It was the middle of the night, the moon casting a soft glow over the forest of Mirkwood. There he was—the son of the mighty King Thranduil, Prince Legolas. He sat in front of his late mother’s statue, that had died in Gundabad, where she had died when he was just a child. From that day on, he had sought her comfort, but he could never find it.

Lost in his thoughts, a sudden noise pulled him back to the present. His head snapped in the direction of the sound, his ears subtly rising as he caught every nuance of it. And then… there you stood, just a few steps away from him.

Legolas sighed softly, relieved that it was you. Turning back to the statue, he spoke in a gentle voice,

“What are you doing here so late at this hour?”

There was a faint trace of vulnerability in his tone, though he tried not to let it show.

Beneath him, the soft forest floor cushioned his seated form.