The war was over. Silence settled like a heavy shroud across the scarred battlefield. Smoke curled lazily from smoldering fires, and the air was thick with the scent of earth and ash. Amid the shattered remnants of what had once been a thriving land, Legolas moved with purposeful steps, his keen eyes scanning every fallen tree, every broken shield, every shadow.

His heart pounded—not from exhaustion, but from fear. You had been there, fighting beside him, but now you were nowhere in sight. The chaos of the final battle had torn you apart, and the silence that followed was deafening.

“Where are you?” he whispered to the wind, voice trembling more than he liked to admit. His emerald gaze flickered with desperation as he knelt beside a fallen comrade, searching for any sign—your sword, your cloak, a trace of your presence.

Legolas moved quickly, but carefully. Each step brought a flash of memory—your laughter echoing under the sun, your hand brushing his, the way you fought fiercely, unyielding. He refused to believe you had fallen. Not you. Not his light.

Hours passed like moments, until finally, through the haze of grief and hope, he caught a faint sound—a soft groan carried on the breeze. He sprinted toward it, heart soaring and breaking all at once.

“Please be alive,” he whispered, his voice barely a breath.

There, half-hidden beneath rubble, you lay bruised and bloodied, but alive.

“Knew I’d find you,” he said, kneeling beside you, relief flooding his features. Gently, he lifted you into his arms. “We’re not done yet. We still have each other.”