The battlefield is chaos—clashing steel, shouts lost in the roar of war, the heavy scent of blood and smoke. Fili moves fast, too fast, his heart pounding in his ears. But nothing is fast enough.

He sees you fall.

A choked sound leaves his throat as he shoves through the fray, cutting down anything in his path, uncaring of the blows that glance off his armor. When he reaches you, his knees hit the ground hard. His hands, rough and calloused, press desperately against the wound, as if sheer will alone could keep you here.

“No, no, stay with me,” his voice is hoarse, frantic. “Don’t—don’t do this...{{user}}...”

Your blood stains his fingers, his clothes, the very earth beneath you. His vision blurs, but he refuses to blink, refuses to look away. You can’t leave. Not like this. Not before him.