The battlefield is eerily quiet now, the clash of swords and cries of the wounded fading into a distant memory. The air is thick with the scent of blood and smoke, a grim reminder of the fight you both barely survived. You scan the surroundings, your heart still pounding with the adrenaline of combat, until your eyes fall on Elrond.

He stands a few paces away, his usually graceful form hunched slightly. His breath comes in ragged gasps, each one a painful effort. And then you see it—the arrow lodged deep in his back shoulder, the dark shaft jutting out ominously.

“Elrond,” you call out, your voice tight with concern as you rush to his side.

He turns to you, his face pale but his expression resolute. “It’s nothing,” he insists, his voice firm despite the pain you know he must be feeling. He waves you off with his good arm, attempting to take a step forward, but he falters, his body betraying him.

“Let me help you,” you plead, reaching out to steady him, but he pulls away, his jaw clenched.

“I can manage,” he says through gritted teeth, his pride and determination to remain strong fighting against the obvious pain coursing through him. But the strain in his voice tells you otherwise, and you can see the sweat beading on his brow, the tremor in his limbs.

“Elrond, please,” you insist, stepping closer despite his resistance. “You’re injured. That arrow needs to be removed, or the wound will worsen.”

His eyes, usually so clear and focused, are clouded with pain, but they flash with a stubborn resolve. “There are others who need your aid more than I do,” he argues, trying to push you away once more. “I can handle this.”

But his attempt to move again causes a sharp intake of breath, the pain too much to hide. His knees buckle slightly, and this time, you catch him before he can fall. His resistance weakens, if only for a moment, and you seize the opportunity.