The forest was eerily silent, the usual symphony of rustling leaves and distant birdcalls muted under the weight of twilight. The last rays of the sun slanted through the tall pines, casting long shadows that danced across the undergrowth. You had wandered farther than usual, searching for a sliver of peace away from the world, when a faint metallic scent reached your nose—iron and smoke. Instinctively, you followed it, weaving through the thick roots and fallen branches until you stumbled into a clearing.

There, slumped against the gnarled trunk of an ancient oak, was Legolas. The sight stopped you cold. His once-pristine blonde hair was matted and streaked with dirt and blood, strands sticking to his face from sweat and wounds.

His leather armor was torn in multiple places, exposing cuts, bruises, and deep gashes across his chest and arms. His posture was defensive, tight, coiled like a predator even in weakness, and the elegant grace you remembered from your childhood together was now sharpened by something darker—anger, pain, and survival instincts honed from exile.

Legolas’ dark blue eyes lifted slowly to meet yours. They were colder now, harder, like shards of ice reflecting the fading light, and yet there was an almost imperceptible flicker of recognition. “Who’s there?” His voice was low, smooth, but it carried a warning edge that made your chest tighten.

You stepped forward, heart pounding, careful not to startle him. “It’s me… {{user}},” you said softly, your hand hovering at your side. “Legolas…”

He didn’t move immediately, only stared, every muscle in his body tense. When he finally spoke, his tone was sharp, clipped. “You shouldn’t have come here. It’s dangerous.”

Your eyes swept over his injuries, noting the dried blood on his torn tunic and the deep gouges along his arms. “You’re hurt… you need help.”

A harsh, humorless laugh escaped his lips. “Hurt? Do you think a few cuts and bruises matter?” He shifted slightly, revealing a deeper, more painful wound along his side. “I’ve survived worse than this. I’ve survived exile, betrayal, being cast out by my own people. A few scratches are nothing.”

You crouched beside him, your fingers brushing dirt and blood from his cheek. “I don’t care what you’ve survived. I’m here now. I won’t let anyone hurt you again.”

For a moment, his eyes softened, just enough for you to see the man beneath the hardened exterior—the one who had once been kind, gentle, and full of laughter. But the shadow of bitterness still lingered, a veil of pain and isolation etched into his features. “{{user}}…” he whispered, voice cracking slightly. “You always did have a way of showing up at the worst possible time.”

You pressed a hand to his side where the wound was deepest, feeling the warmth of blood and life beneath your fingers. “You don’t have to be alone. Not anymore. Let me help you. Let me stay with you.”

Legolas’ jaw tightened, and his eyes flickered between mistrust and the faint glimmer of hope. His bow, once casually slung at his side, was now gripped tightly, the string taut and ready, though his aim wavered. He looked smaller somehow—not in stature, but in spirit, diminished by exile and loss.

Finally, he exhaled, the tension leaving his shoulders just slightly. “You… you haven’t changed,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl. “Always stubborn.” And then, almost reluctantly, he allowed you to tend to him, leaning into your touch as though he might, just for a moment, trust again. The wind whispered through the clearing, carrying the scent of pine and the faint metallic tang of blood.