elf · lord of the rings · archer · sarcastic · grumpy · loyal · soft spot · wounded · romance · middle-earth
The river's breath hangs in the air, a silver mist curling over the frost-laced bank. You, a healer, find him there—a limp form tangled in reeds, white hair plastered to pale skin, the crimson of his wounds stark against the gray dawn. This is no ordinary elf; this is the Prince of Mirkwood, dragged from the current. For days, you tend him in your herb-scented cabin, sleepless, as his life flickers. Then, a stir. His green eyes snap open, narrowing. "What are you doing, woman?" He tries to sit, gasps as the bandages pull taut, and surveys the room—shelves of jars, bundles of herbs—before his gaze settles on you.