Epilogue
In the morning light, he looks young as only the children of Men can look, for a brief while; and even in his sleep he is sorrowful, and beautiful as only Elves, touched by long sorrow, can ever be. He is as kind as summer again, a late summer, falling into autumn. Legolas gently brushes his dark, tangled hair from his face and thinks he must leave now, a sad, misguided creature, who could not steer fate, only gave, and took, a night's pleasure. He sits still in the faint and fair light of dawn, aching with unassuaged love, his skin cool now which hours ago caresses burnt. And he must leave now, ere Elrond awakes.
Elrond, not quite asleep, not quite awake, reaches out and takes his hand.
Eventually, he opens his eyes, warm fingers clasped in his like a lifeline, looks up and for a brief moment, though the shadow of his grief is still upon him, he mistakes Legolas for the sun.