ALMOST EFFORTLESSLY does he weave past the moving bodies, all of which already FLOWING easily to a rhythm in the air; a melody he recognises from months passed, when days seemed clear and the nights were simple and BEAUTIFUL. Legolas acknowledges each member of the woodland folk with a bow of his head, a smile - even a word or two here and there. They lay FLEETING fingertips against his arm and beam up at him with kind words spoken above the beloved melody - but he wastes no true time. Nay. For he knows that somewhere in this vast cavern, there will be one he has missed as though he’d lost a part of himself.
Glass of wine TIGHTLY held between lithe fingertips, it takes him longer than preferred, but soon does a fiery red capture his attention. RELIEF seems to flood him, even if just for one shocking moment, and he halts in his movements. Alive and well. . .
Feet carry him quicker now (albeit still as composed), past more bodies, further SMILES AND GRACES. He abides it all, if only to move on through to one he truly wishes to speak to after all this long while.
‘ I feared I would not find you. . .’
He has no WIT, no quick remark for such a time as this - as with first laying sight upon his FATHER, now he seems young again, too young to know himself here, amongst so many. A smile betrays whatever ANXIETY might have knotted itself within him, however - because she is here, before him. And all may indeed be good again.