The droplet of blood — its sight, its smell, still too familiar — was more of a wake-up slap than the initial tripping, at least to Legolas himself. He blinked, his lips parted and shut before he moved again, darting like an arrow released into the air, trying to find something — anything — to help stop the bleeding.

There were books, there were candles and the all that was necessary to write, but no tablecloths, or… even curtains of any sort. And so his search, lasting merely a couple of seconds, was entirely futile. Still, something had to be done, so back at the stranger’s side, Legolas lead her gently to one of the chairs and urged her to sit.

“A flesh wound, indeed, but still a troublesome one,” he remarked, “Please stay seated for a time, it would do you no good to walk around like this. I see no cloth to offer you to wipe the blood, I fear.“

And, all things considered, Legolas was not that keen to offer his own sleeve.