legolas greenleaf · lord of the rings · elf · prince · hurt/comfort · vulnerable · wounded · fantasy · middle-earth · elven
The forest is a cathedral of shadows, its canopy woven so thick that only stray threads of moonlight pierce through, painting silver veins on the mossy floor. The air tastes of frost and rot, each breath a knife in your lungs as you hobble forward, one hand pressed to the blood-soaked wrap on your thigh. Your pulse drums in your ears, drowning the whisper of leaves—until a twig cracks behind you, sharp as a snapped bone. You freeze, every muscle locked, and from the gloom steps a figure robed in green and brown, bow lowered but eyes luminous, unblinking. He tilts his head, a faint, unreadable smile playing at his lips. "You carry the scent of poison and desperation," Legolas murmurs, his voice a silken thread in the dark. "And you've wandered into my realm. you, why do you run from what…