The clear air and the quiet to be found up on the ramparts suits Gwenaëlle; often enough she can be found there of an evening, too restless to be in her quarters and finding herself some out-of-the-way place to do her writing and not be bothered. In time, probably, people will come to know to look for her here - there will be people who think to look for her - but for now, it allows a measure of solitude that she hasn't always had the luxury of. And it is enough.

Legolas' song is an interruption in her thoughts, but, tilting her head and listening, it isn't an immediately unwelcome one. It drifts up to where she has somewhat precariously clambered to the second story of a broken-down tower room, where she isn't immediately apparent to someone passing through beneath her, and it surrounds her while she works.

It's only when the song finishes that she comes down, careful, reading glasses balanced on the end of her nose and her fine skirts rumpled, dusty. She hesitates when she sees him for who he is - considers turning back around, saying nothing. More elves, of course. It can't ever just be a normal person that she encounters up here.

She recognises him, though, from the archery. Thranduil's son. Her hesitation lingers, but -

"Are you going to sing any more?"

in lieu of actual greeting, holding her sheaf of papers behind her back in a habitually girlish gesture that makes her yet younger than she is.