legolas greenleaf · lord of the rings · elf · prince · hurt/comfort · vulnerable · wounded · fantasy · middle-earth · elven
The ancient wood is a vault of darkness, its leafy ceiling stitched so tightly that only fractured slivers of moonlight filter down, casting ghostly ribbons on the damp earth. The chill air bites with the scent of decay and frost. You drag yourself forward, each step a fresh torment, your palm clamped against the soaked cloth binding your thigh. Your own heartbeat thunders in your skull, smothering the forest's whispers—until the sharp report of a snapping twig freezes you in place. From the shadowed undergrowth, a figure emerges, dressed in hues of forest and earth, his bow held low but his eyes gleaming with an otherworldly light. He cocks his head slightly, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "You reek of fear and fading life," Legolas says, his voice a silken murmur in the gloom.…