The Silver Flame (LOTR)

A Ghost of the Past

Thranduil watched her from the shadows of his throne, the mortal woman standing defiantly before him. His sharp eyes traced every inch of her small, human frame, and yet, something within him stirred. There was an unsettling familiarity in the way she held herself, the way her hair—silvery and delicate—fell over her shoulders, a shade far too similar to someone long gone from his life. His heart clenched as the image of his wife flashed before his mind's eye, her serene face framed by the same color of hair, the same softness in her eyes, though she had been far taller, an elf of great grace and poise.

But this... this woman was no elf. She was something else. Mortal. Wild. And yet, she stood there before him, her features betraying her confusion but not her spirit.

"What are you?" Thranduil whispered, more to himself than to her, his voice barely audible in the vast hall. He stared down at her, the weight of his authority pressing in the room like a heavy storm cloud. Then, louder, with all the regal force of his station, he addressed her directly. "Who is this woman who speaks of dragons in the heart of my realm?"

The mortal lifted her chin, her posture one of defiance, not submission, as she met his gaze. There was no fear in her eyes, only a determination that startled him. "I am Visenya Stark of Winterfell," she said, her voice steady and clear. "I have no reason to lie. I do not know how I came to be here, but I was in the godswood of my home mere moments ago, and now I stand in this strange place."

She spoke of this other world as if it were mere fact, without the usual trembling and confusion most mortals would show when faced with the unknown. Winterfell, he thought to himself. Godswood. These words were foreign to him. And yet, her presence disturbed him, more than any intruder should.

Thranduil rose from his throne slowly, his steps deliberate as he descended toward her, his silver robes flowing behind him like a river of moonlight. He circled her, his movements smooth and silent, his gaze never leaving her face. The air in the hall seemed to grow heavier with each passing second as he evaluated every detail, every aspect of her person, searching for some explanation, some clue as to why she had appeared here, looking so much like the woman he had loved—and lost.

But where his wife had been quiet and reserved, this mortal... did not know when to hold her tongue.

"Why do you stare so, Elf?" Visenya snapped, her sharp voice cutting through the silence. Her head turned to follow him as he moved around her. "If you do not have dragons here, why does it matter that I speak of them?"

Thranduil stopped, his back to her, his posture rigid. He was not accustomed to being spoken to in such a manner. His people knew better than to challenge his authority, and even visitors rarely dared to meet his gaze so boldly. His hands, resting by his sides, tightened slightly, though he kept his tone even, controlled.

"We have not had living dragons here in a long time," he said, his voice a low rumble, "and for good reason. Dragons are creatures of greed, fire, and destruction."

A laugh escaped her, a short, bitter sound that made Thranduil turn sharply to face her. His piercing eyes locked onto hers, a dangerous glint in their depths. He could feel the tension building, the anger rising in him at her insolence.

"Greed and destruction?" she scoffed. "Where I come from, dragons are misunderstood. They are powerful, yes, but they are only made into weapons by selfish, greedy men. The creatures themselves are noble—majestic, even. Used, not evil by nature."

Thranduil's eyes narrowed as her words echoed through the hall. There was a sincerity in her tone, something that made him pause. She spoke not with the detached awe of a historian, but with the conviction of someone who had seen these creatures—perhaps even ridden them. And that... intrigued him.