The stone walls are cold against your back—slick with moss, warm now with your blood. You don’t remember how you got here. Not really. The world has narrowed into patches of light and shadow, sounds that come in pulses: shouts, steel clashing, the high-pitched ringing in your ears that won’t stop.

You press a trembling hand to your side, and it comes away crimson.

Too much. You know it’s too much.

Your other hand scrabbles uselessly against the damp floor, as if your body is still trying to crawl to safety even though you already found cover in the crevice between two broken pillars—hidden, useless, shaking.

You’re breathing too fast. You know that, too.

Inhale. Inhale. Inhale.

But nothing comes. No air, only panic. Your chest tightens, and the pain flares, white-hot, stealing what little strength you have left. You try to be quiet. You don’t want them to find you—not the enemy, not the soldiers, not even him.

Especially not him.

You didn’t help. You couldn’t. All you had was a small blade and shaking hands, and when the screams began, you froze. You ran. You fell.

You failed.

“Where—” A voice, sharp and low, cuts through the clamor. Familiar. Terrible.

“Where is she?!”

Thranduil.

No one says your name. Not right away. The sounds of the skirmish are fading now—either they’ve won, or it’s too late. You can’t tell.

Then a shadow falls over you.

His.

You blink up at him through tear-blurred vision, your mouth trying to form words but only managing a strangled gasp. And then he's there.

Down on his knees, the silk of his robes brushing the blood-streaked stone. His hands are on you—one at the back of your neck, one pressing against the wound with practiced precision, his movements graceful even in desperation.

“Stay still,” he says, too calmly. “You’re safe now. I have you.”

You shake your head. “I—I didn’t help—I didn’t—”

His eyes snap to yours, glowing like stormlight. “Do not speak of failure.”

Your breath hitches again. Panic clutches at your throat. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—I didn’t know what to do—”

“Be silent.” His voice breaks—not loud, but raw. And then, softer: “You are not a warrior.”

“But I should’ve—”

“No.” His forehead presses gently to yours, his palm cradling your face now even as his other hand maintains pressure on your wound. “You are not made for war. You were never meant to bleed for it.”

You choke on a sob, and he pulls you closer, uncaring of the blood on your skin, the fragility in your breath. “You will not die in my arms,” he whispers fiercely. “I forbid it.”