Chapter 20,
The healers stepped back without hesitation, their heads bowed. In one graceful motion, the king removed his crown and handed it to a nearby attendant. He moved to the side of the bed and climbed up, his tall frame careful and reverent. He straddled Elena's waist with all the elegance of a warrior priest, not a ruler—his hands trembling as they hovered above the collar. His pale fingers brushed the blackened metal, and the light within it pulsed warningly, like a living thing.
Thranduil stared at her face, and for a heartbeat, he saw her not as the powerful woman the world revered, but as the woman who once stood in moonlight with wildflowers braided into her hair. As the one who had laughed softly when he first confessed he couldn't dance, and held him close beneath the trees after every battle. "You came back to me," he whispered, barely audible. "You always come back."
Then, drawing in a slow breath, he began to chant.
The words were old—older than the forest outside, older than the stone beneath their feet. It wasn't just language—it was song, history, and memory. His voice echoed low and melodic, the syllables weaving through the air like threads of golden light. It stirred something ancient in the bones of the room, something solemn and sacred. The torches didn't flicker—they listened.
Aela sat motionless, one hand on her mother's heart, the other still holding her hand. Her eyes shimmered, not with fear, but with hope so fragile a single wrong note could shatter it. She mouthed the words of the chant silently, her voice too choked to join aloud. Legolas stood behind them, straight and still, his fingers twitching at his sides—not from fear, but helplessness. He was a prince—a warrior. And yet, in this moment, he was just a son who couldn't protect the person he loved most.
The collar flared again—once, twice. The runes glowed hotter, pulsing faster, as if resisting the chant. A thin wisp of smoke curled from where it met her skin, but Thranduil did not waver. His hands pressed closer, now fully cradling her neck, and his voice rose in quiet defiance, layering grief and love into every syllable.
The magic in the room thickened, electric and alive.
And the family held their breath.
Because if love could break curses, this was the moment it would.
Thranduil's voice rolled through the room like a river through deep woods—low, melodic, ancient. Its power wasn't loud, but it was enduring, carved with every ounce of love and desperation that had been buried beneath his icy exterior for centuries. The room held its breath, wrapped in the echo of elven magic that seemed to pull the very roots of the world into its rhythm.
At first, Elena didn't move.
Then her fingers twitched once in Aela's trembling grasp—so slight it could've been imagined. But a heartbeat later, her body jerked violently, her back arching against the mattress. Aela gasped, tightening her grip, her voice cracking with panic. "Nanethil!" she cried, her hands pressing down. "Nanethil, please—stay with us!"
A sharp, almost metallic hum filled the air as the runes on the collar blazed like firebrands. Elena's limbs convulsed, her mouth opening on a silent scream. Legolas lunged forward, falling to one knee at the side of the bed, bracing her shoulders with both hands as the seizure overtook her. "It's reacting," he growled through gritted teeth. "She's fighting it—but it's fighting back."
The collar pulsed with a vicious, vengeful heat, the metal glowing bright gold before slipping into a dangerous, deep crimson. Smoke hissed from the scorched skin of her throat, curling up around Thranduil's arms. Still, he chanted, his voice rising, rough now, less refined but no less powerful. This wasn't court-spoken Elvish. This was older—something sacred, perhaps forbidden, born of forests and grief.
"Hold her steady!" Thranduil barked, hands firm on either side of her neck. Aela pressed herself flat over her mother's arm and chest, murmuring through her tears, "You're not going, you're not leaving me—stay, please stay." Legolas locked his arms down around Elena's upper body, eyes flicking once to his father's face, drawn tight with pain and focus.
And then—it broke.
There was a loud, cracking snap—sharp and unnatural, like molten metal splitting through stone. The collar's glow died instantly, all at once, and the metal band sprang open. It fell away from Elena's throat with a hiss, striking the mattress with a weighty clink, rolling until it settled between the folds of her cloak, still warm to the touch but no longer alive.
Elena collapsed into stillness.
No more seizing. No more convulsions. Her body sagged like a string cut loose. Aela froze for one breath, two, and then choked out a sob, dropping her forehead to her mother's chest. "She's breathing," she whispered, her voice breaking, barely audible through the hush. "She's breathing-oh, thank the stars, she's breathing."
Thranduil slowly released his hold, his hands trembling as he pulled back and stared at the faint burn rings around her throat. The damage was apparent—angry, blistered skin, scalded in places where the collar had clung most tightly. But beneath the ruin, she lived. And that meant everything.
Legolas sat back, bracing his hands on his knees, his shoulders shaking in a way he didn't bother to hide. He didn't speak. He couldn't. He only looked at her with the raw helplessness of a son who'd come far too close to losing the one person who'd always been a constant in his world.
Thranduil stared at the fallen collar as though he could burn it to ash with his gaze alone. "This wasn't made to bind her," he said, voice hoarse. "It was made to destroy her—slowly, agonizingly. It fed on her will. Her strength. Her fire." He turned his head, silver hair falling like a curtain. "And she still fought it."
"She always does," Aela murmured, brushing a hand over her mother's hair. "She always comes back."
The collar lay still beside them, now only a piece of cursed metal.
But Elena was still here.
And in the stillness of the healer's wing, that was enough to make every breath feel like a miracle.
The heavy doors of the throne room creaked open, their groaning hinges echoing through the vast chamber like distant thunder. Thorin Oakenshield stepped inside, shoulders squared but eyes betraying the tension within him. He was a king in bearing but not in heart—not now, not after what had just happened. His gaze swept the room, landing instantly on Thranduil and Legolas, the air between them thick as storm-charged air.
"How is she?" he asked without preamble. His voice was rough, as if it had been clawed raw by guilt and worry. "Elena… is she—"
"She lives," Thranduil said, cutting him off with a voice smooth as ice over a river. He didn't stand, didn't rise to greet him. He only lifted his hand from the throne's armrest, revealing what lay within his pale fingers.
The collar.
Its once-living glow had faded to nothing, but the blackened metal and cruelly carved runes still pulsed with memory. Thorin stopped mid-step. The color drained from his face, and though his hands didn't shake, something in his chest visibly locked. His eyes fixed on the collar, as if its weight had reached and wrapped around his throat.
Legolas stepped forward, eyes blazing with the quiet wrath only elves could carry. "What was it meant for?" he asked, his voice calm, but carrying a chill that echoed off the high ceilings.
Thorin didn't answer right away. His mouth opened, closed again, and his gaze flicked briefly between the two elves before dropping to the floor. "We were caught in the mountains," he said finally. "A storm forced us into a cave for shelter. The floor collapsed beneath us, and we fell into the goblin tunnels."
His voice was steady, but low. Heavy. "We were surrounded, stripped of weapons, and herded like animals to the Goblin King. He knew who she was—he called her names I hadn't heard before. Flamebringer. Stormwalker. Slayer of Wargs. He said… Azog had sent him something. A gift. And then he showed it." He nodded toward the collar, swallowing hard. "That thing."
Thranduil's fingers closed slowly around the collar again, as if restraining himself from crushing it.
"She fought," Thorin continued, jaw clenched. "She lashed out, even without a blade. Took down three of them before they pinned her." His voice caught, and it wasn't from pride. "But then the king raised his hand—and goblins put blades to our throats."
He looked up at Thranduil. Not defiantly. Not with a challenge. But with guilt. "They threatened to kill us. One by one. If she fought back."
Silence fell like a blade.
Thranduil's gaze didn't leave him, though his expression gave nothing away. His back was straight, his shoulders regal, but his knuckles were white around the collar. "So she surrendered," he said softly. "To protect you. To keep you alive."
Thorin didn't nod. He didn't need to.
Legolas stepped back, disbelief written across his face. "You let her wear that," he said quietly. "That cursed thing. You watched her fall behind, grow weaker, and said nothing?"
"She never complained," Thorin said, and it sounded like a defense—but only barely. His voice broke a little. "Not once. She said it wasn't important."
"Of course she did," Thranduil whispered, his gaze lowering. "She carries the weight of mountains and tells everyone it's feathers."
He stood, slow and measured, stepping down from his throne with a grace that belied the fire rising in his chest. He crossed to Thorin, the collar still in his hand. When he stood face to face with the dwarf, the height difference was almost irrelevant—Thranduil's presence was something else entirely. Something vast.
"Do you understand what this means?" he said, quieter now as if the words were sharp enough not to need volume. "She gave herself to the enemy to protect you. You, who never saw the cost. You, who let her fade before your eyes. If you all had arrived a day later… I would be burying my wife."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Thorin dropped his gaze again, his shoulders heavy now. He had no rebuttal, no pride, only silence.
The echo of the collar striking stone had faded, but the silence it left behind lingered like smoke after fire. Legolas stood near the pillar still, the harsh lines of shadow cutting across his face, eyes burning with barely leashed emotion. His voice came low, tightly controlled, but edged with something raw. "Why?" he asked, not looking at the collar this time but staring directly into Thorin's eyes. "Why her? Why would Azog want her?"
Thorin hesitated.
For a moment, the proud king of dwarves looked nothing like a warrior or a leader. He looked tired. Haunted. The weight of what he knew pressed into his shoulders like stone, and he exhaled once before raising his eyes. "Are you certain you want to hear this?" he asked, voice hollow. "Because once you do, you won't be able to forget it."
Legolas didn't answer with words. He gave one slow, unwavering nod.
Thranduil watched in silence, but his stillness had changed. His body had gone completely still, too still, like a bowstring drawn tight—silent, but on the brink of breaking. His gaze was fixed on Thorin, not as a ruler addressing another king, but as a husband who had nearly lost the one person who made centuries of solitude bearable.
Thorin's throat bobbed with a swallow. "Azog doesn't want her dead," he said at last, each word tasting like ash. "Not at first. Death is too merciful. He wants to corrupt her. Twist her. To force her to bear him heirs—children who would carry her blood, her power, and his darkness."
The air in the throne room seemed to freeze.
Legolas flinched as if struck, a sharp breath escaping him as he stepped backward. His hand instinctively moved to the hilt of his blade, fingers curling tightly around it—not to draw it, but as if holding something familiar might keep him anchored. "He wants to…" The words caught in his throat, too vile to finish. "But why? Why would he—?"
"To make her suffer," Thorin answered, his voice growing harder now, bitter with disgust. "To use her as a vessel. To leave a mark on her that no battle could erase. To create something born from both her strength and his hatred. And when he's taken everything from her… he plans to devour her."
A trembling silence followed.
Legolas turned away, his back to them now, shoulders shaking with restrained emotion. He didn't speak, didn't move. His composure had fractured—not with noise or fury, but with the kind of grief that carves deep and silent wounds. Aela's voice echoed in his mind—She always comes back. But what if, one day, she didn't?
Thranduil's breath had become shallow, too calm. He stepped down from the throne with a slow, dangerous grace, his eyes never leaving the collar on the floor. He bent and picked it up again when he reached it, cradling it like something venomous. But he didn't flinch. He studied it in silence, then looked up, eyes colder than moonlight on winter ice.
"If he lays a finger on her again," Thranduil whispered, his voice so quiet it felt like the trees themselves might listen, "I will bring fire to every den he hides in. I will tear apart every shadow he cowers beneath. And I will not rest until his bones are dust."
Awareness returned to Elena like a distant melody—soft, slow, familiar. Her body ached in a way that was no longer urgent, but deep and lingering, like the bruises left behind by a storm. The heaviness she had carried for days was gone, and in its absence came a strange lightness, like air filling the spaces the pain had hollowed out. Her throat burned, dry and raw, but her breath came easily now. Her limbs felt like stone, but there was warmth beneath her palms—warmth that trembled faintly.
As her eyes fluttered open, the soft golden light of the healer's wing greeted her. The walls were lined with ivy-draped sconces, their flickering glow painting long shadows across the ceiling. The scent of dried lavender and crushed sage lingered in the air, familiar and comforting. She lay on a narrow bed wrapped in clean linens, her hair brushed back from her face, her cloak folded neatly on a stool nearby. The silence was not hollow, but sacred, broken only by the faint sound of breathing that did not belong to her.
Her gaze drifted downward, and she found the source of the warmth there. Aela knelt at her bedside, head bowed, forehead resting lightly against Elena's forearm. Her hands clutched her mother's like a lifeline, her lips moving in a silent stream of Elvish prayer. Elena could see the faint shimmer of tears clinging to her daughter's lashes, the exhaustion in her posture—too young for such grief yet aged by it all the same.
The sight of her, so close yet so far, brought tears to Elena's eyes. Her voice was dry and broken, but the words pushed through, carried on a breath laced with love. "Lle naa vanima, Aela," she whispered hoarsely, the syllables rough but unmistakable. "Amin naa tualle… amin mela lle."
You are beautiful, Aela. I missed you… I love you.
Aela froze. Her breath hitched, her fingers tightening as if she feared the voice had been imagined. But then she looked up, and the moment her eyes met her mother's—glassy silver locked with misty blue—she let out a soft, startled sob. "Nanethil…" she choked, her voice barely more than a breath. "You're awake. By the stars, you're awake."
Without hesitation, Aela leaned forward, wrapping her arms around her mother with desperate gentleness. She held her as if afraid to let go again, her cheek pressed to Elena's shoulder, her tears soaking into the fabric of the healer's tunic. Elena lifted a shaking hand and wove her fingers through her daughter's hair, stroking it with the same tenderness she had shown when Aela was a child afraid of the dark. Her strength was thin, but it was hers again. Enough to hold. Enough to return.
"I am here," Elena whispered, her voice raw but steady. "I am here, my heart."
At that moment, no kings, curses, or collars existed. Just a mother and her daughter—two souls nearly torn apart by shadow, bound together again in the quiet light of dawn.
There was movement at the doorway then—soft, hesitant. A shadow stepped in quietly, and Elena's gaze shifted to find Legolas standing there, motionless. His normally serene features were creased with quiet anguish, as if he feared even stepping forward might be too much. His eyes, often so calm, were shining with emotion he hadn't spoken aloud.
"Ion-nín," Elena rasped, her voice soft and loving, her son.
That was all it took.
Legolas crossed the room in swift, sure strides, his bow abandoned somewhere behind him. He knelt at her side, taking her free hand in his, holding it tightly—not as a warrior guarding his queen, but as a son holding onto the most precious thing he'd almost lost. "You frightened us," he murmured, his voice low and uneven. "You frightened me."
"I know," she replied, brushing her thumb over the back of his hand. "I know, my brave one. But you were there, weren't you? Like you always are."
He nodded, eyes cast downward for a moment. "Always."
Then came the quiet shift of footsteps again. And this time, Elena's breath caught—not from pain, but from a presence deeper than memory. Thranduil stepped through the threshold, his usual commanding grace muted by a weight he didn't bother to hide. His eyes locked on hers as if afraid she would vanish, and for a moment, he stood there, unmoving.
He crossed the room slowly, as one might approach something sacred—an altar, a grave, a miracle. He said nothing until he reached her bedside. His hand lifted, trembling faintly, and with infinite care he touched her cheek, brushing his fingers against her skin as if to assure himself that she was real. "You're awake," he breathed.
"I am," she replied, her eyes shining.
"I nearly lost you," he whispered, voice low and breaking. "Again."
Elena reached for him, and though her arm trembled with effort, her fingers brushed against the collar of his robes. "But you didn't. You found me."
Thranduil dropped to one knee, then leaned closer, pressing his forehead against hers. His eyes closed, and for a long moment, he simply breathed with her—matching her rhythm, grounding himself in the proof that she still lived. "You came back to me," he murmured. "You always come back."
And in that moment, wrapped in the warmth of her husband's touch, her children's presence, and the hush of the healing wing, Elena felt something she hadn't known in days.
Safe.