The chances of it happening were almost certain, perhaps even inevitable, but that they would meet again after only a year was something Lasgalen had not imagined. Or perhaps she hadn't wanted to. Or did she? She didn't even know what she felt anymore, and she hated feeling that way.

Preparations had begun throughout the entire city and, of course, within the palace. Gil-galad had spared no effort: everything had to be perfect and worthy of the High King's city. There wasn't a single elf standing idle.

"Is something special being celebrated this year?" Lasgalen had asked Elrond while they were arranging some baskets.

"Nothing in particular. You're wondering about all this extravagance?" he replied with a hint of amusement.

After the red-haired elf gave him a confirming look, he continued.

"I'll tell you the truth: I don't really know the exact reason myself. When I tried to bring it up with Gil-galad, he dismissed the topic rather quickly" he said, pausing to move a heavy basket full of chestnuts.

"But I believe it may be his attempt to strengthen ties with the Silvan elves. We're not in close contact, and after all, we are still elves, despite a few differing opinions. At the heart of all this, there might be an effort to reconnect. It has been centuries."

"Or maybe Gil-galad just wants to ensure the elves are united in times of danger?"

Elrond froze at her words.

"Lasgalen, not you too, please" he said, his voice marked by worry and irritation. He was used to hearing such things from Galadriel, not from her.

"I'm not claiming anything, Elrond! I'm just reasoning, as it seems you are too" she replied.

At her words, the elf dropped one last basket, not exactly gently, before heading toward the exit, visibly annoyed. Lasgalen was startled, though she didn't show it. She merely returned a perplexed and irritated glance.

"Sure. Or maybe Oropher is hoping for a marriage for his son. There are many stunning elf-maidens in this city. What better way to unite the two realms?"

"Elrond?!" she called out, but he was already gone.

She had never seen him act that way.

It made her think more than necessary, as often happened to her: perhaps she didn't know every side of him? Could he be aggressive too? That gesture, small and harmless though it may have been, save for the apples in the basket, had unsettled her. The calmest elf, the one she trusted most in all of Middle-earth, had just revealed a side of himself Lasgalen didn't know.

And that, frightened her.

Preparations continued, and Lasgalen helped Silwen and Idril arrange the guest rooms, the two friends who had taken care of her years ago, during her first days in Lindon.

"Are we out of balm vials?" asked Silwen.

"Yes" replied Lasgalen.

"Then this must be the last room. We've run out of sheets too" Idril chimed in, folding a pearl-gray linen with graceful precision.

"I still can't believe what you told us about Thranduil. It's shameful."

"Oh, I can believe it. That's just how the Silvan elves are."

"I didn't tell you that to turn you against our guests" Lasgalen reminded them firmly. "One elf isn't an example of them all. And I told you how kind they were to me."

She wanted to remind them that her experience in Greenwood had been beautiful, not just the unpleasant parts.

"I suppose you're right. But he really was rude... we could return the favor" said Idril with a mischievous smirk, glancing at Silwen, who wore the same look.

"Idril! The last thing I need is one of you getting punished for something I shared. Promise me you won't do anything like that." Lasgalen was serious.

"Ugh, fine, I promise."

"Promise" echoed Silwen, stepping up behind Lasgalen.

"And besides... he doesn't know what he's missed!" she added with a laugh. The two stared at her in surprise before breaking into grins.

"Silwen! Don't even think that!" They chased each other playfully down the wooden corridor like younglings. Eventually, they reached the balcony and stopped, gazing at the sunset.

"It'll be fun after all."

"Yes... I suppose so" Lasgalen replied, picturing Thranduil on horseback, surely already on his way.

The next morning was the day the Silvan elves were to arrive. Awaiting them at the palace gates stood Gil-galad, Galadriel, Elrond, Lasgalen, Lindir, Daenor, and Myria, his chosen companions.
Everyone was impeccably dressed.

As Daenor had predicted, Oropher rode atop a giant stag. It was as large as the white one Lasgalen had once seen in the woods, though this one had a normal brown coat and wide, intricate antlers that resembled branches. Beside him was Thranduil, mounted on a horse with powerful legs and a perfectly groomed coat.

There was a small entourage as well, and Lasgalen recognized an elven maiden she had once met at their palace. They brought many gifts: mostly wines and fruits of varied and vibrant colors.

"King Oropher, it is a true pleasure to see you, both of you" Gil-galad said, stepping forward. The king responded with a smile, placing a hand on his chest in a gesture of greeting and gratitude.

"High King, the pleasure is ours. Your city is magnificent" the king replied. Lindon was quite different from his own realm, yet he seemed sincere in his praise. Gil-galad then led the two royals inside, guiding them through a corridor formed by Galadriel and his other companions.

Thranduil hadn't spoken a word.
Lasgalen tried not to look at him, but failed.

He didn't even glance in her direction.

The gesture twisted something in her stomach.

It must have shown on her face, because Galadriel gave her a gentle tap on the arm. Snapping out of her daze, she lifted her gaze to meet Elrond's cold, distant expression.

The guests didn't do much during the day: mostly strolling through the palace, enjoying the views, and resting. They were to stay for five days, so there was no rush.

But when night fell, as always, the Silvan and Sindar elves came alive again, lifting everyone's spirits with dinner and dancing.

Lasgalen searched for Thranduil's eyes more than once. Then she stopped, afraid she might appear improper.
She stood at the edge of the small open plaza where couples of elves danced. At her side was Galadriel, their shoulders resting lightly against one another, each with a glass of wine in hand.

Whether it was the wine or something else, Lasgalen had a sudden realization.

"It's Elrond, isn't it?" she whispered to the blonde, her gaze lost on the dance floor.

"Who? That elf in blue? No, it's not him."

"I mean... what you told me. Your concern about Elrond, that he might be infatuated with an elf. Were you talking about me?" she continued in a whisper, though her voice was slightly broken.

Galadriel took another sip of her wine, nearly emptying the glass.

"I wondered if you'd ever get to this point."

Lasgalen went pale.

"No, it can't be. I mean... he doesn't even realize it himself. He doesn't know what that kind of love is."

"Neither do you, Lasgalen" the blonde replied, finishing her glass.

"It's also true that, usually, love among elves strikes at first sight. I don't think Elrond felt this way during your early days here, so... there's a chance it's just a passing infatuation."

"I don't want to hurt him" Lasgalen said, her eyes searching Galadriel's for comfort. And Galadriel saw the genuine concern behind them. She responded with a compassionate look.

"I know, Lasgalen. And so does he. But emotions can cloud judgment."

Lasgalen cared for Elrond like a brother. A deep, visceral bond built over time, made of shared glances and silent understanding. But it wasn't love. Not that kind. Not the kind that twists your stomach, fills your soul, and sometimes, breaks it.

"Lady Galadriel."

A voice, sure and deep, cut through their quiet conversation and instantly broke Lasgalen's inner monologue.
To her, that voice was unmistakable.
Among all those gathered, Thranduil stood out like a beacon in the waves. Tall, proud, as breathtaking as ever.

But his eyes didn't seek hers.
They were fixed on Galadriel.
The blonde returned the gaze, but with respectful detachment and the courteous warmth she would offer to any guest.

Thranduil's long silver hair flowed freely over his shoulders, and his refined bordeaux robes made him stand out more than usual. A silver brooch in the shape of stag antlers gleamed subtly on his chest. He gave a slight bow, elegant and measured. Galadriel and Lasgalen returned it with equal grace.

"May I have this dance?" he asked, offering his hand with natural elegance.

Lasgalen's stomach burned.
It wasn't just anger: it was humiliation, disappointment, something deeper. He still hadn't spared her a glance.
Again, she felt invisible to him.
Had her company truly been that unwelcome? So insignificant that she didn't even deserve a nod?

Before answering, Galadriel cast a quick glance toward Gil-galad, who stood watching from nearby. It was a political gesture, carefully calculated, to avoid unnecessary tensions, to preserve the delicate balance that held the evening together. Only after that brief hesitation did she set her empty glass on the low wall behind them and accept Thranduil's hand.

Lasgalen watched them.
She looked at him as though trying to challenge him, to break through the wall of indifference he had built between them.
She, too, set her glass down with purpose.

At that exact moment, Daenor approached. His tall, cheerful figure radiated warmth. He gave an exaggerated, theatrical bow and offered his hand with a playful grin.

Lasgalen responded with a sincere smile and placed her hand in his. Her long auburn hair swayed as they began to dance, and her midnight blue gown seemed to melt into the starlit sky. The light of a nearby lantern struck the leaf-shaped brooch at her chest, Elrond's gift, and made it glow with golden warmth.

The music was that of a traditional elven dance: elegant and measured, yet full of grace. Every step was harmony.
If Elrond was her shelter, her balance, Daenor was the one who could draw a smile from her on the darkest days.
He spun her more than once, until she let out a spontaneous, crystalline laugh, freeing, bright.

And yet, deep in her thoughts, she couldn't stop thinking about Thranduil.
She simply couldn't.

When the music faded, the two couples exchanged respectful bows and went their separate ways. Lasgalen, forgetting she was still on the dance floor, turned without paying attention to where she was going, and collided with someone. A shiver ran down her spine when a hand gently took hers with disarming kindness, and another settled on her back, guiding her delicately.

Her heart skipped a beat.

The contact, sudden and unexpected, shook her. Despite the years, her body still reacted with tension and fear. Instinctively, she raised a hand to the elf's chest to push away. But when she looked up and finally met Thranduil's blue eyes, her face gradually relaxed, like a false alarm fading. They stood still as couples once again filled the square around them for the next dance.

It was a specific Sindar dance, livelier and less rigid than the traditional elven court music. An ancient rhythm: intimate, loaded with undercurrents. And the two of them, as if under a spell, seemed to ignore everything else.

Thranduil looked at her as if he were seeing her for the first time. There was something silent and aching in his gaze, as though he were trying to grasp a memory that had always slipped through his fingers. He studied every detail of her face with almost reverent slowness: the light freckles dusting the bridge of her nose, the long, fair lashes that cast delicate shadows on her cheeks, the slightly upturned nose, both proud and childlike, and that rebellious lock of hair brushing her rosy lips, framing her face with a natural beauty no crown could rival.

As if awakened from an enchantment by the first note of music, the two broke eye contact with a slowness that bordered on pain, as if looking away meant letting go of something precious. The initial harmony had entranced them, suspending them in a moment outside of time, but now reality came to reclaim its part.

When Thranduil turned his gaze beyond Lasgalen, his eyes found the figure of his father, standing with customary regal elegance beside Gil-Galad. The King, with an expression halfway between amused and calculating, raised a cup of wine toward the other elf in a slow, almost ritualistic gesture, accompanied by a smile that revealed nothing. Thranduil's brow furrowed slightly, there was something about that interaction that unsettled him, and for a brief instant, confusion passed across his face like a fleeting shadow. But he quickly composed himself, forcing his thoughts back to the present.

"A habit of yours, then? Bumping into the elves around you?" he asked, his tone sharp but controlled, deliberately teasing. The elegance of his words masked the tension that still burned on his skin.

She lifted her chin slightly, struck by how he tried to reduce to nothing what had just happened, as if that silent exchange between their souls had been nothing more than a distracted mistake.

"As it happens, it only occurs with you" she replied, lips curled in a half-ironic smile.
"Perhaps because you're always in my path. Are you following me, maybe?"

Her tone, identical in intensity and restraint, sparked a glint in the prince's eyes. In that moment, Thranduil's gaze grew more intense, filled with something hovering between amusement, curiosity, and irritation. A silence fell between them, thick as the mist that settles over glades at dawn. But while he seemed to wear it as easily as a cloak, Lasgalen endured it. Inside her, words crowded her mind, pushing to come out, yet remained trapped behind the wall of the unspoken.

"I'll get out of your way" she murmured finally, voice low but firm. She slipped from his grasp in a fluid, almost rehearsed movement. But she didn't make it far before he caught her again, with a swift, gentle motion, brushing just the tips of her fingers.

"Please... stay."

His words weren't a command, but neither were they a plea. They were a bridge cast between two shores still hesitating to unite. Lasgalen, surprised by the unexpected gesture, suddenly realized they were being watched. Many eyes had turned to them, discreet, but present. Her cheeks flushed slightly, but she stepped closer nonetheless, more to shield the moment from prying eyes than out of obedience.

"I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable. After all, you're a prince." She echoed the same words he had once used, the ones that had wounded her during their parting in Greenwood.

"And you hold grudges, it seems. Another thing we have in common."

A harp, somewhere on the far side of the square, began the melody with a soft introduction, like ancient secrets whispered to the stars. Flutes followed with a light counterpoint, and finally the violins joined in with a gentle crescendo, as if caressing the very air. The elven lanterns flickered as if a tremor had passed through the night itself, suspending all else.

Without needing words, without even a gesture of invitation, the two moved together, drawn by an unspoken understanding. It was as if the music spoke to them both in the same hidden language, one they knew in their bones without ever having learned. Their bodies brushed with grace, bending to each other like trees moved by the same breeze.

The dance was an ancient Sindar choreography, elegant and swift in its movements, full of turns and twists, of sudden closeness and just as sudden distance. Their hands barely touched, but every contact seemed to leave an echo on the skin. When their eyes met, the intensity was enough to steal breath.

The required steps separated them; there were rotations that demanded a change of partner, but the two of them seemed to exist in a parallel dimension. Even when other dancers passed between them, when space pulled them apart, their eyes remained connected by an invisible thread, fine as silk, yet stronger than steel. It was as if their souls had forgotten how to stay away from each other.

The dance ended with the elves' graceful bow, a slow and theatrical dip. Lasgalen let herself fall back trustingly into his arm, which supported her with ease. When he brought her upright again, eyes locked on hers, he spoke in a low voice, almost a whisper.

"And in any case... yes. You are the only creature in Middle-earth who has ever managed to disarm me."

She stared at him, caught between the warmth of the moment and the tension of doubt. Her expression was unreadable, still caught between the rhythm of the music and that of her heart.

"Is that meant to be a compliment?" she asked softly.

"I don't know" he replied, and perhaps it was the most honest answer he could have given.

In that suspended moment, they were abruptly pulled back to reality by Lindir, who was clearly overwhelmed by the sweet wine of Greenwood. The elf, cheerful and visibly tipsy, wedged himself between them with clumsy enthusiasm and, without waiting for a reaction, escorted them off the dance floor, merrily heading toward Myria, Galadriel, and Daenor, blissfully unaware of the fragile thread he had just severed with his presence.

"Prince, you must share with us your wine-making secrets!"

The wines of Greenwood were renowned not only for their exquisite taste, but also for their remarkable strength.

Thranduil smiled as though nothing had happened, as if he and Lasgalen had not, moments before, been trapped in another dimension, lost in each other's eyes. As if he hadn't just told her... what had he told her?

"Oh, my father guards the recipe jealously" the prince replied with steady cordiality, "but I suppose he would be quite happy to supply you on a monthly basis."

Lasgalen, still shaken, moved closer to Galadriel and took her arm. The golden-haired elf looked at her briefly, and when her eyes met the redhead's, she saw a subtle nod of reassurance. She relaxed, returning her gaze to the conversation.

Lasgalen looked around, but couldn't find who she was searching for.

"Where is Elrond?" she asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I saw him just a moment ago" Galadriel replied.

Lasgalen could not have known it, but Thranduil's jaw tightened at the sound of her question.
Was she in love with him?

"I hope you're pleased for tomorrow, Prince" Daenor interjected, his tone proud and resolute.
"The forest at midmorning is a beauty beyond compare."

"I am" Thranduil replied, his eyes drifting to Lasgalen, who returned his gaze without betraying her emotions.

"And please... call me Thranduil" he added with a smile, addressing all five.

______________

The morning came quickly, perhaps too quickly for Lasgalen. But she had no choice; not showing up would have been improper.

Elrond, once again, was absent that morning, and Lasgalen began to worry.
She would search for him as soon as they returned.

The morning passed pleasantly, steeped in a carefree atmosphere. Sunlight filtered through the tall branches of the trees, painting patterns of light on the leaf-covered ground. They walked without haste, savoring each step, each sound of the forest, every breath of the fresh, resin-scented air.

They visited the small hidden lake, tucked between tall ferns and moss-covered rocks. The water was so clear one could count the stones at the bottom, and all around reigned a solemn silence, broken only by birdsong and the gentle flutter of dragonflies skimming the surface. They sat by the shore for a while, skipping stones and letting the stillness wash over them.

Daenor told stories with infectious enthusiasm, Lindir took in every detail of the landscape as if trying to memorize it, and Myria gathered little treasures: leaves, smooth stones, fallen flowers, with the care of someone who values simple things. For them, the atmosphere was light and peaceful.

But between Lasgalen and Thranduil, there was a distance no one dared to name. They didn't speak to one another, and yet no gesture was openly hostile. They moved as though belonging to different rhythms: two paths that happened to share the same trail by coincidence. When one paused to admire the reflection of the sky on the water, the other walked on.
When the group laughed together, their eyes never met.

They continued into the denser part of the forest, where ancient trees intertwined their branches into a natural vault, and the light struggled to reach the forest floor. Climbing gentle slopes blanketed in damp grass, they reached higher ground from which the landscape could be admired in all its splendor. From the lookouts, the sea appeared in the distance like a silver ribbon shimmering beneath the blue sky. Small villages could be seen, cultivated fields, winding paths disappearing beyond the horizon.

They wandered further, discovering hidden corners, old stone walls overrun with ivy, and trees with curious shapes that seemed to whisper ancient tales. Each place offered something: an unexpected scent, a deep silence, a unique light between the leaves.

Evening approached slowly, painting the sky in golden and copper hues. Shadows lengthened, and the air grew cooler. The group made their way back toward the palace, each carrying something with them: a memory, a thought, perhaps an unanswered question. Lasgalen and Thranduil walked too, only a few steps apart, yet as distant as separate worlds.

When the two found themselves alone, the silence between them thickened, heavy with unspoken words and conflicting emotions. It was Thranduil who finally broke the fragile tension.

"These woods" he began, his voice calm and almost dreamlike, "are even more beautiful than my memory could recall."

To him, this simple landscape had become something more, a fragile refuge where he hoped to find peace, even though his heart was anything but at ease.
Lasgalen did not turn to him. Her eyes followed the tangled branches overhead, watching the light flight of small birds dancing in the air, full of life. A subtle, melancholic smile touched her lips.

"They have their own beauty" she replied gently, "just like your lands."

Thranduil looked at her intensely, his blue eyes searching for her gaze.

"But never as much as yours" he said, his voice breaking under the weight of an enchantment he could no longer conceal.
"There is nothing that could ever equal it."

In that moment, he seemed completely unguarded, unable to look away from her, from her radiant yet fragile essence. His heart beat faster, filled with a reverent fear.
Every glance, every word, every smile from her was an irresistible pull, and yet, a part of him held back, bound by the shadow of his father's judgment.

When Lasgalen turned suddenly, her face a mixture of shock and confusion, Thranduil felt a sharp, almost physical pain. He didn't want to hurt her, but he didn't know how to reconcile what he felt with what he feared.

"Forgive me... I..." he began to stammer, but the words were weak, useless.

Then came her anger, and with it, her own despair. Every word from her lips was a dagger, every accusation a truth he could not deny.

After all this time, Lasgalen finally let all her long-held fury rise to the surface.

"What kind of game are you playing?!" she burst out, her voice trembling yet firm, her eyes blazing with pain and resentment.

"One day we spend together is pleasant, and the next you act like knowing me was your greatest misfortune. After a year, you return and don't even look at me, and then you say you're defenseless in my presence, that I'm beautiful, and right after, you take it all back?!"

Her hands clenched, her stride growing purposeful, propelled by the fury she had carried for so long.

"Do you really think you can treat me like I want nothing, just because I wasn't born noble? Because of the past I've had? Don't pretend you don't know!" she shouted, her voice tinged with bitterness that cut through the air.

Thranduil looked at her for a moment with cold restraint, but he knew full well she wasn't lying. That dark past was a burden she carried with her, and even if he wasn't fully aware of its extent, he couldn't pretend ignorance.

"I don't know much about your past" he finally admitted, his voice low and almost ashamed.

"Oh, all the better" she replied with a bitter smile.

"You'd be shaken by the vile and far-from-regal tales that marked my years! The animals I gutted just to survive, the rotting men, and my repulsive appearance!"

Thranduil felt the tension rising, frustration and helplessness clawing at him from the inside. He felt cornered.

"See what you're doing?!" he burst out.

"That's the problem! You're vulgar and improper!"

In that instant, he saw the change in her expression. Pain washed over her face, clear and sharp, her eyes gleaming with tears that shimmered like fragile crystals on the brink of breaking.

He immediately regretted it. He had crossed a line, and that anger wasn't truly his. In those moments, he no longer recognized himself. He saw his father in that outburst, and the memory filled him with shame and loathing.

He tried to approach her, remorse in his every movement, reaching out with a gesture of peace, but she recoiled sharply, with swift and firm resolve.

"You are the vilest elf I've ever known" she said, her voice broken but resolute as a sentence passed.

Then, without looking back, she vanished into the trees, moving with the agility and lightness of someone desperate to escape a pain too great to bear.

Thranduil stood frozen.
What had he just done?
Had he really heard what she had told him?

If even a fraction of what she said was true, it meant this elf had endured days of unimaginable darkness and torment, and emerged whole, radiant as few in Middle-earth,
with a soul free, kind, pure, and brave.

Daenor's words from a year earlier came rushing back to him:
Lasgalen was a treasure.

Only now did he realize there was perhaps nothing more precious than her laughter.
And he had broken it.

And he,
he was in love.

____________

As soon as she stepped into her room, the strength that had kept her emotions in check collapsed.
She burst into tears, bringing a trembling hand to her mouth to stifle the sobs.
She clutched Gil-Galad's pendant tightly, the only tangible link to her father, but even that failed to offer her comfort.

Deep down, she knew she was lost.

She was in love.