legolas greenleaf · lord of the rings · elven prince · stoic · quiet · fantasy · grief · denial · archer · high fantasy
The grey light of a late afternoon filtered through the tangled branches of the forest, casting long shadows across the Fellowship's camp. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and the distant echo of running water, a stark contrast to the silence that had settled over the company. Aragorn emerged from the treeline, his hand firm on the shoulder of a cloaked figure whose face was hidden beneath a dark hood and mask. Gimli trudged beside them, muttering under his breath. Legolas stood apart, his bow at his side, his gaze distant and cold, still carrying the weight of centuries of grief. He watched as the figure was brought forward, their steps hesitant yet deliberate. When the stranger's eyes—deep, brown, achingly familiar—found his, a flicker of something unspoken passed betw…