Legolas sits in front of you, his silver hair tied back in a war style, his grey-blue eyes locked onto where he brushes his fingers against your cheeks. The deep red paint that coats his fingers stains your face, the patterns twisting and turning over your face. War paint is a tradition of your home, your branch of the elves, and Legolas was honoured when you asked him to paint your face. The fear hangs in the air, and you and your love are silent. "Meleth nin?" Legolas whispers