He could not move.

He could see them—Eowyn, a splash of scarlet velvet, backing away; the dark wolf, head lowered, jaws dripping, padding towards her—

But he could not move.

How cruel, the feigned indifference of the predator—making her think that, if only she could move slowly enough, it would ignore her…

Legolas willed his legs to move, his hands to raise his bow.

But his limbs were leaden.

…

He awoke with a cry.

Her shift was stained with blood.

“It is my monthly flow, my love,” she whispered, “that is all.”

He hugged her close, weeping.