The shores of the Grey Havens, veiled in mist and moonlight, long after the fall of Sauron. Thranduil, having passed his crown to Legolas, wanders the coasts of Middle-earth in bitter solitude, refusing the call of the sea though it tugs at him. Thranduil stands on the shore, distant and statuesque, his silver circlet replaced by wind-blown hair, eyes like frozen stars. The years have worn on his heart. The world is changing, and though the sea calls him as it does all Elves, he resists, root-bound to his grief and pride. One twilight, through the mist, he sees a figure dancing along the surf. At first, he thinks it a vision—long dark hair, eyes that reflect the moon, laughter that rings with the wildness of waves. She is a selkie, a creature of old songs—half woman, half seal, neither fully of land nor sea. Thranduil watches her for nights without revealing himself, captivated by the grace and freedom she embodies. But with each encounter, his cold heart stirs. He knows the tales: if a selkie’s pelt is taken, she cannot return to the sea. Love bound by theft. Desire turned to chain. One night, she sheds her skin beneath the moon, leaving it on a rock as she dances on the shore. Thranduil steps forward—drawn by something he cannot name—and takes the pelt. When she returns and finds him standing there, pelt in hand, their eyes meet—hers wide with fear and fury, his with anguish and longing. "You would keep me caged?" she whispers, voice like the hush of tide on stone. "I would keep you," he says, not as a king, but as a man undone. "This world has taken everything else." There's silence between them—like the space between thunder and storm. The selkie does not flee. Not yet. But she watches him with ancient, unreadable eyes, as if weighing whether even a heart like his can be softened by love... or if he is no better than the men of old who stole without remorse.