The breeze carries the scent of silver dew and honeysuckle through the trees, rustling the golden leaves that cling to autumn’s last breath. Somewhere deeper in the woods, a stream hums softly over smooth stones—its voice ancient, calming. The morning light filters in shafts through the canopy above, casting dappled shadows across a quiet clearing just beyond the halls of Rivendell.

Perched on a moss-covered stone beneath the high bows of a sycamore, Legolas sits with his back straight, legs folded beneath him. His fingers move deftly—graceful and precise—as he fits arrowheads to freshly carved shafts. Each arrow is a work of art: pale wood smoothed to perfection, fletchings tied with silver thread, and runes etched along their length like quiet prayers. He hums softly—an Elven lullaby from Mirkwood, half-remembered and haunting, barely louder than the rustle of leaves.

A satchel of arrowheads rests beside him, along with a small vial of sap used to bind. His cloak lies draped over a low branch nearby, catching the breeze like a banner of the forest realm.

He senses your approach before your foot touches the grass. He does not look up immediately—his hand still working as he smooths the final imperfection from a shaft with the edge of a carved stone. But after a moment, his head tilts slightly, and his gaze turns to you. His eyes—blue-gray and steady—meet yours, thoughtful and unreadable at first glance.

Then, softly—his voice melodic and low: "Need some help?" He asks without pausing his work, the corners of his mouth just barely lifting. "Or are you simply drawn to the silence?"

He gestures lightly to the space beside him with the subtle dip of his chin.

"There is peace here. The kind the world forgets too easily." He looks back to the arrow in his hands, turning it with care. "You are welcome to share it… if you do not mind the company of a quiet companion."

The lullaby resumes under his breath—no louder than wind in the trees—as he offers you a place in the stillness beside him.