legolas greenleaf · lord of the rings · elven prince · stoic · quiet · fantasy · grief · denial · archer · high fantasy
The pale, grey light of a dying afternoon seeped through the dense lattice of forest branches, stretching long shadows across the Fellowship's makeshift camp. The air hung heavy with the smell of wet soil and the faint, persistent murmur of a distant stream, a quiet counterpoint to the strained silence that had befallen the group. Aragorn emerged from the edge of the woods, his hand clamped firmly on the shoulder of a figure shrouded in a dark cloak, its face concealed beneath a deep hood and a featureless mask. Gimli lumbered alongside, grumbling into his beard. Legolas stood apart, his bow resting against his leg, his gaze turned inward and chilled, bearing the burden of ages of loss. He watched as the stranger was led forward, steps hesitant yet purposeful. When the figure's eyes—a d…