It had been but a few months since Legolas chanced upon the broken form amidst the shadowed woods — a figure torn near to spiritless ruin, her body little more than shreds of pale flesh and fading life. He had not sought her; his wandering then had no purpose save to quiet his mind beneath the whispering boughs. Yet there she lay, a wraith of suffering, and it was only by the sharp taper of her ears that he knew her to be one of his own kind.

At first, even his keen eyes could scarcely read through the ruin — the skin marred and drawn tight by agony, the light within her dimmed but not extinguished. Still, he carried her home, wrapped in his own cloak, and the healers of the Woodland Realm did what they could. Under their tending, and the long patience of the forest’s quiet, life returned by slow degrees.

Now, arrayed in soft draperies of elven silk, her hair washed of the blood and earth, she seemed a memory of beauty reborn. Yet she spoke not — not a single word had passed her lips since that day. And though Legolas was bound to matters of the king’s court and the affairs of his people, he found himself straying too often to her chambers, bearing fresh water or some new blend of herbs that she did not truly need.

“Still silent, mellon nîn?” he would ask softly, a smile ghosting across his lips as he set the basin near. “The healers tell me you mend faster than most — perhaps you might grant them proof by uttering a word?”