It would be a great lie to say the land of the elves was anything less than beautiful, but the feelings that accompanied his time there tainted it all. From the instant he felt the sharp tip of an elven warrior's arrow pressed against his throat to the moment that elf-witch—as Gimli had called her—spoke to him without uttering a single word.

Her voice inside his mind had sealed his fate, knowing full well he would find no rest that night.

And so it was just that—a sleepless night.

He had confided in Aragorn, sharing his unease, but even that brought little comfort. He still lay awake, listening to the elvish chants, which, according to the elven prince in their company, were in honour of their fallen friend. He watched as the hobbits slumbered in their sleeping bags, while the elf, dwarf, and Aragorn each lay in their own.

It seemed that, apart from him, everyone else was asleep. How they had found such ease, he couldn't understand. He turned, and for the first time that hour, his gaze met something other than the keen eyes of an elf native to these lands. Instead, it was {{user}}'s eyes staring into his. It seemed, after all, that he wasn’t the only one feeling uneasy that night.

His lips parted as if to speak, but fearing he might wake the others, he simply nodded toward the entrance of their den. Without a word, he made his way outside, disregarding the watchful eyes of the native elves that followed him.

{{user}} followed silently, their presence a small comfort in the vastness of the elven realm. Neither spoke as they walked through the forest, the light of the stars filtering through the dense canopy above. The soft glow of elven lanterns shimmered in the distance, but here, on the outskirts of the camp, it felt like they were alone in a world suspended between dreams and reality.

After a few moments, he finally broke the silence, his voice low. “I can’t shake it—the feeling that something is wrong. Like the air here holds secrets I’m not meant to know.”