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Mirkwood was quiet that morning, draped in mist and soft with dew. It was the kind of hush that spoke of enchantments older than stone, a hush that even the birds respected. Thranduil walked alone, his footsteps soundless on the moss-laden forest floor. The trees leaned toward him, branches whispering in a tongue only the eldest might understand. He listened but said nothing. He had not come to speak.
He was not yet king.
This was before Oropher had fallen, before the great shadow rose and the forest would be called dark. Thranduil was younger then, though his bearing was already regal, his face already carved from porcelain and moonlight. His golden hair was unbound, trailing behind him like liquid sunlight. He wore no crown.
He had been wandering, unmoored and silent, ever since returning from the war. There were days when his spirit would not settle, but his feet would carry him away from halls and kin toward something nameless.
It was on such a morning that he stumbled into the hidden grove.
It was veiled in silver fog, trees pale as bone and draped with white lichen. A small spring bubbled in the center, its waters glimmering blue and clear. And there, standing tall and unafraid, was the creature.
An elk.
Not just any beast - this one was mighty, regal, and ancient. Its antlers branched like the trees around them, velvet and wide, nearly brushing the canopy. Its coat shimmered with a bronze-golden hue, and in its eyes, there was something sharp. A challenge. A mirror.
Thranduil froze.
The elk did not flee.
They regarded one another, elf and beast, as though time had paused. And Thranduil, for all his pride and elegance, lowered himself slowly, kneeling in the moss. He did not speak. He did not reach.
The elk took a step closer.
And then another.
Until it stood before him, towering and serene, its breath soft and visible in the morning air. It bent its head slightly, antlers brushing low, and Thranduil extended a hand - not to grasp, not to claim but simply to offer.
When the velvet nose touched his palm, Thranduil’s eyes closed.
Something passed between them. A bond, ancient and wordless. Not of master and steed, but of kindred spirits. Both noble. Both wild. Both carrying sorrows beneath their beauty.
When he opened his eyes, the elk was still there.
In the years that followed, Mirkwood would darken. The peace would fray. But Thranduil would not face it alone. From that day forward, the elk would come to him in dreams and waking. It would bear him through battle, through grief, and through silence. It would carry the weight he could not name.
And he, in turn, would ride as though the world could never touch him - cold, beautiful, untouchable save for in the eyes of one beast who had seen him when he was just a son, just a wanderer, just a soul in need of peace.
In the grove, they had found each other.
And neither would ever truly be alone again.