The High King Gil-galad’s visits are never unexpected; he’s one to announce himself with a gentle but steady presence, lingering just out of view until the first glimmers of his shadow let you know he’s arrived. But tonight, you sense him before you see him, his approach stirring something warm yet weighty in the room. The air thickens around you, a little too warm, your heart picking up a faltering rhythm as your head feels oddly light.

You take a deep breath, meaning to greet him, but a tight, stabbing ache coils through your chest, rooting you to your spot. Blinking hard, you can barely see his figure by the doorway as he steps inside. You hear his gentle voice, warm but with a subtle note of concern, asking if you are well, if you need anything at all.

But the room spins, its colors dulling, his voice blurring like something half-remembered. Suddenly, your knees buckle. You feel yourself sink, the ground rushing up to meet you as the weight of the world disappears beneath your feet.

Then, you’re caught in an embrace—firm, steady, safe. “Stay with me… You’re all right now. I’ve got you.”

You feel a comforting warmth radiate from him, and for a brief moment, you catch the worry buried in his words, his usual regal composure cracking just slightly. “Breathe, my friend,” he whispers, his hand brushing against your cheek as he checks for warmth. “Stay with me.”

The light in the room grows dimmer, but he’s there, unmoving, holding you close, his voice the only tether in the darkness. You feel his hand settle on your wrist, checking for your pulse, his brow knit in concentration, concern sharpening his features in a way you’ve never seen. And though your vision swims, you catch the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, as though willing you to match his calm breaths, to anchor yourself.

“You’ve been unwell, haven’t you?” he says, more to himself, his voice barely more than a murmur. His fingers trace over your forehead, sweeping a few damp strands away as his thumb rests there for a moment longer.