The morning was quiet—too quiet for the hours before battle.

You sat near the edge of the encampment, fingers working nervously over the hilt of your blade, pretending to polish it though your mind wandered elsewhere. Around you, the others prepared with practiced efficiency, voices low and movements heavy with unspoken thoughts.

The sky was still grey, the dawn only just breaking, and in the hush, you heard the near-silent steps of someone approaching.

“May I sit?” Legolas’s voice was soft, laced with that ever-present calm you found both maddening and comforting.

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You never have to ask.”

He knelt beside you, setting his bow across his knees. His golden hair was loose today—rare for him before battle. Usually it was intricately braided, pulled back from his face in elegant Elven fashion.

You tilted your head. “You haven’t done your hair.”

He shrugged slightly, glancing toward the east where the light was beginning to touch the tips of the trees. “My hands were… restless. But not steady. My thoughts linger elsewhere.”