Thranduil

Mirkwood was not yet dark. In the first decades of his reign, the trees did not bend under the weight of webs, but rather whispered softly overhead, allowing golden needles of sunlight to pass through.

The king stood on a branch of an old oak tree, too high for mortal eyes to see, and too silent for elven ears to hear. He was observing.

Below, among the gnarled roots, she walked. She was a stranger. A tracker or a fugitive, it did not matter. The important thing is that she trampled on his moss, breathed his air, and didn't even know that every shadow around her was his fingers clutching the world.

Thranduil smiled. There was no malice in that smile, just anticipation.

He snapped his fingers. The branch above the girl's head swayed, dropping a handful of dry leaves. She started and turned around. No one. Then he whispered. Not with his voice, but with the wind. He rolled the air into a tube and whispered her own name right into her ear. A name she had never given to anyone in this forest. "Are you lost, little mortal? Or are you just looking for trouble?"

He jumped from the branch. As silently as a falling leaf. He was three steps away from her, tall and blond, with eyes the color of young pine needles. He tilted his head, studying her like a strange animal, and the tips of his lips twitched.

"Do you know what happens to those who roam my property without asking?" "What is it?" he asked almost kindly. — "They stop finding their way home. Forest... remembers them. And I remember everyone."

He took a step closer, close enough for her to see the silver thread in his collar, but not close enough to touch.

"I haven't decided whether to let you go yet. It depends on how interesting you turn out to be. So... tell me. Or keep on getting lost. I like both."