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The shadows felt thicker tonight. They crept into the vast halls of the Woodland Realm, slipping through cracks in the stone like a whispered omen. Thranduil stood alone by the balcony, his silver robes shimmering softly in the moonlight, but the chill wind touched his skin like the ghost of old wounds never healed.
He clasped his hands tightly, steadying their trembling. Around him, Mirkwood lay quiet, its beauty marred only by memories of what had been lost. Each rustle of leaves seemed to carry echoes of a life that had once thrived before shadow darkened his kingdom, before fire burned away everything precious, everything good.
How long had he hidden this pain behind walls of ice? Thranduil had mastered the art of a carefully sculpted indifference; a shield forged of regal detachment, protecting both himself and those who looked to him for strength. But tonight, it cracked under the weight of sorrowful thoughts that whispered of endless loss.
The loneliness gripped him tighter, a tangible ache. Memories rose unbidden of a smile, a gentle touch, warmth that had once filled his halls. A warmth he would never again hold. His wife. Her laughter had once brought life and music to these cold halls. Her loss was an endless echo, one he had learned to silence but never erase.
He turned abruptly, pacing restlessly. The anxious shadows flickered around him, each step amplifying fears he had thought buried. His son’s future, the safety of his people. These burdens had always rested heavily on his shoulders. Yet lately, anxiety had seeped deeper, winding through his heart like vines. Would Mirkwood stand strong in the face of the growing darkness? Would Legolas thrive under the weight of his heritage, or would fate claim him too?
Thranduil paused, closing his eyes as he leaned against cool stone, breathing slowly to calm the storm within. How fragile his mask felt in these solitary hours, how easy it would be for grief to overwhelm him entirely.
He lifted his gaze toward the sky, where stars glittered distantly, impassive and unchanging. “So much lost already,” he whispered into the night, “and yet still more I fear to lose.”
The night offered no answers. Only silence, only cold. And within it, Thranduil stood bearing his pain, knowing he must wear his mask again by morning.