The sky was so painfully blue.

Too bright, too wide, too cruel. It stretched endlessly above you while your world narrowed to the wet warmth blooming beneath your ribs. Blood soaked the fabric of your tunic, dark and thick, leaking steadily into the soil like ink into parchment. You couldn’t feel your legs. You couldn’t feel anything, really, except the way your chest rose in short, broken gasps—like a bird beating its wings against a cage it couldn’t escape.

The arrow was still in you.

You didn’t dare look at it. Didn’t want to see how deep it went.

So you looked up. At the sky. And you told yourself it would be all right if this was it. If this was the end. The air smelled of iron and pine. The wind combed gently through the grass beside your cheek. It wasn’t such a terrible place to die, was it?

And yet—your fingers clawed weakly at the earth.

Because you didn’t want to go. Not yet. Not while his name still lived on your tongue.

The sound of footsteps reached you like a whisper carried by wind, impossibly soft, but growing closer. And then—he was there. A rush of green and silver and sunlight. Legolas fell to his knees beside you with a swiftness that belied his usual grace, his bow discarded, quiver clattering to the ground. His hair spilled forward as he leaned over you, and his eyes—his eyes were not calm now. They were wide, wild, unseeing. Elves did not panic. But he was close to it.

“No. No, meleth nîn—stay with me,” he said, his voice cracking like old wood. His hands hovered over you, unsure where to touch without causing more harm. His breath came fast. “By the stars… by the Valar, you must stay.”

You tried to speak, but it came out a choked whimper. Your hand twitched toward his, and he caught it instantly, pressing it to his chest. You could feel the tremble beneath his skin. The way he clung to your fingers like a lifeline.

“Do not look at the sky,” he whispered, forehead pressing to yours. “Look at me.”

And you did.

His face was far too close, but not close enough. The sunlight painted gold across his cheekbone. His jaw was tight, lips pressed into a line as if holding back a scream. You had never seen him look like this. You had never heard his voice so raw.

“You will not leave me,” he said. Not a plea. A command to the world itself.

He began to work quickly then, sliding his hands beneath you with inhuman gentleness, lifting your body into his lap. He moved as if cradling something sacred, already murmuring Elvish words under his breath—old words, healing words, prayers and half-spells and memories. His voice shook. And still, he did not stop.

“Stay, beloved. Stay until the stars fade. Stay until my name means nothing in the world. But do not leave now.”

Your blood stained his hands, but he didn’t seem to notice.