closes his eyes.

Faelwen stirs sometime later, her voice low and rough with sleep. “You didn’t sleep.”

“I did,” he lies, smoothing a hand along her spine.

“You watched me again.” Her tone is fond, chiding. She doesn’t move away. “You always do when you’re afraid I’ll vanish.”

“You almost did,” he replies, and his voice is softer than she’s ever heard it.

Faelwen shifts to face him, their foreheads resting together. “I am still here.”

His fingers gently trace the scars at her side, the ones the healers could not quite erase, not even with all her own sorcery added to theirs. “And you will stay here. No more riding out alone. No more negotiations through enemy territory.”

She hums, neither agreeing nor denying, but her smile is soft and a little sad. “I cannot stop being who I am, Thranduil.”

“I do not ask you to. Only… allow yourself to be still sometimes. Let others bear the sword. Let your magic speak. You do not need to bleed to be powerful.”

She lifts his hand and presses her lips to his knuckles. “Then I will stay a little longer. I will let myself heal.”

“Good.” He kisses her slowly, reverently. “Because I need you whole. Not just for this realm. For me.”

Later, when the summons come—when letters arrive, and lords grow restless, and shadow stirs again—Faelwen answers them not with blade or fire, but with strategy and spell. From her place beside Thranduil, she bends the shape of battle with her mind, with her magic, and with the strength of still-standing love.

The queen who bleeds silver instead of red.

And the king who guards her not with chains—but with a crown and an open hand.

In the days that follow, peace lingers in soft ways—fleeting, but treasured. Faelwen spends more time at Thranduil’s side than away from it, and the halls of the Woodland Realm feel lighter for it. Courtiers speak more softly when she passes, reverent rather than wary. She has always carried power in her step, but now it is laced with grace, with the quiet weight of someone who has come close to death and refused to bow.

Thranduil watches her in council, in the gardens, at his side during court. Always close. Always within reach. He no longer masks his possessiveness with politeness; it’s in the brush of his fingers against her back as she moves past, the way his gaze lingers too long, the way his voice softens only for her.

And Faelwen allows it. She even leans into it sometimes—reaching for his hand under the table during strategy meetings, letting her arm slip around his waist when they walk alone beneath the trees. It is not weakness. It is the strength of knowing she is loved, cherished, and utterly unafraid of it.

One evening, as twilight filters into deep violet, Faelwen stands alone in the great library, parchment and maps laid out before her, her fingers glowing with faint silver light as she manipulates spell-wards and sigils with utter focus. She is working to strengthen the borders, to weave her magic into the outer edges of the realm so no threat crosses unnoticed.

Thranduil appears in the doorway but says nothing. He watches, captivated, as she works—this woman who could call flame and shadow at her will, and who now chooses to wield it for protection rather than war.

“You never did tell me what else you had hidden on you that night,” he murmurs, and she smiles without turning.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she says dryly, but there’s laughter behind it.

He steps in close, wrapping his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. “You’re dangerous,” he whispers.

“I always have been.”

“I thank the stars for it.”

And in that quiet library, lit by spell-light and twilight, their love feels like something ancient and evergreen—rooted deep in the earth of the Woodland Realm, fierce and unshakable, like the trees themselves.

As the enchantments pulse faintly under her fingertips, Faelwen leans back into Thranduil’s embrace, letting his warmth anchor her. For a moment, they say nothing—only the hush of the library, the soft rustle of the trees outside, and the echo of their breathing fills the space.

She draws her fingers from the map and murmurs a final word in the old tongue. The silver threads of her magic settle and fade into the parchment, a protective sigil sealing the borders she has woven. It is not the rush of steel and blood she has known, but the quiet work of guardianship—and in this moment, it feels just as vital.

Thranduil presses a kiss just behind her ear, his voice velvet-dark. “You’ve given your power to the roots of this realm, my Faelwen. The land itself will remember your touch.”

She tilts her head to him, eyes half-lidded. “As it remembers yours. We are not so different—you and I.”

“No,” he agrees. “But I would still rather you in silks and spelllight than blood and ash.”

“You cannot cage a storm, my love,” she says softly, turning in his arms to face him. “But perhaps you can coax it into calm.”

He smiles at that, rare and warm. “Then let me be the calm you return to.”

Their foreheads rest together, and for a heartbeat longer, they breathe as one—two forces entwined, bound by love deeper than the roots of the forest, older than the stones of the palace.

Later that night, as mist gathers in the treetops and moonlight floods the great halls, Thranduil leads her to the sacred pool deep in the heart of the realm. The place where starlight meets still water, where magic lingers thick in the air.

“You’re not yet fully healed,” he murmurs, watching her disrobe, pale scars still faint across her side.

“Then help me heal,” she says, stepping into the water. “Not with silence, not with stillness—but with you.”

And he follows her in.

[ophelia-writes-things]

Part 30-

That night, the halls of the Woodland Realm are quiet—deep, cavernous stillness echoing with the faint sound of falling water and the distant whisper of leaves far above. In Thranduil’s chambers, the world is narrowed down to the warm press of skin and silk sheets and the thrum of magic still alive beneath Faelwen’s surface.

She sleeps in his arms, her breath steady but not deep—she dreams lightly these days, always hovering near wakefulness, as though even in rest she remains half a commander.

Thranduil doesn’t sleep. He watches her, fingers slowly trailing the line of her spine, feeling each breath she takes and counting them like prayers. Her hand, still curled near his heart, flexes faintly in sleep. It’s healed enough to wield magic again, but the skin is still delicate, touched by the burns her power left behind. He kisses her knuckles, reverent.

When the first light of morning seeps pale and silver into the room, Faelwen stirs. Her eyes blink open, slow and soft, and find him watching her. She smiles faintly.

“You haven’t slept,” she murmurs.

“I don’t need to,” he lies. But she knows.

“You can’t keep guard over me forever.”

“I intend to try.”

She sits up, wincing a little at the ache still in her side, and his hands are instantly there—supporting, steady, but not stopping her. She appreciates the difference. She leans into his bare chest, resting her head against him.

“I’ll work with Elrond today,” she tells him. “There’s more we can do with magic to locate the enemy movements. I won’t fight. Not yet. You have my word.”

“You mean to make yourself invaluable again.”

“I am,” she says, a bit smug.

He smirks faintly, but the worry doesn’t leave his eyes. “I love you. I want to be your king. Not your warden.”

“Then let me be your queen in full.”

Their foreheads touch, breath shared.

Later, when she walks into the council again, Thranduil watches her with that same quiet pride and terror. She is radiant, in her dark green robes stitched with silver—commanding without a sword, luminous with controlled power. He knows this is what it means to love a force of nature.

And as the war begins to shift toward strategy and sorcery, Faelwen becomes the quiet storm they all look to—while Thranduil walks beside her, ever her equal, ever her anchor.

Faelwen's presence at the council table is quieter than it once was, but no less commanding. Without her armour, she is still their commander. Without her sword, still their threat. Her voice, low and laced with steel, draws the attention of every lord and warden present.

As they pore over maps and shifting shadow-reports, it is her magic they turn to now. She lifts her hand again over the parchment, fingers slightly trembling—but not from weakness. From control. Power burns beneath her skin, and this time, she channels it with precision. Silvery veins of starlight snake through the valleys on the map, pulsing faintly where darkness has crept in.

Elrond studies her with quiet awe, Galadriel with something deeper—kinship, perhaps, or memory of herself long ago.

Thranduil does not speak, but his gaze never leaves Faelwen. There’s a different kind of possessiveness in him now—not of a man clinging to what he might lose, but of one who understands the enormity of what he loves, and holds it like sacred fire.

Later, as the council disperses and the torches dim, Faelwen finds herself walking alone through the gardens—barefoot, skirts grazing dew-damp moss. The moon is bright. She closes her eyes, lets her senses drift—listening to the heartbeat of the forest, the sigh of the trees.

She hears him before he speaks.

“You should be resting.”

“I’m stronger now,” she replies, without turning.

“I know.” Thranduil moves beside her, silent and silver-lit. “You burn again. I can feel it in the air.”

She glances at him. “Does it frighten you?”

“No,” he says, and cups her face in both hands. “But the thought of it burning out? That terrifies me.”

She leans into his touch. “I will not be lost.”

“You are still healing.”

“So are you.”

They stand there a moment longer in the stillness, kings and queens without crowns, lovers before battle, warriors wrapped in quiet.

And when they return to their chambers, she draws him close again—not for passion, but for peace. Her fingers in his hair, his arms around her waist. Just breath, skin, and the steady thrum of being alive.

Tomorrow, they will begin again. But tonight, they simply are.

[ophelia-writes-things]

[ophelia-writes-things]

[ophelia-writes-things]

[ophelia-writes-things]

Part 29

As twilight settles over the ruined watchtower, Faelwen’s spell still shimmers faintly in the cracks of the stone, threads of light like veins glowing in the dark. The soldiers make camp a respectful distance away, quiet in the presence of their King and his sorceress. None dare disturb them—not when her magic still hums through the earth and Thranduil’s expression holds the sharp edge of something old and fey.

Within the confines of their tent, lit only by a single lantern and the glow of enchanted wards, Faelwen slowly peels off her robes. Her movements are languid, deliberate—not out of seduction, but weariness. Magic, even when cast with precision, pulls something from her. Leaves her hollow if she doesn’t rest.

Thranduil watches her from the shadows. He’s already unfastened his armor, robes loose and hair down, the silver circlet set aside. He looks less like a king, more like the elf she first fell for—sharp and cold to others, but to her, only fire.

She sinks onto the furs laid over the ground, sighing as she stretches out. “I don’t like what I felt out there,” she murmurs. “Something unnatural… a shadow walking with a mortal’s footsteps.”

Thranduil joins her without a word, settling beside her, propping himself up on one elbow. He brushes her hair back, fingers lingering at her temple. “Then we root it out. Together.”

“I know,” she says, softly. Then adds, “You’re quiet.”

“I am thinking.”

“That usually means you’re worrying.”

He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he traces the edge of her jaw with his knuckle. “When you channeled that power today… for a moment, I saw how much it cost you. How far you pushed yourself. And I—” He breaks off. “I do not want to lose you to your power, Faelwen. Not to battle. Not to shadow. Not to any realm of gods or ghosts.”

She turns her face into his palm. “You won’t.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“No,” she says. “But I can promise this—when I go into darkness, I do it knowing I have someone to return to.”

He leans forward, brushing a kiss to her brow, then her lips. “Then I will make sure the light never fades from home.”

Their breaths mingle. He wraps his arms around her, drawing her close. And in the quiet that follows—beneath the rustling wind, beneath the magic that still flickers faintly—there is peace. For tonight.

And in the morning, the hunt begins.

By the time the first light of dawn spills over the forest canopy, Faelwen is already awake, nestled close to Thranduil’s side. His arms are wrapped around her still, protectively, as if even in slumber he refuses to let her go. She listens to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her cheek, fingers gently sifting through the strands of his pale hair, grounding herself.

She’s healing.

Not only in body, but in spirit. The warmth of his skin, the steady strength of him—these things have become her anchor. Her magic hums just beneath the surface, softer now, no longer sharp and wild. It gathers within her like the quiet pulse of spring returning to frozen soil.

Thranduil stirs. He doesn’t open his eyes immediately, but his arms tighten, pulling her closer, his voice rough with sleep. “You’re awake.”

“I am,” she whispers, brushing her lips over his collarbone. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“You never do. Even when you tear open the veil between worlds.” There’s a faint smile in his voice, though worry still lingers at the corners.

She lifts her head to meet his eyes, her expression calm but certain. “Let me serve us differently for now. Not with blade, but with fire in my blood, with magic in my bones. I can still be a force, even if not on the front lines.”

He studies her in silence, then leans in and kisses her slowly, reverently, as though trying to etch the shape of her soul into his memory. “You are a force,” he says. “You always have been.”

Their peace is brief, but it is theirs. Before the day’s duties—before the council, the whispers, the shadows spreading deeper into the east—they hold on to the quiet.

And when Faelwen finally rises, she dresses not in armor, but in robes of midnight green threaded with silver, her hair unbound, eyes glowing with purpose. Thranduil watches her with the awe of a warrior who knows he has been chosen by a storm that loves him back.

Later that morning, she steps into the council chamber beside him, not as his consort alone—but as his sorceress. The one who will burn away the darkness.

[ophelia-writes-things]

Thranduil moved over her like moonlight—silent, warm, impossibly soft. Not a king now, not a warrior—just a male elf with hands reverent and eyes full of something too deep to name. His body hovered above hers, propped on one arm, his other hand tracing lazy lines across her ribs, over the swell of her hip, dipping lower just enough to make her breath hitch.

Faelwen stretched beneath his touch, a cat in the sun. Her hair spilled over the pillows, gold and copper catching in the firelight. She watched him with lidded eyes, lips curved into the faintest smile.

“You’re staring,” she murmured.

“I’ve earned the right,” he said simply.

She laughed, soft and lovely, and he leaned down to kiss the sound from her lips. Not deeply. Just the brush of mouths. A touch meant to say I’m here. I’m yours.

When he pulled back, he stayed close—nose to nose, breath to breath.

“You undo me,” he whispered. “Every time.”

“And yet,” she said, fingers sliding up his spine, “you never stop letting me.”

He tilted his head, the beginnings of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “I would let you ruin me a thousand times, if it meant I could hold you after.”

Faelwen’s heart thudded—slow and full. She reached up, brushing a strand of pale silver hair from his face, letting her fingers linger at his cheek.

“You are not ruined,” she said quietly.

“No?” His voice was barely above a breath.

“No.” She kissed the line of his jaw. “You are unmasked. That’s not the same.”

He stilled above her, eyes fixed on hers. And there it was again—that silence. Not the kind that stretches awkward or uncertain, but the kind that settles. That means something.

“I want this,” he said, voice low and sure. “Not just moments stolen between meetings and courtly games. I want this. You. In all the golden, tangled hours no one sees.”

Faelwen smiled then—slow, sure, soft as morning.

“You already have it,” she whispered.

They stayed like that a long time, limbs tangled, his hand in her hair, her fingers drawing idle patterns across his chest. Time moved slower here. As if the sun outside the tall windows paused in the sky just to let them have a little longer.

No obligations.

No expectations.

Only breath. Only warmth. Only the way their bodies fit together like they had been sculpted from the same starlight.

And when the world knocked again—when duty returned and the crown weighed heavy once more—he would remember this. The hush of her breath, the curve of her against him, the quiet knowing in her eyes.

But for now, they didn’t move.

They simply lingered.

The room was hushed save for the crackle of the fire and the soft, rhythmic cadence of their breathing. Thranduil’s hand remained at the curve of her waist, splayed wide and warm, anchoring her against him. Faelwen rested her cheek to his chest, where his heartbeat pulsed slow and steady beneath her ear, a quiet lullaby only she could hear.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

She could feel the quiet in him—the rare kind that came not from silence, but from peace. The armor he wore so well, the cold elegance of a ruler, had melted from his bones. In its place was something softer, older. A part of him that rarely surfaced, that she had coaxed into the light with slow hands and patient mischief.

His fingers moved through her hair now, absent and gentle, the same way wind stirred through leaves. Each pass carried with it a kind of worship, like he still couldn’t believe she was real, that this was allowed.

Faelwen shifted just enough to press a kiss over his heart. Not to rouse him, not to tease—just to offer a wordless I'm here.

Thranduil exhaled, his arm tightening around her. “Stay,” he whispered, though they both knew she had no intention of moving.

“I was planning to,” she murmured against his skin.

Golden light pooled across the floor, creeping slowly toward the bed, and still they didn’t move. The warmth around them was thick with comfort, the scent of him and home and fire wrapping around her like a second blanket.

Faelwen’s fingers drew circles on his chest, her touch lazy and unhurried.

“I think I could live in this moment,” she said softly, “and never want for anything else.”

Thranduil smiled—a real one, soft and unguarded. He tilted his head down just enough to kiss her crown, lingering there.

“You give me a world I never knew I wanted,” he said, voice almost lost in the hush. “And now I don’t want to give it back.”

No more needed to be said. The rest was felt—each shift of a limb, each shared breath, each heartbeat thrumming in harmony beneath the slow arc of the sun.

And so they stayed, wrapped around each other, bathed in the golden hush of a world that—for this moment—asked nothing of them.

Only to be.

The room was hushed save for the crackle of the fire and the soft, rhythmic cadence of their breathing. Thranduil’s hand remained at the curve of her waist, splayed wide and warm, anchoring her against him. Faelwen rested her cheek to his chest, where his heartbeat pulsed slow and steady beneath her ear, a quiet lullaby only she could hear.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

She could feel the quiet in him—the rare kind that came not from silence, but from peace. The armor he wore so well, the cold elegance of a ruler, had melted from his bones. In its place was something softer, older. A part of him that rarely surfaced, that she had coaxed into the light with slow hands and patient mischief.

His fingers moved through her hair now, absent and gentle, the same way wind stirred through leaves. Each pass carried with it a kind of worship, like he still couldn’t believe she was real, that this was allowed.

Faelwen shifted just enough to press a kiss over his heart. Not to rouse him, not to tease—just to offer a wordless I'm here.

Thranduil exhaled, his arm tightening around her. “Stay,” he whispered, though they both knew she had no intention of moving.

“I was planning to,” she murmured against his skin.

Golden light pooled across the floor, creeping slowly toward the bed, and still they didn’t move. The warmth around them was thick with comfort, the scent of him and home and fire wrapping around her like a second blanket.

Faelwen’s fingers drew circles on his chest, her touch lazy and unhurried.

“I think I could live in this moment,” she said softly, “and never want for anything else.”

Thranduil smiled—a real one, soft and unguarded. He tilted his head down just enough to kiss her crown, lingering there.

“You give me a world I never knew I wanted,” he said, voice almost lost in the hush. “And now I don’t want to give it back.”

No more needed to be said. The rest was felt—each shift of a limb, each shared breath, each heartbeat thrumming in harmony beneath the slow arc of the sun.

And so they stayed, wrapped around each other, bathed in the golden hush of a world that—for this moment—asked nothing of them.

Only to be.

[ophelia-writes-things]

The chamber had fallen quiet, save for the faint rustle of breeze through the sheer drapes and the occasional creak of the bed as they shifted, slow and satisfied.

The sun had dipped low enough to spill dusky light across the floor, shadows lengthening, gilded edges giving way to lavender. Faelwen lay on her side now, fingers lightly stroking the inside of Thranduil’s forearm as he rested beside her, their legs still tangled. Her body had finally gone still with true rest—no teasing, no play—only presence.

Thranduil watched her, the corners of his mouth curved in something rare and raw.

Peace.

He reached out to brush her hair from her face, the strands catching a faint violet sheen in the fading light. She stirred slightly, not opening her eyes, but shifting toward him with a content hum.

“Is it twilight already?” she murmured, voice still heavy with sleep.

“It is,” he said, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. “The day surrendered without a fight.”

She opened her eyes then—lazy, warm, the color of embers catching the last of the dusk. “We must be magic, to command the sun to linger and then leave at our leisure.”

“Or very selfish,” he said, amused. “I’ve no desire to share this day with anyone else.”

“Not even your realm?”

“Especially not them.”

She smiled, slow and soft, pressing a kiss to his chest. “Then let it be just us. A king and his shadow.”

“You,” he said, shifting so their faces met again, “are no shadow. You’re firelight and softness and storms all at once.”

Faelwen brushed her thumb across his bottom lip, a playful, tender touch. “You’re still in a mood.”

“I’m always in a mood when you’re naked and smiling in my bed.”

“Technically,” she said with a sly grin, “you’re the one not clothed anymore.”

His gaze swept over her lazily, that familiar flicker of heat sparking beneath the haze of affection. “Shall I correct that imbalance?”

She rolled onto him, her hands braced on his chest, grinning like mischief incarnate. “No. I quite like having the upper hand at twilight.”

He laughed, full and low, letting his hands rest on her hips. “Then take it.”

And she did.

But slowly.

Twilight was not for frenzy—it was for reverence. She kissed him like dusk kissed the earth—soft, certain, inevitable. Her mouth found his pulse, his jaw, his lips, coaxing sighs and promises from him as the last light disappeared behind the horizon.

He held her hips steady when she rose over him, both of them breathless but unhurried, silhouettes carved in silver light. Every movement was a quiet declaration: I am here. I want you. I will not let this slip away.

They moved together in a rhythm that belonged to no court, no kingdom—only to two people who had found each other in the hush of twilight and decided, silently, to stay.

When they stilled, breath mingling, Faelwen curled against his chest again, this time with his cloak wrapped loosely around her shoulders. He drew it tighter around them both, cocooning them in warmth that had nothing to do with firelight.

Outside, the stars began to prick the sky.

Inside, nothing moved but the rise and fall of their chests.

And somewhere between the fading light and the encroaching dark, Thranduil whispered against her temple, “Let the night come. I have all I need in my arms.”