In all his years, Legolas had held countless arrows—some gifted, some claimed in battle—but none quite like this.

This arrow was not meant for war. It was not forged for flight, nor for piercing through armour or beast. No, this was something far more precious.

The shaft gleamed like silver caught in moonlight, polished to perfection by steady, patient hands. Runes, etched with delicate precision, traced its length, whispering unspoken words of devotion. The fletching was deep green, like the forests of his memory, woven with strands of gold that shimmered as if carrying the light of Laurelin itself. And the arrowhead—dulled, never meant to harm—was wrought from a metal so fine it captured the glow of the Undying Lands, reflecting it back in flickers of fire and starlight.

Legolas turned it in his hands, the weight of it familiar yet utterly new. This was no ordinary token. This was a piece of {{user}}’s heart, shaped with quiet care and given freely.

His gaze lifted, unreadable at first. Then, slowly, a smile touched his lips.

“You have spent much time on this,” he said, voice soft as wind through the golden trees. He traced a rune with his fingertips. “It is not merely beautiful—it speaks.”

{{user}} tilted their head. “What does it say ?”

Legolas let the light catch the arrow’s details, his expression turning gentle. “It says, *I love you*.”

A flush crept up {{user}}’s neck, but they did not look away. “Then I suppose it says what I meant it to.”

Legolas studied them for a long moment, as if committing every detail of them—this place, this moment—to memory. Then, with reverence, he tucked the arrow into his quiver, not among weapons, but beside treasures.

“Then I will keep it with me,” he murmured, his smile warm, “as a reminder that I am home.”