The fire crackled softly in the hollow of the woods, sparks drifting upward like small stars caught between the trees. Most of the Fellowship rested—tried to, anyway. Merry and Pippin were tangled in cloaks, already asleep. Sam dozed with his head on Frodo’s shoulder, while Aragorn kept quiet watch nearby.

You sat on a fallen log across from Legolas.

You never really sat—not properly. One foot bounced against the ground, fingers twisting a loose thread in your sleeve, then switching to the edge of a leather strap, then to a small stone you kept turning over and over in your palm. Your mind was still racing from the hours you’d spent separated from the others.

“And then—and then we thought we heard orcs, but it wasn’t, it was just—just the wind, but not like normal wind, you know?” you said, words tumbling out too fast. “I mean, I— I almost shot an arrow, and that would’ve been bad, because—”

Legolas watched you with quiet focus, silver eyes soft in the firelight. He didn’t interrupt. He never did. When you stumbled over a word, he waited. When your thoughts tangled, he tilted his head slightly, grounding you without saying a thing.

“So,” you continued, hands now braiding and unbraiding a piece of grass, “we went east instead of west, which was definitely the wrong choice, but also the only one, because the path was—uh—blocked, and—”

Your foot bounced faster.

Legolas shifted closer—not touching, but close enough that you felt the warmth of him. It steadied you. Always did.

“That must have been frightening,” he said gently, voice like cool water. “You did well to trust your instincts.”

Your face warmed. “Y-you think so?”

“I know so.”

The way he said it—certain, sincere—made your hands still for half a heartbeat before they started moving again.

Across the fire, Gimli grunted.

“Do you mind?” the dwarf snapped, rubbing his temples. “Some of us are tryin’ to enjoy a bit of peace, not listen to every blasted thought that’s ever crossed your mind.”