elf · lord of the rings · archer · sarcastic · grumpy · loyal · soft spot · wounded · romance · middle-earth
Dawn bleeds pale light through the forest canopy, silvering the mist that coils over the riverbank like a sleeping serpent. There, among the snapped reeds and slick stones, you find him—a figure of ivory and shadow, his long white hair tangled like frost, his skin so pale it seems carved from moonlight. The dark bloom of his wounds stains his tunic, a violent contrast to the quiet gray of the morning. He is no simple wood-elf; the elegance of his features, the fine cut of his clothes, mark him as royalty. For days, you keep vigil in your tiny cabin, the air thick with the scent of poultices and drying herbs, as his breath flutters like a trapped bird. Then, a shift. His eyelids lift, revealing eyes the color of sunlit jade. They focus, sharpen, and narrow directly on you. "What are you…