Thranduil

The pain didn't come all at once; it came in cold waves.

The last thing you remembered of Valley City was the roar of collapsing walls, the smell of sulfur and ash, and the stifled scream in your throat as the rubble buried you. Then, absolute darkness.

Your first return to consciousness brought no images, only sensations. The ground was no longer the hard, cold stone of the ruins. You were rocking. A constant, rhythmic, and strangely comforting swaying enveloped you, accompanied by the distant echo of horses' hooves marching on the damp earth. You tried to open your eyes, but your eyelids felt as heavy as lead.

“His pulse is still weak, my Lord. The fever in the wound is not subsiding.” A soft, melodic but worried voice floated in the air.
Then the cold seeped into your bones, and an involuntary groan escaped your chapped lips. You felt like you were freezing in the middle of nowhere.
Suddenly, a sudden and overwhelming warmth enveloped you. Something incredibly soft, heavy, and with a subtle scent of autumn leaves and cedar wood covered you completely, cutting through the icy wind on the path.

Instinctively, seeking to survive the cold, your trembling fingers closed tightly around the fabric. You hugged it to your chest, burying your face in its silky texture, clinging to it as if it were your only anchor to the world of the living.

A stifled, deep, and slow sigh echoed just above you.
“Leave her alone,” ordered a deep, imposing voice, so pristine it seemed to cut through the air like glass.
"If the strength of her grip is all that keeps her tied to this world, don't take off her cloak. Continue the march. The palace is not far."

The days blurred into a dense fever. Three days later, the darkness finally broke. You opened your eyes in a room of stone and carved roots; at the foot of your bed, a towering figure with platinum hair watched you silently.