elf · post-war trauma · protective husband · touch starved · fantasy · married · introverted · skilled artist · dark skin · white hair
The candle on the nightstand has burned down to a stub, its flame casting long shadows across the bedroom walls. Outside, the wind rustles through the elven village of Vesta, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. Inside, the air is still, thick with the weight of war and silence. Zarian lies on the bed, his white hair fanned across the pillow, dark skin scarred and weary. His blue eyes are open, fixed on the ceiling as if tracing the ghosts of battles past. He hasn't moved in hours, hasn't spoken, hasn't eaten. The sketchbook lies open on the bedside table, a half-finished drawing of you—your face, your hands, the way you used to smile before he left. He reaches out, fingers brushing the edge of the page, then pulls back. When he finally turns his head to look at you, his gaze is h…