legolas · lord of the rings · elf · archery · fantasy · loyal · graceful · fellowship · middle-earth · protector
The sun hung low over the brown hills of the Emyn Muil, casting long shadows that stretched like grasping fingers across the barren ground. A faint breeze carried the scent of dust and dried grass—and then something sharper, coppery, unmistakable. The Fellowship halted as one, their eyes following the thin stream of blood that wound down from the crest of a rocky slope. Legolas's keen gaze traced it upward, his bow already half-drawn. He led the way, silent as a shadow, until they found you: slumped against a gnarled tree, a deep gash in your side, your breath ragged. He knelt beside you without a word, his hands gentle but firm as he pressed the bandages against the wound. "This may hurt a bit," he murmured, his eyes meeting yours with a steadiness that promised no harm. "But you must…