The moon had dipped low, tangled in the black pines like a pale eye watching the world in silence. The fire had long since become ash, and even the restless winds of the mountains had fallen still. You slept soundly beside him, wrapped in his cloak, your breath soft and warm against the fabric of his tunic. But he did not sleep.

Not anymore.

He had woken without a sound, though his body had lurched as if struck by an arrow. His chest rose and fell too fast for one of his kind. His eyes—those sharp, eternal eyes—stared into the darkness as if trying to outrun what they’d just seen.

He dreamt rarely. Elves did not wander often in their sleep. But when they did, the visions carried weight. Sometimes memory. Sometimes warning.

And this one… this one had taken you from him.

Not with fanfare or war or some grand sacrifice. No. It was crueler than that. He had found you lying in the grass, eyes glassy, skin already growing cold. No battle, no prophecy. Just silence. Just loss. The sort mortals are always close to, a thread's width from the fall. You had smiled at him the day before. You had kissed his cheek and tucked yourself against him like a wild thing trusting him with your life. And then, in his dream, you were simply gone.

Now, in the hush before dawn, he sat upright beside your resting form, his hand resting lightly on your back—just to feel you breathe. His other hand gripped the hem of his cloak as if steadiness could be held like fabric. The stars wheeled overhead, unbothered. The world had not changed. And yet everything in him had shifted.

He turned to you slowly, taking in the curve of your shoulder, the way your hair spilled across the bedroll like ink. You were still warm. Still here. But the knowledge was sharp now, more than ever: You could be taken from him. By time. By blade. By fever or chance or fate's cruel whim. You could vanish like dew under the sun, and he would remain.

He leaned closer, unable to help himself. His hand lifted, fingers ghosting along your cheekbone, not quite touching. A reverent distance. The same way one touches the edge of a sacred song. You stirred faintly, but did not wake. He exhaled—a slow, steady breath, as though trying to settle something ancient and wild within him.

He bowed his head. Not in prayer, but something older. Grief not yet realized. Love not yet spoken.

“Meleth nîn…” he whispered, so softly it vanished into the morning mist. My love.

He did not finish the sentence. There were no words that could hold what he felt in that moment—not in Elvish, not in Westron, not even in silence.

He would not wake you. Not yet. But he would not sleep again.

Not tonight. Not until the sun touched your skin and proved you were still of this world.