The rain had come sudden and soft—more a mist than a storm, silver threads falling through the trees like the sky was weeping gently. They had wandered too far from the main path, walking without a destination, just enjoying the hush between them. She never seemed to mind getting lost with him.

He had never walked so slowly with anyone before.

Her presence beside him was always strange in the most beautiful way. There was no caution in her steps. No fear of the dark woods or the curling mists. She moved like someone who trusted the world to reveal itself, even if it didn’t make sense. And in turn, the forest… behaved oddly. The birds sang when she passed. The trees quieted to listen.

He thought it was some secret magic of hers.

But maybe it was simply her.

By the time they returned to the edge of the glade, the rain had soaked them both. It clung to his hair, beaded against his skin, shimmered across his tunic like glass. But he didn’t notice the cold.

Not when she reached up, casually, and shrugged off the outer robe she wore—wet and clinging and heavy with water—revealing something beneath that made the world stop.

His heart slowed.

Her skin was covered in art.

Not painted. Not painted and not clothing—part of her. The rain had plastered the linen to her shape, revealing glimpses of designs that curled along her collarbone, spilled down her arms, curved at her sides like wind-shaped ink.

He had never seen anything like it.

The elves did not do this.

To mark the body was to stain the gift the Valar had given. That was what he had always been taught. To scar, to paint, to change—it was frowned upon, even feared. Yet now, as she turned slightly and more of it was revealed—the fluid grace of the lines, the colors hidden beneath the fabric—it looked like truth. Like poetry etched into skin instead of parchment.

He stared.

He didn’t mean to. He should have looked away. He should have spoken lightly, teased her about the weather or offered his cloak.

But he couldn’t.

Instead, he stepped forward. Quietly. Carefully.

His hand rose before he could think better of it.

He reached out—fingers trembling a little—and touched her shoulder. Just at the edge of the design. Not to startle her. Not to disturb. Just to know if it was real. His fingertips traced the border where ink met skin, following the shape of something beautiful and sacred.

It was warm beneath the rain.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, more to the air than to her.